Ling-Ling's sat on the outskirts of Van Nuys, on a desert and little used
road leading out of town. Built in the style of the bars common in Bangkok
and Saigon, and stocked with Vietnamese and Thai dancers and barmaids, it
had originally been a popular watering hole with veterans, a place to
gather and reminisce about the war. Clientele dwindled over the years as
the war was forgotten, the owner using more sleazy tactics to attract
customers. Today, two decades after its inception, Ling-Ling's was a
shabby, square stone building in an otherwise barren area, known for its
topless and occasionally bottomless dancers, watered down drinks and barely
concealed front for every vice society had tried in vain to suppress for
millennia.
Stringfellow Hawke wandered through the front door, scanning the interior at a glance. There were less than a dozen patrons this early, most of them scattered at various tables around the small stage, staring blearily up at an oriental girl, who gyrated listlessly to the strains of an old Rolling Stones album. He headed for a table against the wall, ignoring the knowing look of the muscular bouncer and glaring down a posturing male who was watching Hawke rather than the dancer. He turned his chair to the wall and seated himself, pulling on a bland mask after a single spark of disapproval. He hadn't enjoyed the bargirl scene even when he was in Viet Nam, nor the thinly veiled prostitution that generated the real money in the business.
A bored looking waitress in pink hotpants and halter, sidled to his table. "What d'ya want?" she asked as though deigning to do him a favor.
"Ginger ale."
"Big spender," she mumbled, turning away.
Hawke dismissed her as soon as she was gone, turning his attention back to the patrons. He didn't recognize any of them as the Firm's personnel although he couldn't possibly know all of the hundreds of operatives out of the Los Angeles office called Knightsbridge. From the looks, they weren't interested in anything more than the dancer anyway. He spared her a glance, wondering if she could be an agent herself, but the dreamy eyes slid past his without acknowledgment, and the purple marks on her arm told their own stories.
Hawke looked up as the dissipate looking man who'd eyed him earlier, got up from the bar and strolled his way. The man -- tall and thin, with a pencil mustache -- stopped in front of the table and offered Hawke a smile. "Here by yourself?" the man asked in a deep bass.
Hawke regarded him stonily, dark blue eyes narrow. "Go away."
The man's smile slipped a fraction, then returned. "Hey! I'm only trying to be friendly." No answer. The young pilot continued to stare, only a barely perceptible tightening in his muscles conveying his warning. After a moment, the stranger shrugged. "If you change your mind, I'll be at the bar."
"Fat chance," Hawke muttered.
"Why, Stringfellow, I do believe you have an admirer." Hawke started, a slow flush touching his cheeks at that droll statement. Unnoticed by the pilot during the borderline confrontation, a handsome blond man in his late forties had sauntered in, stopping behind and to the side of the stranger. He was of medium height -- six feet or so -- and well-built, the left lens of his glasses blackened. He wore a suit so pristine white as to glow under the influence of the ultraviolet bulb lighting the stage, and the silver head of his walking stick reflecting a prism of color in all directions. All in all the man looked almost supernatural against the seedy surroundings. He stood watching the effeminate patron retreat, chuckling to himself. "What's the matter, isn't he your type?"
Hawke's eyes flashed, his hard features decidedly unamused -- something which brought another round of laughter to the white suited man. "Git off it, Michael," Hawke snapped, shoving over a chair with his foot. "Let's get down to business so we can get out of this sewer."
Michael Coldsmith-Briggs III, code named Archangel, first used his handkerchief to wipe off the chair, then turned it until his back too was protected by the wall before seating himself. He smiled amiably at the returning waitress, refused a drink, and directed his attention to the stage where the dancer was fumbling with her top. When the waitress had departed with Hawke's money, he turned back to the pilot. "Not your type of entertainment?" he began by way of conversation.
"It's a sewer," the younger man repeated, keeping his attention focussed on his companion. "It wasn't always but it is now." He looked beyond the white-suited man to the door. "I hope you didn't bring one of your assistants here. This isn't any place for a lady."
"In deference to the occasion," the older man returned dryly, "I drove myself."
Hawke snorted, looking his companion's attire up and down. "Yeah. You really blend with the crowd now, Michael."
"Only when absolutely necessary." He glanced again at the stage, stroking his neat pale mustache reflectively. "Granted this place is not particularly to my taste, either, although one may ever find some appreciation in the feminine form." Archangel leaned the walking stick against his chair and slid his hand into his breast pocket, pulling out a photograph, which he passed across. "Do you recognize this man?"
Hawke accepted the photo, turning it slightly so he could see it better by the low light. His brows furrowed. "That's Bishop Morris. He was a chopper pilot in 'Nam. He flew cover for me a couple'a times when I was doing medevac, then transferred out to Colonel Curtis' team."
Archangel nodded as if he'd known this all along ... which, of course, he had. "What kind of man was he? A friend?"
