Disclaimer - Original Airwolf characters are owned by Donald Belasarius and Universal and they retain all rights. I make no profit from them or this story, I just like to visit their world occassionally.
Stealthy footsteps echoed softly down the tiled hallway, keeping to the shadows. The dim glow of the exit sign giving only the barest illumination. Clasping the handle slowly, firmly a gloved hand pushed the office door inward. Silently, it opened brushing the carpet as it did so.
Sure steps padded around the cherry wood desk, pausing on the far side. The metallic scritch of lock pick in lock rasped as the drawer was forced open with a wrench.
Freezing at the noise, the gloved hands paused, waiting. Silence. No one had noticed.
Opening the drawer fully, black leather pawed through the myriad of ball point pens and post it notes, sliding to the back of the drawer. The reach was sure and certain, assured of what it'd find.
A thin card slid out, balanced in an open palm, and encoded with committee level clearance. Blue eyes gleamed in the darkness, fingers closing around the card. The game was on.
Saint John Hawke stood in Michael Coldsmith-Briggs III's office and glowered. "What do you mean you're missing a security card?" he yelled. "You people are supposed to be in the business of keeping secrets. Seems to me you're doing a blasted poor job of it, Michael!" He threw his hands in the air in exasperation.
Leaning back in his chair, Archangel smoothed his mustache and waited. The icy blue intensity of the single-eyed stare the only sign of his own ire. The other man wheeled on his heel. His restless energy a sign of the storm that raged within.
"Finished?" Michael asked dryly.
Saint John froze, leveling the other with a grey-eyed glare. "Yeah," he bit out at last, looking none to happy. "I am."
"Good," the spy rejoined. "Then we can get down to business." He turned to the woman who stood beside him. "Marella…"
The café au lait skinned woman crooked an eyebrow at him, the glance cool, assured. Reaching down to the desk, she handed the elder Hawke brother a file."
"What's this?" the rangy blonde demanded, taking it with a scowl.
"I'd suggest you read it," the woman tossed back pertly. "The key that was stolen last night was Michael's."
Hazel eyes flew to her face questioning.
Rising restlessly, Archangel reached for his cane, pacing around the perimeter of his desk. "The thing is," he mused, "its theft was almost missed."
Saint John's startled gaze flew to the white-clad spy in turn. "Perhaps you'd better explain," he said leaning against the chair arm.
Limping unevenly across the carpet, Michael scowled. "I was supposed to be on a flight to Langley this morning for senate subcommittee meetings. The plan had been that I'd be gone the rest of the week."
"And?" Saint John asked with a shrug. "You're obviously here."
The spy sighed, irritated. "I forgot a file, Marella came in to get it for me and noticed the drawer."
The blonde pilot raised an eyebrow. "So the assumption is, somebody figured it'd be a week before anybody noticed it was gone."
The spy nodded grimly.
"Well, at least you got an early notice, change the code, no harm done."
"Wish I could," Archangel replied icily. "The only problem with your plan is we don't know who took the key and so we don't know who the mole in the network is.
Realization set in, blanching the pilot's face. "You've got another mole?" he whispered, stunned as he thought about the recent events that had gotten his brother Seb arrested for treason and nearly gotten his friend Mike rivers killed, not to mention almost destroying String's family. Even Marella and Michael had had a close call there.
The change in attitude was immediate. "What do you need me to do, Michael?" he asked, instantaneously throwing in his chips. He might have tried to leave this world of espionage and spy games once, but there'd be no backing down where it concerned his family.
Michael gave a worn grin. He and the elder Hawke had never gotten along, heck he thought, he wasn't even sure he and Stringfellow got along and they were friends, but there was no denying his loyalty.
"Nothing," he said quietly.
Saint John made to protest.
"Well, at least for now," the spy amended. "Roper and Rivers will continue to work on the project in your brother's absence, he said referring to the enforced vacation Hawke was enduring at his cabin after a near fatal car accident. "You keep an eye on Santini Air, and your brother Stringfellow. We're not so sure whoever it is won't try something there."
"And Seb?" Saint John asked, trying to figure where his younger bother fit into everything.
"He'll be safe enough," Marella assured him.
Saint John turned to Michael frowning.
"Really, he will," he reassured. "I'm just not at liberty to discuss it at this time."
Crossing his arms, the older Hawke scowled. "He'd better be," the pilot stated, not looking very mollified. "Or missing security cards will be the least of your problems."
Looking out at the smooth waters of the lake, Stringfellow Hawke paused, watching an eagle dive, pinioning a trout in her talons. The cello reclined against his leg, a bow in his right hand. Silently, he envied her her freedom. There'd be no flying for him for a while, at least not on the upper wind currents.
He frowned, restless. He knew he shouldn't complain, in all fairness he was more than lucky to still be around. It just seemed like getting over it was taking forever this time.
There was no skirting around it though. While the bruises were fading, and his leg was healing the memories of the accident were still fresh in his mind. Recovering from a partially collapsed lung, even he admitted he had no business flying Airwolf. Flirting with her pressurized systems was a disaster in the making and he had no desire to go there.
Besides he thought ruefully, he hadn't even been cleared for regular flying by the doctors yet, today being the first day in weeks he'd been headache free from the concussion - and Caitlin was keeping close tabs on that one. Not that he was sure he wanted to push it, he thought , shoving himself off the log cello in hand. Walking down to the dock winded him these days, and his pretty wife hovering like she expected him to keel over was killing his ego. He knew it looked bad when he ended upstanding there bent over gasping for air like a dying fish, he just could've done without the reminder.
