The Judas Goat by Robert B. Parker

In the past I have read quite a few of Parker's novels. These include some of the later Spenser novels, basically all of his Jesse Stone and Sunny Randel novels, and a couple of his Virgil Cole & Everett Hitch novels. I quite enjoyed them all, so I decided to start reading the earlier Spenser books.

The Judas Goat is Parker's fifth Spenser novel and my second foray into early Spencer. I knocked this short novel out in one evening. Compared to my previous Parker read (God Save the Child), the pacing, characterization, and descriptions were much improved. Parker was obviously learning and improving in his trade.
In this story, Spencer journeys across the Atlantic to hunt down some terrorist killers. The job turns out to be more than he can handle alone. He is one against many, and they are determined to kill him. So, he calls in Hawk (of course) to give a hand and watch his back. Then, the chase is on from city to city.
Good story, but fair warning – things get bloody and brutal.

This originally appeared at The Irresponsible Reader.
—

...I looked at my situation. If they were going to shoot me, there was little to prevent them. Maybe they weren't going to shoot me, but I couldn't plan much on that.

“You can't plan on the enemy's intentions,” I said. “You have to plan on what he can do, not what he might.”

A boy cleaning the tables looked at me oddly. “Beg pardon, sir?”

“Just remarking on military strategy. Ever do that? Sit around and talk to yourself about military strategy?”

“No, sir.”

“You' re probably wise not to.”

Full front, his face was accurate enough. It looked the way of face should, but it was like a skillful and uninspired sculpture. There was no motion in the face. No sense that blood flowed beneath it and thoughts evolved the behind it. It was all surface, exact, detailed and dead.

Except the eyes. The eyes snarled with life and purpose, or something like that. I didn't know exactly what then. Now I do.

Persuader

Promised Land

He showed no sign that he drunk anything. In fact in the time I'd known Hawk I'd never seen him show a sign of anything. He laughed easily and he was never off balance. But whatever went on inside stayed inside. Or maybe nothing went on inside. Hawk was as impassive and hard as an obsidian carving. Maybe that was what went on inside.

“Hawk has no feelings,” I said. “But he has rules. If she fits one of his rules, he'll treat her very well. If she doesn't, he'll treat her any way the mood strikes him.”

“Do you really think he has no feelings?”

“I have never seen any. He's as good as anyone 1 ever saw at what he does. But he never seems happy or sad or frightened or elated. He never, in the twenty-some years I've known him, here and there, has shown any sign of love or compassion. He's never been nervous. He's never been mad.”

“Is he as good as you?” Susan was resting her chin on her folded hands and looking at me.

“He might be,” I said. “He might be better.”

“He didn't kill you last year on Cape Cod when he was supposed to. He must have felt something then.”

“I think he likes me, the way he likes wine, the way he doesn't like gin. He preferred me to the guy he was working for. He sees me as a version of himself. And, somewhere in there, killing me on the say-so of a guy like Powers was in violation of one of the rules. I don't know. I wouldn't have killed him either.”

“Are you a version of him?”

“I got feelings,” I said. “I love.”

“Yes, you do,” Susan said.