Hawke passed the picture back. "We worked together a couple of times, that's all. Saint John knew him better than I did; they were teamed for about a year before I got over there. He didn't like him -- said he was in the black market and told me to steer clear."
"Did you see any evidence of that?" Archangel pursued, his attitude more that of an interested friend than the informal interrogation this was.
The younger man lifted one shoulder minusculely. "I didn't care. As long as he gave us what cover we needed, his personal life wasn't any of my business. Why aren't you asking Saint John about him instead of me?"
The photograph shone anemically in the dim illumination, and Coldsmith- Briggs touched it with absent fingers, his attitude still friendly, not pushing. "My intelligence was obviously sketchy. I knew you'd worked with Morris at some point, but there was no record that your brother and Morris were teamed as well. Naturally, I'll have to ring him in on this, too."
"In on what?" Hawke asked suspiciously, shifting to stretch his damaged ankle.
Archangel watched the maneuver with sympathy. "I know how you feel," he said, rubbing his own game knee wryly. "Mine didn't stop aching for over a year. As it is, it lets me know if I've been still for too long."
"I'm all right," the younger man returned with a dismissive wave. "What about Bishop?"
Archangel opened his mouth then shut it, donning a smile when the nearly nude dancer pranced to their table during her round for tips. "Hi," the girl said, staring at him with interest penetrating the vagueness. "Nice suit."
"Thank you, my dear." Michael helped himself to the change the waitress had left Hawke, extracting a five dollar bill and offering it to the girl. She opened the triangle of cloth covering her groin, inviting him to insert the bill. Instead, he clasped her wrist and pressed it into her palm. "This is good enough," he said gallantly if with some pity. She looked surprised but took the money and departed, casting Hawke not even a look.
"Girl will be dead before she's thirty," Michael murmured at her departing back.
"I doubt she'll make twenty-one at the rate she's going," Hawke returned, still watching his companion. "What about Bishop?"
Archangel took a deep breath. "Bishop Morris became involved with a terrorist group known as Muhallah through mercenary contacts in the middle east. He's been coordinating runs against NATO weapons depots in Europe for the last six months." He stroked his blond mustache again, ruffling it slightly over his lip. "We know for a fact that he was personally present during that raid in Munich last month."
Surprise brought Hawke up straight. "The one in the newspapers? Twelve American soldiers died in that raid."
The agent nodded. "He took nearly a ton of weapons that time. We still haven't managed to discover who is bankrolling his organization."
"What does that have to do with me?" Hawke asked, eyes narrowing. "Or Saint John?"
Michael leaned closer, attitude taking on a more intense aspect, demanding attention. "Unsubstantiated rumor has it he's putting a new team together for some kind of major offensive -- what, we don't know yet. What we do know is that he's been recruiting mercenaries from all over the world, particularly men he worked with during the Viet Nam conflict. That could mean you. If he knows Saint John is back, it'll be him as well. Your old camaraderie could allow you to climb the pipeline far enough to discover the identity of whomever is behind the operation."
Looking not at all pleased at the prospect, Hawke ran a hand through his brown hair, the jerky movement carrying an undercurrent of strain. "You're asking me to go undercover?"
Archangel tipped his head. "We need to know what he's planning. He has to be stopped before any more American lives are lost -- or any other lives, for that matter." He studied the younger man for a long moment, debating with himself, then spread his hands in a 'Why not?' gesture. "Since the Firm cannot afford to be involved publicly, if you do go in, you'll be on your own. We can arrange a meet with one of his contacts but little more. But then, you should be used to working without a net by now, eh?"
The background music changed, the Rolling Stones giving way to some sentimental ballad. Hawke went very still, seeming to shrink in on himself. "Not this time, Michael. I'm not taking missions now. Maybe not for a while ... or ever."
But 'no' was not an answer Michael Coldsmith-Briggs was prepared to accept at even the most tranquil of times, one reason he'd been entrusted with the heavy responsibilities he carried. He leaned forward, single blue eye sharpening to drive home his point. "Excepting only for rumors, Bishop Morris has disappeared underground so completely we can't even smell him. We know whatever he's planning, it's going to be big, probably involving raids on additional weapons depots. You might be the only chance we have of infiltrating his organization and finding out what he's up to."
The younger man crossed his arms across his chest, the gesture both defensive and stubborn. "Find someone else. I'm...." He trailed off, looking uncomfortable.
"Not ready for this?" the older man supplied, studying him analytically. Hawke looked away, and, after a moment, the agent went on, "I know losing Dominic was rough, but it's been three months since he died." He ignored the barely perceptible flinch to press on, "Don't you think it's time to come out of that shell you built for yourself and rejoin the world? Your brother has been flying missions ever since he got back -- even gone undercover for a short time with Jason Locke."
"Then get him to go," Stringfellow snapped through clenched teeth. "What Saint John and his team do is their own business."