What he needed, he thought humorlessly was a flight in the Lady to clear his head, too bad it might kill him.
Roper crawled under the instrument panel of Airwolf and grunted. "Hey Mike," the dark-haired pilot called, "hand me those wire clippers will ya? The wiring under here looks like spaghetti after that last firefight."
Air force Major Mike Rivers sighed. "You know Roper, you're turning into as much of a slave driver as your old man. How 'bout we drop this for a while and go get a bite to eat?"
Pushing out from beneath the instruments, the twenty-something pilot peered at him with sharp blue eyes. "This wouldn't have anything to do with the fact Sarah and Chris get back into town tonight, would it?" He paused reaching for the needle-nose pliers. "Besides Mike, you know that "old man" of mine is only three days older than you, so you might want to watch that. You're dating yourself old sod."
Rivers aimed for a look of innocence at the mention of Hawke's sister. "Oh really?" he asked. "I'd completely forgotten that she and Chris got back tonight."
"Righ-t," the younger man drawled, his blue eyes sparkling. "That's also why you keep checking your watch I suppose."
Mike looked abashed - for about three seconds. "Nope," he retorted. "Just hungry. Come on, let's go eat."
Crawling back up under the instruments like a contortionist, Roper sighed. "Gotta get this done, and String's not here to help. How 'bout you go grab us a couple sandwiches from the cafeteria."
Good-natured, blonde-haired Mike sighed. "Alright man," he said. "Just don't blame me when you turn into a crusty old curmudgeon like Hawke."
Roper ducked his head out from underneath chuckling. "Hey, watch it Rivers," he retorted, throwing a grease rag at him. "That's my old man you're talking about."
Laughing Rivers ducked, heading for the elevator. "Roast beef?" he called.
"Yeah, sure," the other replied, crawling back under. He worked in silence a few minutes before he heard the elevator ding.
Shoving out from beneath, he raised his toffee-colored head to taunt, "What'd you do old man… forget your wallet?"
There was no answer.
Surprised at the lack of a rejoinder, Roper stuck his head out of the helicopter. "Hey Mike?" he called.
A sound like an angry wasp zipped by him, twanging into Airwolf's shiny, armor-plated hide. "What the…" he began, even as the next bullet slammed into his shoulder, knocking him across the pilot's seat and into the hanger floor.
Sucking in a nauseous breath, he grabbed for the door. At least inside, he'd be safe from whoever was using him for target practice, he thought.
The door wrenched from his hands, a booted foot slammed into his chest and back again. Groaning he landed in the floor for a second time.
The elevator dinged again. "Hey Roper!" a voice called. "They were outta roast beef. You can have turkey or turkey. What'll it be?"
The overall clad man spun, taking aim as he did so at Mike.
"Hey, who are you?" Mike demanded, spotting him for the first time and not recognizing him.
The man pulled the trigger even whilst Mike was realizing he had a gun in his hand.
Rivers dove for the stack of parts in crates to his left. Experience had him reaching for his gun, even as his assailant fired the next round.
Struggling to feel his fingers, Roper fought to gain his feet and disentangle himself from the loose wiring. His hand fell under the pilot's seat hitting something cold and hard, and instantly he knew it was Hawke's Walther PPK that he'd set out of the way earlier when he'd been working on the instruments.
Sticky fingers closing on the butt, he grabbed it, levering it into a two-handed grip slick with blood. Pulling back on the trigger he fired, the first shot going wide, the second easily finding its mark.
The man stumbled for a moment as he ran, giving Roper time to get to a better position. Turning and running the overall clad man headed for the stairs, firing a volley of shots in River's direction.
Ducking, Mike returned the gun fire from behind cover. What the heck had happened? he wondered. He'd only been gone five minutes, okay, maybe ten tops.
Torn, Mike eyed the figure disappearing up the stairs and the helicopter. "Roper!" he yelled, "you okay?"
No answer.
"Roper!" he tried again. This time there was a muffled response.
"Blast!" he cursed, running for the helicopter. No matter how badly he wanted to go after the unknown man, he couldn't leave Roper.
Covering the ground quickly, he yelled out. "It's me, Roper! Don't shoot!" Warily, he ducked around the open cockpit door, praying it wouldn't be his last move.
Gun poised in a wavering grip, Toper faced him, blue eyes hazed with pain in a pale face. Blood stained the shoulder of his flight suit, dripping onto the concrete floor and smearing the cockpit door.
"Geesh," Rivers muttered, reaching for the gun.
"Is he gone?" Roper gasped.
"Yeah, he's history," the older pilot assured. "How 'bout you give me the gun before you accidentally shoot both of us?"
Dazed, the younger pilot handed blonde-haired Rivers the gun. Shoving it into his waistband, Mike punched up the communication board. "Archangel, Archangel do you copy?"
Almost instantly, Marella's voice cut across the line. "We're here Mike," she confirmed. "What's up?"
"You've got somebody loose in the building. They just tried to steal Airwolf."
Mike could hear Marella's indrawn gasp even as she called for security in the background.
"They're armed, Michael," Rivers warned, "and they mean business."
"Airwolf okay?" Michael asked, concern in his voice at his words.
"Yeah," Rivers replied shortly, looking at the other man seated weakly on the edge of the cockpit. "But Roper's not. You'd better send a medic."