Saint John Hawke scowled down at the paperwork littering his desk with a baleful glare. Between String's nearly illegible scrawl and a column of figures that came nowhere near to adding up, he was about ready to rip out his hair.

How long did a doctor's appointment take anyway?

Frowning, he realized his mood had less to do with the never-ending stack of paperwork Santini Air generated and the fact it was in the red again, and a lot more to do with his unease about his brother.

It'd been fourteen weeks since String had been at the helm of anything airborne - excepting of course, that little incident of flying Airwolf blind with Caitlin for back-up.

The question still remained though as to whether Monique Branscomb would return him to flight status though…he couldn't imagine what String'd do if she didn't, didn't want to think bout the blow that'd be.

A knock at the open door, snatched away his attention.

Startled, his gaze flew to meet the dark brown eyes of a slender Vietnamese woman stood there. Surely, no more than 5'6" in the heels she wore and long, ebony hair falling over her shoulders, she was stunning.

She was also wearing a suit.

He frowned. Not a good sign.

"Yes?" he asked, praying she wasn't a process server, remembering the irate customer Cait had almost planted across the windscreen of the jet ranger last week when he'd decided his flight fee had entitled him to a little more than just airtime.

Just as well String hadn't been here. He was certain she'd be one if he had. Not that he'd blame him.

She smiled at him. "Saint John Hawke?" she queried. "Co-owner of Santini Air with a Mr. Stringfellow Hawke?"

"Yeah," he replied. Either this was one whopper of a suit, or this was going to be really bad. "May I help you?"

"Is Stringfellow here?"

"No," he replied, shrugging uneasily. "He had an appointment. Is there something I can help you with in the meantime?"

She frowned, dark brown gaze dropping shyly to the floor and breaking contact with his. "No," she sighed, taking a seat in one of the chairs outside the office door. "I'll just wait for my husband here."


"Santini Air to Santini One. Santini Air to Santini One. Hawke, are you there?"

Saint John's troubled unease clearly telegraphed itself across the airwaves.

Frowning, Hawke reached across the cockpit and flipped the radio switch, raising an eyebrow at Cait as he did so.

She shrugged.

"Saint John, this is String. I read you. What's up?"

"Need you to swing by the hanger," Saint John replied tersely.

"Sure," Hawke said, altering direction as he spoke. "Everything okay, there?"

"Just come," Saint John said. "There's someone here looking for you and I think you'd better speak to her."


The red, white and blue Santini jet ranger flared above the tarmac outside the hanger, String's enthusiasm to be back behind the stick tempered by Saint John's enigmatic radio call.

What exactly was up? It wasn't like Sinj to be deliberately obtuse. A million thoughts raced through his mind, none of them good.

To the best of his knowledge things had been reasonably quiet around Red Star as of late, rebuilding efforts taking most of their resources. Sinj and Mike had taken care of any Lady related business with some help from Roper.

At least, as far as he knew.

That was the part that bothered him. Not for a second did he think Saint John or the others wouldn't try to protect him if they thought it in his best interests.

He frowned, reaching for the Walther PPK beside the seat.

"String?" Cait questioned, turning worried eyes on him. "Something I should know?"

He shot her a distracted glance as he checked the clip in the gun. "Nah, Cait, probably nothing," he rejoined. "Just rather be safe than sorry."

She nodded, not entirely sure she believed him. Reaching for the cockpit door, she started to open it and swing out.

A strong hand on her arm stilled her. "How 'bout you wait here?" he asked, his voice low. "Please? Just let me check it out first."

She sighed, feeling a frown furrow her forehead as she did so.

He waited until she nodded reluctantly, brushing a quick kiss across her lips. "Back soon," he promised, dropping out of the helicopter, heading for the hanger at a silent run.

Twenty feet out from the open hanger he ground to a stunned halt, pocketing the gun in his loose jacket.

Eyes narrowed, Cait watched him, her hand uneasily seeking her own weapon. Probably nothing, she told herself, dropping out of the helicopter, but picking up her gun anyways she headed after him.

Stuttering to a halt, Stringfellow Hawke stared at his brother and the slight, dark-haired woman beside him. A woman he'd thought he'd never see again. "Tuyen?" he rasped, trying to get past the sudden lump in his throat. "I don't believe it. Is it really you?"

She spun on high heels, her warm brown eyes crinkling with joy at seeing him again. "Hawke!" she exclaimed, the accent as lilting and soft as he remembered it. "It is you!"

Swallowing hard, String tried to breathe past the iron band that seemed to have wrapped itself around his chest, squeezing every bit of air out of his lungs; totally missing the worried look Saint John shot his way.

His thoughts were jumbled, chaotic as the memories of those long ago days in 'Nam threatened to overwhelm him. What had seemed like a lifetime ago, suddenly seemed like only yesterday.

Hawke shook off the memories of "Nam with difficulty. "What're you doing here?" he whispered hoarsely, relieved to find his voice still worked.

The welcoming smile on her lips faltered and the light in her eyes dimmed. "You are not happy to see me, Hawke?" she queried uncertainly, her tone doubtful. Her gaze hit the floor in embarrassment. "I am sorry. I have overstepped my bounds."

Hawke caught the shift and realized he'd stuck his foot in it again. Just once, he wondered in annoyance, couldn't he get it right? Hurriedly, striding across the concrete hanger floor, he grabbed her hand as she started to turn away.

"Wait, Tuyen!" he rasped. "I'm sorry," the apology stumbling out across startled lips. "You just caught me by surprise."

Behind him, Caitlin walked into the hanger, her anxious glance taking in the scene in front of her.

"You're not angry?" the Vietnamese woman asked, raising tear-filled dark eyes to Hawke's.

Puzzled, his blue eyes met hers. "No, Tuyen," he assured her. "I'm not angry. I would never be sorry to see you. You know that." Grinning, he pulled her close in a welcoming hug, before releasing her.

Relieved, she smiled up at him, her dark eyes flashing. "It is not right for a husband to be angry at a wife," she murmured.

The slow grin he gave her was amused. "No, I suppose not."