"And his team, eh?" Analysis shifted to curiosity. "You don't resent the fact that your brother has taken over Airwolf with a new team, do you?"
Hawke's eyes burned into the single blue one regarding him quizzically. "Get this straight, Michael, I don't resent Saint John in any way or form. He's my brother. He's the one I fought so hard to bring home."
Archangel's gaze softened. "You fought very hard for that. And now that he is home, you don't know what to do with yourself."
"Just lay off, Michael," the young pilot growled, pushing back his chair. He made to rise, stopping when his wrist was encased in a powerful grip.
"Whatever course you choose is your own business," Archangel stated brusquely. "My concern now is to save lives. Are you prepared to let good men die to avoid dirtying your hands again?"
Bitterness flared, although Hawke aborted his attempt to rise. "That's a low blow and you know it. What's next, the appeal for Mom and apple pie?" He glanced down at his trapped wrist, voice rippling with hostility. "Is that why you wanted to see me here instead of at the cabin? You figured I'd have a few extra buttons to push away from home ground?"
Archangel froze, then very slowly released his grip on the younger man, expression changing from persuasion to surprise. "What do you mean, my calling you here? Meeting in this place was your idea." The two stared at each other, then Michael repocketed the photo and extracted a snub-nosed Beretta from the holster concealed by the perfectly tailored suit, holding it low and out of view. He rose, casually reaching for his walking stick. "I've got a sudden bad feeling, Hawke. What do you say we continue this conversation elsewhere."
Hawke too rose, jerking his head toward the neon exit sign to their right. "Back door sounds like a good idea to me."
"Go." Moving nonchalantly so as to not attract notice, the two made their way through the little maze of tables, reaching the emergency exit without drawing so much as a glance from anyone in the room. Once there, Michael heaved a sigh of relief. "Maybe we have the drop on them."
Or maybe not. He stepped out into the alley a single pace ahead of the pilot, and froze at the feel of cold steel being clapped to his temple. "Nice and easy, Blondie," a masculine voice ordered, plucking the Beretta from Michael's fingers.
Hawke, a pace behind, had no opportunity to retreat. A shove from behind propelled him into the alley and nearly to his knees, but other hands had grabbed him and swung him to the side, slamming him hard against the building. Stringfellow Hawke reacted as he always did in such situations -- violently. Unconcerned with the large caliber machine pistols being pointed at him from four directions, he snapped into a combat stance, kicking out with his left leg and catching the nearest gunman in the stomach. He didn't stop there -- the side kick became a lunge, bringing his right fist into solid contact with a second man's breastbone. Two staggered but not down and not out. Reacting to the menace like a trained professional, a third man -- a ruddy skinned giant -- closed the distance in two bounds, and rammed his gun into Hawke's midsection, following up with a vicious roundhouse to the pilot's jaw. There was a flurry of punches and kicks from the understandably annoyed first two, then Hawke went down, a judicious slap of a steel gun barrel against the side of his head making sure he didn't get back up.
Michael, still covered at very close range, shot a fast glance at his surroundings but there was no chance to assist without having his brains well and truly spattered, and no chance to win, anyway. Besides the four armed men, there was another standing out of range, similarly dressed in jeans and t-shirt and also armed with one of the deadly Mac 10 machine pistols that were so favored by criminal and law enforcement alike.
It was then that another figure emerged from the dimly lit bar, the tall, thin man who'd approached Hawke earlier, and obviously the one who had precipitated the fight by pushing the pilot from behind. Alertly he surveyed the scene, from Michael, now held by two men and covered by a third, to Hawke, prone on the ground and making only feeble attempts to rise. He hesitated then slipped the Colt pistol he held into a holster under his jacket. "Rope," he ordered, all traces of softness gone and only the hardened soldier remaining. "Thirty seconds." As Hawke was hauled to his feet, the blue eyes opened to stare puzzledly at the man, who smiled and batted his eyelashes. "Good cover, eh?" he jeered in his deep bass voice. "You tend not to notice someone who's beneath your notice. Remember that."
"Would you like to tell us what you want?" Archangel invited politely as his and Hawke's hands were being bound behind them.
The man shrugged, closing the conversation, his humor fading. He'd obviously given out all the information he was going to. Michael allowed himself to be ushered into the backseat of a dark sedan, scooting over to allow another of the captors to manhandle Hawke in next to him. The thin, mustached man slid in next to Hawke, another in the front seat, both discouraging any thoughts of escape by keeping their weapons carefully aimed. A third man slid behind the wheel and they started off, the remaining attackers scattering to their own transportation.
Briggs, a neutral expression on his handsome face, used the opportunity to check his friend, who had spilled to the side and was leaning heavily against him. Michael twisted, nudging the younger man upright with his shoulder, inspecting his pupils and the spreading purple marks that colored the right temple area and jaw. Hawke blinked at him then turned away.
