It wasn’t long before Hawk appeared. Like all good chefs, he went to the trouble of leaving his kitchen on a regular basis to check whether his customers were enjoying his fare. He immediately spotted the powerful African American wolfing down a plate of python, and, intrigued, he went over to Havoc’s table.
“Hiya fella, my name’s Hawk, and I’m the owner of this here establishment. How’re you findin’ the Python?” He asked.
Havoc put down his knife and fork and dabbed at his lips with a napkin before answering.
“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Hawk,” he said. “Your grilled Python is as welcome as a steaming hot woman on a sticky night in Alabama.”
Hawk grinned and extended his hand, which Havoc shook. He let go and looked at his fingers. They were covered in concealer.
“Thank you kindly,” said Hawk. “If you want anything, just give the waiter a shout, and if he doesn’t do the job to your satisfaction, give me a shout.”
“I will, mistah Hawk. Thank you for your person’l attention.”
Hawk disappeared and Havoc cleared his plate and left, after first visiting the toilets, and examining the security systems that protected the place.
Late that night after the restaurant had closed, Havoc visited it again. He forced entry via the small window to the toilet and made his way into the kitchen. The lights were out and the place was illuminated only by the streetlights and neon lights that were shining in through the windows.
Havoc hadn’t fought in ’nam, he’d been too young for that. But he’d met plenty of veterans who had, and he’d made a point of finding out everything he could from them about setting traps in the jungle. Here, amidst the jungle of catering equipment, ovens, and hobs, Havoc could see the possibilities for setting a trap for Hawk.
An evil smile played on his lips. He glanced at his watch. He knew that catering staff got to work early, and that he had only a small amount of time available to set his trap; he intended to use it well.
Before dawn had broken, Havoc had finished constructing his man-trap. He congratulated himself on his efforts. He knew that the veterans who had taught him his skills would have been proud of the fiendish device that their pupil had constructed. He moved a few yards away from the danger area and waited.
CHAPTER 6
Trapp Fodder rolled over. He hadn’t slept at all well; it was a hot night, his house didn’t have air-conditioning, and he was covered in sweat. He got out of bed and opened the window.
“What’s the matter, honey?” His wife asked.
“Nothin’, Martha,” he replied. “I’m just so darn hot, that’s all. I love Miami, but sometimes the heat gets too darn much for me.”
Fodder climbed back into bed. Opening the window hadn’t helped, so he resigned himself to being uncomfortable for the rest of the night, and put his head on the pillow. No sooner had he done so than the alarm went off.
Damn!
He’d forgotten he had to get up early today.
He slammed his hand on the clock to shut it up and got out of bed again.
“What time is it?” Martha Fodder asked.
“Never mind, just get back to sleep,” he replied. “I’ve got to go to work early today, I told you about it last night, remember?” He said.
He showered, dressed, and drove through the darkness to his place of work. The city streets were quiet at this time in the morning. He parked in the small staff car park — one of the few perks of his job — and unlocked the back door. He hung up his jacket in the narrow corridor that lay just beyond the door, and made his way to the end of it and opened a second door. He stepped through the doorway, reached to one side of it, and snapped the light switch to the ‘on’ position.
As the overhead lights flickered into life, he felt a series of ropes whip around his body, lashing his arms to his sides. Almost in the same moment, he was hoisted into the air. He cried out in alarm, but there was no-one to hear him; and, in any event, there was not a man or woman on the planet who could have done anything to stop what happened next.
A long wooden pole on a powerful spring swept sideways with in vicious scything action. At the end of the pole there was a long-bladed kitchen knife that was as sharp as any knife that had ever been made. This knife struck Fodder on the lower part of his forehead just above the eyebrows and sliced off the top of his head, as would a sous-chef slice off the end of a soft-boiled egg with a knife. The top of Fodder’s skull flew like a flying saucer through the air and fell on a worktop several yards distant. The noise it made as it clattered along the stainless steel surface was music to Havoc’s ears.
A second wooden pole swooped down — this one had a saucepan tied to the end of it — and it scooped out Fodder’s brain as would a man scoop out the yolk of his breakfast egg with a spoon, and deposited it on the immaculately polished kitchen floor with a soggy plop.
Havoc, who had been watching the whole thing from a place of concealment behind a piece of kitchen apparatus, came out of his hiding place and looked up at the corpse of Fodder, which was swinging gently at the end of a rope above his head.
“Well I’ll be,” he muttered. “You ain’t Soldier Hawk. Just who in tarnation are you?”
At that moment, the back door opened and slammed shut, so Havoc dropped into a crouch behind another large item of kitchen apparatus.
The door opened and in walked Soldier Hawk, who stopped dead when he saw the corpse of his loyal manager Trapp Fodder swinging gently in the air above him, bits of goo still spilling from the rim of his skull and dripping to the floor with a plop-plop-plop sound.
Hawk looked left and right, and sniffed the air, and then he bent down, picked up Fodder’s brain, sniffed it,, bit off a piece and began chewing the rubbery tissue.. Rivulets of blood ran from the corners of his mouth and stained his immaculate white chef’s outfit.
“Mmmmm,” he said, appreciatively. “Fresh and still warm. I’ll put this in the fridge and cook it later today. I know you’re here, by the way, whoever you are. I can smell you. You had a meal in my restaurant the other day. I’m coming to get you as soon as I’ve dealt with this fine succulent brain.”
Havoc watched as Hawk put the brain on a plate and wrapped it carefully in Clingfilm. When he’d finished Hawk opened a padlocked fridge. It was full of body parts.
He put the brain inside, shut the fridge door and closed the padlock.
“Whoever you are, stranger, you’ll be joining my manager’s brain in that fridge soon,” he said, and then he began sniffing the air like a dog. He followed his nose, which took him in the direction of Havoc’s hiding place.
Havoc stood up. There was no point in hiding any longer. He reached into his jacket and pulled his gun from its holster, intending to blow Hawk’s brains out with it. But Hawk, being a fighter himself, launched forward and slapped the gun from havoc’s hand before it was levelled at his head. Havoc snapped out his jab, taking care to avoid the slavering jaws of the zombie chef, and rocked back the chef’s head.
The door opened and another member of Hawk’s staff entered the kitchen.
Boulder Todd.
Havoc knew he couldn’t afford to try to fight two opponents at once, so he ran towards Todd, intending to take him out, and then turn his attentions back to Hawk.
Boulder Todd was a big man, bigger even than Havoc, standing six feet six inches tall and weighing in at a colossal two hundred and fifty pounds, all of it muscle.
Todd was a skilled fighter, having taken up boxing at an early age, and won the super-heavyweight division of the American Golden Gloves championship no fewer than five times while he was still in his teens. He was known as ‘Boulder’ because his pink shaven head was unusually hard and spherical, and could absorb the weightiest of blows without its owner ever showing even the slightest signs of discomfort. He had never been knocked off his feet, far less knocked out, either inside the boxing ring, or on the cruel streets of Philadelphia where he had grown up and honed his skills.