"We got suckered like amateurs," the young pilot growled, directing his glare at the gunman in the front seat.
"We got suckered by professionals," Michael amended fairly, more pragmatic than his companion. "Security's been breached somewhere along the line. But by whom?"
"And why?" Hawke added thoughtfully, testing his bonds.
But there was no answer from the captors. The two men could only settle back in their seat and wait out the very long trip to what could prove to be their final destination.
***
195---
"Honey! Look who's here!" The new white house remained unresponsive to Dominic's cheerful hail, the door most steadfastly locked tight. He was, however, aware of at least three of his new neighbors sticking their heads outside their respective windows to see what the fuss was about. "Californians sure are nosy," he grumbled under his breath, nevertheless giving them a cheerful wave before ushering his guests to the porch.
The tall, rangy man directly to his left, chuckled and tapped him on the shoulder. "Comes with the territory," he returned amiably. "You were the one who wanted to leave San Remo for the big city life of Van Nuys, California."
Santini huffed. "Big city life. HA! You been spendin' too much time in Colorado, Alan. Maybe in forty years this place'll qualify as more than a dirt airstrip with houses." He spread his hands, nearly knocking over the slender, auburn haired woman to his rear. "Oop! Sorry, Carmella! Got excited. Imagine Van Nuys in the year ... oh, 2000."
Carmella Hawke shifted the infant she carried higher on her shoulder, cradling the tiny head more securely under her own chin. "Dirt airstrip or not, if you can land a plane on it, I'm sure Alan will find an excuse to do it. Saint John! Come back here!" That last was addressed to the energetic five year old who was chasing a calico cat in the neighbor's yard. The bronze haired kindergartner grinned at his mother and ambled slowly back, stopping several times to investigate things of interest. Carmella let out her breath in a long sigh. "That boy! Just like his father -- always into something."
Her husband lifted her long auburn hair, letting it trickle through his fingers, then slipped an arm around her slim waist. "Being just like me means having a beautiful wife, two wonderful sons and his whole life ahead of him. Is that so bad?"
Dom regarded the family with old affection. "She's right, Alan, he is turning into the spitting image of you -- same coloring, same stubbornness. Only thing he's missing is that chin fuzz you're sporting."
Alan scratched at the short bronze beard he'd worn since the move to Colorado. "Give him time. He's already borrowing my razor. Of course, he used it to shave the dog...."
Dom chortled and took the child's hand, kneeling until they were eye level. "Hey, Saint John, wait'll you meet my daughter, Sally Anne. She's only a year or two older than you are, so I think you'll get along."
"Does she like to play catch?" the boy returned dubiously. "My little brother don' like to play catch." He stopped, looking briefly sad. "Josh liked to play catch."
Carmella swallowed, her expression growing forced. "String's only a baby, sweetheart," she told him. "Wait until he's older and you'll have a good playmate."
"Until then, you can play with Sally Anne." Dom patted the boy's head and stood, using his key to unlock the front door and leading the way into the house. "Lyla!" he called again. "The Hawkes are here! They just got in from Colorado!"
Again there was no response. Dom left his guests in the foyer with the admonition to, "Make yourselves at home," then did a quick walk through. Kitchen, bedrooms and den yielded nothing. It wasn't until he'd returned to the living room that he saw it -- the lavender envelope taped to the desk. Shaking with a foreshadowing of catastrophe, he ripped the envelope open and scanned the single sheet inside.
"Oh, my...." Numbed, he sank into the armchair, all the starch leaving his legs at once. He was only vaguely aware of Carmella Hawke calling his name, or Alan removing the paper from his loose grip. All he could see were the words written in a flowery hand that would remain burned into the foolscap of his brain for the rest of his life:
Dominic: I need a real man instead of a broken down pilot, so Richard and I have decided to go away together. I'm talking Sally Anne with me. I intend to give her a better life than that lousy dirt town you made me move to. Don't try to find us or I'll make you sorry.
The note had been unsigned.
"She took her," Dom whispered, too shocked to feel anger or sorrow at his wife's infidelity. "She took my daughter. She took my Sally Anne!"
"Oh, Dom!" Carmella took his hand, Hawke clasping his shoulder, the both of them nearly as dazed as he was. "I'm so sorry."
Spasmodically, Dom jerked to his feet, shaking off his friends' touch. "She took my daughter," he repeated, choking on the word. He blinked back the fog that was substituting for his reason to find himself standing over the baby Carmella had hastily deposited on the sofa. He dropped to his knees and picked the boy up, cradling him in one big arm as he would a fragile flower -- as he had once cradled Sally Anne. The child nestled trustingly against him, blinking at the droplets which splashed its tiny face.
Something touched his hand and Santini looked up to meet the solemn gray eyes of the older Hawke boy, who was leaning against him. "Are you okay, Uncle Dom?" Saint John asked sympathetically, slipping his small arm around Dominic's neck. But there was no answer for the boy, for Dom doubted he would ever be okay again. He gathered the children closer and lowered his head, seeking solace in their small forms. It was then that the tears began in earnest, shattering the dam comprised of shock, and flowing freely from his broken heart.
***
Stringfellow Hawke wandered through the front door, scanning the interior at a glance. There were less than a dozen patrons this early, most of them scattered at various tables around the small stage, staring blearily up at an oriental girl, who gyrated listlessly to the strains of an old Rolling Stones album. He headed for a table against the wall, ignoring the knowing look of the muscular bouncer and glaring down a posturing male who was watching Hawke rather than the dancer. He turned his chair to the wall and seated himself, pulling on a bland mask after a single spark of disapproval. He hadn't enjoyed the bargirl scene even when he was in Viet Nam, nor the thinly veiled prostitution that generated the real money in the business.
A bored looking waitress in pink hotpants and halter, sidled to his table. "What d'ya want?" she asked as though deigning to do him a favor.
"Ginger ale."
"Big spender," she mumbled, turning away.
Hawke dismissed her as soon as she was gone, turning his attention back to the patrons. He didn't recognize any of them as the Firm's personnel although he couldn't possibly know all of the hundreds of operatives out of the Los Angeles office called Knightsbridge. From the looks, they weren't interested in anything more than the dancer anyway. He spared her a glance, wondering if she could be an agent herself, but the dreamy eyes slid past his without acknowledgment, and the purple marks on her arm told their own stories.
Hawke looked up as the dissipate looking man who'd eyed him earlier, got up from the bar and strolled his way. The man -- tall and thin, with a pencil mustache -- stopped in front of the table and offered Hawke a smile. "Here by yourself?" the man asked in a deep bass.
Hawke regarded him stonily, dark blue eyes narrow. "Go away."
The man's smile slipped a fraction, then returned. "Hey! I'm only trying to be friendly." No answer. The young pilot continued to stare, only a barely perceptible tightening in his muscles conveying his warning. After a moment, the stranger shrugged. "If you change your mind, I'll be at the bar."
"Fat chance," Hawke muttered.
"Why, Stringfellow, I do believe you have an admirer." Hawke started, a slow flush touching his cheeks at that droll statement. Unnoticed by the pilot during the borderline confrontation, a handsome blond man in his late forties had sauntered in, stopping behind and to the side of the stranger. He was of medium height -- six feet or so -- and well-built, the left lens of his glasses blackened. He wore a suit so pristine white as to glow under the influence of the ultraviolet bulb lighting the stage, and the silver head of his walking stick reflecting a prism of color in all directions. All in all the man looked almost supernatural against the seedy surroundings. He stood watching the effeminate patron retreat, chuckling to himself. "What's the matter, isn't he your type?"
Hawke's eyes flashed, his hard features decidedly unamused -- something which brought another round of laughter to the white suited man. "Git off it, Michael," Hawke snapped, shoving over a chair with his foot. "Let's get down to business so we can get out of this sewer."
Michael Coldsmith-Briggs III, code named Archangel, first used his handkerchief to wipe off the chair, then turned it until his back too was protected by the wall before seating himself. He smiled amiably at the returning waitress, refused a drink, and directed his attention to the stage where the dancer was fumbling with her top. When the waitress had departed with Hawke's money, he turned back to the pilot. "Not your type of entertainment?" he began by way of conversation.
"It's a sewer," the younger man repeated, keeping his attention focussed on his companion. "It wasn't always but it is now." He looked beyond the white-suited man to the door. "I hope you didn't bring one of your assistants here. This isn't any place for a lady."
"In deference to the occasion," the older man returned dryly, "I drove myself."
Hawke snorted, looking his companion's attire up and down. "Yeah. You really blend with the crowd now, Michael."
"Only when absolutely necessary." He glanced again at the stage, stroking his neat pale mustache reflectively. "Granted this place is not particularly to my taste, either, although one may ever find some appreciation in the feminine form." Archangel leaned the walking stick against his chair and slid his hand into his breast pocket, pulling out a photograph, which he passed across. "Do you recognize this man?"
Hawke accepted the photo, turning it slightly so he could see it better by the low light. His brows furrowed. "That's Bishop Morris. He was a chopper pilot in 'Nam. He flew cover for me a couple'a times when I was doing medevac, then transferred out to Colonel Curtis' team."
Archangel nodded as if he'd known this all along ... which, of course, he had. "What kind of man was he? A friend?"
Hawke passed the picture back. "We worked together a couple of times, that's all. Saint John knew him better than I did; they were teamed for about a year before I got over there. He didn't like him -- said he was in the black market and told me to steer clear."
"Did you see any evidence of that?" Archangel pursued, his attitude more that of an interested friend than the informal interrogation this was.
The younger man lifted one shoulder minusculely. "I didn't care. As long as he gave us what cover we needed, his personal life wasn't any of my business. Why aren't you asking Saint John about him instead of me?"
The photograph shone anemically in the dim illumination, and Coldsmith- Briggs touched it with absent fingers, his attitude still friendly, not pushing. "My intelligence was obviously sketchy. I knew you'd worked with Morris at some point, but there was no record that your brother and Morris were teamed as well. Naturally, I'll have to ring him in on this, too."
"In on what?" Hawke asked suspiciously, shifting to stretch his damaged ankle.
Archangel watched the maneuver with sympathy. "I know how you feel," he said, rubbing his own game knee wryly. "Mine didn't stop aching for over a year. As it is, it lets me know if I've been still for too long."
"I'm all right," the younger man returned with a dismissive wave. "What about Bishop?"
Archangel opened his mouth then shut it, donning a smile when the nearly nude dancer pranced to their table during her round for tips. "Hi," the girl said, staring at him with interest penetrating the vagueness. "Nice suit."
"Thank you, my dear." Michael helped himself to the change the waitress had left Hawke, extracting a five dollar bill and offering it to the girl. She opened the triangle of cloth covering her groin, inviting him to insert the bill. Instead, he clasped her wrist and pressed it into her palm. "This is good enough," he said gallantly if with some pity. She looked surprised but took the money and departed, casting Hawke not even a look.
"Girl will be dead before she's thirty," Michael murmured at her departing back.
"I doubt she'll make twenty-one at the rate she's going," Hawke returned, still watching his companion. "What about Bishop?"
Archangel took a deep breath. "Bishop Morris became involved with a terrorist group known as Muhallah through mercenary contacts in the middle east. He's been coordinating runs against NATO weapons depots in Europe for the last six months." He stroked his blond mustache again, ruffling it slightly over his lip. "We know for a fact that he was personally present during that raid in Munich last month."
Surprise brought Hawke up straight. "The one in the newspapers? Twelve American soldiers died in that raid."
The agent nodded. "He took nearly a ton of weapons that time. We still haven't managed to discover who is bankrolling his organization."
"What does that have to do with me?" Hawke asked, eyes narrowing. "Or Saint John?"
Michael leaned closer, attitude taking on a more intense aspect, demanding attention. "Unsubstantiated rumor has it he's putting a new team together for some kind of major offensive -- what, we don't know yet. What we do know is that he's been recruiting mercenaries from all over the world, particularly men he worked with during the Viet Nam conflict. That could mean you. If he knows Saint John is back, it'll be him as well. Your old camaraderie could allow you to climb the pipeline far enough to discover the identity of whomever is behind the operation."
Looking not at all pleased at the prospect, Hawke ran a hand through his brown hair, the jerky movement carrying an undercurrent of strain. "You're asking me to go undercover?"
Archangel tipped his head. "We need to know what he's planning. He has to be stopped before any more American lives are lost -- or any other lives, for that matter." He studied the younger man for a long moment, debating with himself, then spread his hands in a 'Why not?' gesture. "Since the Firm cannot afford to be involved publicly, if you do go in, you'll be on your own. We can arrange a meet with one of his contacts but little more. But then, you should be used to working without a net by now, eh?"
The background music changed, the Rolling Stones giving way to some sentimental ballad. Hawke went very still, seeming to shrink in on himself. "Not this time, Michael. I'm not taking missions now. Maybe not for a while ... or ever."
But 'no' was not an answer Michael Coldsmith-Briggs was prepared to accept at even the most tranquil of times, one reason he'd been entrusted with the heavy responsibilities he carried. He leaned forward, single blue eye sharpening to drive home his point. "Excepting only for rumors, Bishop Morris has disappeared underground so completely we can't even smell him. We know whatever he's planning, it's going to be big, probably involving raids on additional weapons depots. You might be the only chance we have of infiltrating his organization and finding out what he's up to."
The younger man crossed his arms across his chest, the gesture both defensive and stubborn. "Find someone else. I'm...." He trailed off, looking uncomfortable.
"Not ready for this?" the older man supplied, studying him analytically. Hawke looked away, and, after a moment, the agent went on, "I know losing Dominic was rough, but it's been three months since he died." He ignored the barely perceptible flinch to press on, "Don't you think it's time to come out of that shell you built for yourself and rejoin the world? Your brother has been flying missions ever since he got back -- even gone undercover for a short time with Jason Locke."
"Then get him to go," Stringfellow snapped through clenched teeth. "What Saint John and his team do is their own business."
"And his team, eh?" Analysis shifted to curiosity. "You don't resent the fact that your brother has taken over Airwolf with a new team, do you?"
Hawke's eyes burned into the single blue one regarding him quizzically. "Get this straight, Michael, I don't resent Saint John in any way or form. He's my brother. He's the one I fought so hard to bring home."
Archangel's gaze softened. "You fought very hard for that. And now that he is home, you don't know what to do with yourself."
"Just lay off, Michael," the young pilot growled, pushing back his chair. He made to rise, stopping when his wrist was encased in a powerful grip.
"Whatever course you choose is your own business," Archangel stated brusquely. "My concern now is to save lives. Are you prepared to let good men die to avoid dirtying your hands again?"
Bitterness flared, although Hawke aborted his attempt to rise. "That's a low blow and you know it. What's next, the appeal for Mom and apple pie?" He glanced down at his trapped wrist, voice rippling with hostility. "Is that why you wanted to see me here instead of at the cabin? You figured I'd have a few extra buttons to push away from home ground?"
Archangel froze, then very slowly released his grip on the younger man, expression changing from persuasion to surprise. "What do you mean, my calling you here? Meeting in this place was your idea." The two stared at each other, then Michael repocketed the photo and extracted a snub-nosed Beretta from the holster concealed by the perfectly tailored suit, holding it low and out of view. He rose, casually reaching for his walking stick. "I've got a sudden bad feeling, Hawke. What do you say we continue this conversation elsewhere."
Hawke too rose, jerking his head toward the neon exit sign to their right. "Back door sounds like a good idea to me."
"Go." Moving nonchalantly so as to not attract notice, the two made their way through the little maze of tables, reaching the emergency exit without drawing so much as a glance from anyone in the room. Once there, Michael heaved a sigh of relief. "Maybe we have the drop on them."
Or maybe not. He stepped out into the alley a single pace ahead of the pilot, and froze at the feel of cold steel being clapped to his temple. "Nice and easy, Blondie," a masculine voice ordered, plucking the Beretta from Michael's fingers.
Hawke, a pace behind, had no opportunity to retreat. A shove from behind propelled him into the alley and nearly to his knees, but other hands had grabbed him and swung him to the side, slamming him hard against the building. Stringfellow Hawke reacted as he always did in such situations -- violently. Unconcerned with the large caliber machine pistols being pointed at him from four directions, he snapped into a combat stance, kicking out with his left leg and catching the nearest gunman in the stomach. He didn't stop there -- the side kick became a lunge, bringing his right fist into solid contact with a second man's breastbone. Two staggered but not down and not out. Reacting to the menace like a trained professional, a third man -- a ruddy skinned giant -- closed the distance in two bounds, and rammed his gun into Hawke's midsection, following up with a vicious roundhouse to the pilot's jaw. There was a flurry of punches and kicks from the understandably annoyed first two, then Hawke went down, a judicious slap of a steel gun barrel against the side of his head making sure he didn't get back up.
Michael, still covered at very close range, shot a fast glance at his surroundings but there was no chance to assist without having his brains well and truly spattered, and no chance to win, anyway. Besides the four armed men, there was another standing out of range, similarly dressed in jeans and t-shirt and also armed with one of the deadly Mac 10 machine pistols that were so favored by criminal and law enforcement alike.
It was then that another figure emerged from the dimly lit bar, the tall, thin man who'd approached Hawke earlier, and obviously the one who had precipitated the fight by pushing the pilot from behind. Alertly he surveyed the scene, from Michael, now held by two men and covered by a third, to Hawke, prone on the ground and making only feeble attempts to rise. He hesitated then slipped the Colt pistol he held into a holster under his jacket. "Rope," he ordered, all traces of softness gone and only the hardened soldier remaining. "Thirty seconds." As Hawke was hauled to his feet, the blue eyes opened to stare puzzledly at the man, who smiled and batted his eyelashes. "Good cover, eh?" he jeered in his deep bass voice. "You tend not to notice someone who's beneath your notice. Remember that."
"Would you like to tell us what you want?" Archangel invited politely as his and Hawke's hands were being bound behind them.
The man shrugged, closing the conversation, his humor fading. He'd obviously given out all the information he was going to. Michael allowed himself to be ushered into the backseat of a dark sedan, scooting over to allow another of the captors to manhandle Hawke in next to him. The thin, mustached man slid in next to Hawke, another in the front seat, both discouraging any thoughts of escape by keeping their weapons carefully aimed. A third man slid behind the wheel and they started off, the remaining attackers scattering to their own transportation.
Briggs, a neutral expression on his handsome face, used the opportunity to check his friend, who had spilled to the side and was leaning heavily against him. Michael twisted, nudging the younger man upright with his shoulder, inspecting his pupils and the spreading purple marks that colored the right temple area and jaw. Hawke blinked at him then turned away.
"We got suckered like amateurs," the young pilot growled, directing his glare at the gunman in the front seat.
"We got suckered by professionals," Michael amended fairly, more pragmatic than his companion. "Security's been breached somewhere along the line. But by whom?"
"And why?" Hawke added thoughtfully, testing his bonds.
But there was no answer from the captors. The two men could only settle back in their seat and wait out the very long trip to what could prove to be their final destination.
***
195---
"Honey! Look who's here!" The new white house remained unresponsive to Dominic's cheerful hail, the door most steadfastly locked tight. He was, however, aware of at least three of his new neighbors sticking their heads outside their respective windows to see what the fuss was about. "Californians sure are nosy," he grumbled under his breath, nevertheless giving them a cheerful wave before ushering his guests to the porch.
The tall, rangy man directly to his left, chuckled and tapped him on the shoulder. "Comes with the territory," he returned amiably. "You were the one who wanted to leave San Remo for the big city life of Van Nuys, California."
Santini huffed. "Big city life. HA! You been spendin' too much time in Colorado, Alan. Maybe in forty years this place'll qualify as more than a dirt airstrip with houses." He spread his hands, nearly knocking over the slender, auburn haired woman to his rear. "Oop! Sorry, Carmella! Got excited. Imagine Van Nuys in the year ... oh, 2000."
Carmella Hawke shifted the infant she carried higher on her shoulder, cradling the tiny head more securely under her own chin. "Dirt airstrip or not, if you can land a plane on it, I'm sure Alan will find an excuse to do it. Saint John! Come back here!" That last was addressed to the energetic five year old who was chasing a calico cat in the neighbor's yard. The bronze haired kindergartner grinned at his mother and ambled slowly back, stopping several times to investigate things of interest. Carmella let out her breath in a long sigh. "That boy! Just like his father -- always into something."
Her husband lifted her long auburn hair, letting it trickle through his fingers, then slipped an arm around her slim waist. "Being just like me means having a beautiful wife, two wonderful sons and his whole life ahead of him. Is that so bad?"
Dom regarded the family with old affection. "She's right, Alan, he is turning into the spitting image of you -- same coloring, same stubbornness. Only thing he's missing is that chin fuzz you're sporting."
Alan scratched at the short bronze beard he'd worn since the move to Colorado. "Give him time. He's already borrowing my razor. Of course, he used it to shave the dog...."
Dom chortled and took the child's hand, kneeling until they were eye level. "Hey, Saint John, wait'll you meet my daughter, Sally Anne. She's only a year or two older than you are, so I think you'll get along."
"Does she like to play catch?" the boy returned dubiously. "My little brother don' like to play catch." He stopped, looking briefly sad. "Josh liked to play catch."
Carmella swallowed, her expression growing forced. "String's only a baby, sweetheart," she told him. "Wait until he's older and you'll have a good playmate."
"Until then, you can play with Sally Anne." Dom patted the boy's head and stood, using his key to unlock the front door and leading the way into the house. "Lyla!" he called again. "The Hawkes are here! They just got in from Colorado!"
Again there was no response. Dom left his guests in the foyer with the admonition to, "Make yourselves at home," then did a quick walk through. Kitchen, bedrooms and den yielded nothing. It wasn't until he'd returned to the living room that he saw it -- the lavender envelope taped to the desk. Shaking with a foreshadowing of catastrophe, he ripped the envelope open and scanned the single sheet inside.
"Oh, my...." Numbed, he sank into the armchair, all the starch leaving his legs at once. He was only vaguely aware of Carmella Hawke calling his name, or Alan removing the paper from his loose grip. All he could see were the words written in a flowery hand that would remain burned into the foolscap of his brain for the rest of his life:
Dominic: I need a real man instead of a broken down pilot, so Richard and I have decided to go away together. I'm talking Sally Anne with me. I intend to give her a better life than that lousy dirt town you made me move to. Don't try to find us or I'll make you sorry.
The note had been unsigned.
"She took her," Dom whispered, too shocked to feel anger or sorrow at his wife's infidelity. "She took my daughter. She took my Sally Anne!"
"Oh, Dom!" Carmella took his hand, Hawke clasping his shoulder, the both of them nearly as dazed as he was. "I'm so sorry."
Spasmodically, Dom jerked to his feet, shaking off his friends' touch. "She took my daughter," he repeated, choking on the word. He blinked back the fog that was substituting for his reason to find himself standing over the baby Carmella had hastily deposited on the sofa. He dropped to his knees and picked the boy up, cradling him in one big arm as he would a fragile flower -- as he had once cradled Sally Anne. The child nestled trustingly against him, blinking at the droplets which splashed its tiny face.
Something touched his hand and Santini looked up to meet the solemn gray eyes of the older Hawke boy, who was leaning against him. "Are you okay, Uncle Dom?" Saint John asked sympathetically, slipping his small arm around Dominic's neck. But there was no answer for the boy, for Dom doubted he would ever be okay again. He gathered the children closer and lowered his head, seeking solace in their small forms. It was then that the tears began in earnest, shattering the dam comprised of shock, and flowing freely from his broken heart.
***