After driving for hours, the dark sedan carrying Stringfellow Hawke and
Michael Coldsmith-Briggs III pulled up in front of a large, sprawling
estate many miles off a desert road. Once there, they were yanked
unceremoniously out of the car and hustled through the front door.
"Take them into the study," the thin man ordered the two other 'escorts,' speaking for the first time since the trip began. He gestured with his gun to a short, pudgy attendant in butler's uniform, who had opened the door for them. "Tell the boss we're here."
The thin man followed his charges through the house, arriving in their wake at a spacious, book-lined chamber, paneled in walnut and filled with comfortably masculine leather furniture. "Nice, huh?" he asked the prisoners, regaining his conversational ability without preamble. "Gonna have me a place like this someday. Someday soon."
Stretching as much as possible to ease the cramp in their bound hands and arms, Michael and Stringfellow turned in opposite directions, examining the room for themselves. Sharp blue eyes sized up every detail of their location, from solid looking door to large bay window set in the far wall. "You can see for miles in this clear desert air," Michael remarked, wandering toward the window, permanent limp more pronounced after spending so long immobile. "We've been heading northwest, haven't we?"
"We're near Las Vegas," Hawke said, coming to join his partner, also keeping his weight on his good leg. "Not more than an hour south by my reckoning."
Michael nodded absently, craning his neck to see as much of the grounds as possible. "Pretty view. And it worries me greatly that we can see it at all." At his companion's raised brow he explained, "No blindfold means they're not worried that we'll be able to report any of this later."
The younger man's head bobbed, dislodging a strand of longish blond-brown hair to his forehead. "Because we're not expected to come out of this alive no matter what happens."
Briggs glanced meaningfully at their three jeans-clad escorts. "Right."
They turned in unison as the library door opened again to admit two figures, both as fair as Michael. The first was masculine -- fiftyish but well-preserved, handsome lean face highlighted by a pair of cruel arctic blue eyes. Approximately Michael's six foot height, he was dressed in a blue silk Versace suit that had cost as much as some men earned in a year. The second was a woman, six inches shorter and willowy, her platinum hair pulled back in a severe french twist and her eyes the same color as the male's if less cold. The two strolled into the room arm-in-arm, followed by two additional soldiers, both dressed similarly in olive drab fatigues and carrying assault rifles.
"Stringfellow Hawke," the man boomed genially, taking a lighted cigar out of his mouth. "How good to see you again."
There was no answer from the young pilot at first. At sight of these two, Stringfellow Hawke went utterly still, eyes narrowing into slits and glittering like bits of sapphire. "I should have known it would be you," he spat, avoiding the girl's questing gaze to glare into her companion's face.
Michael glanced from their captors to Hawke once, then took a step forward until they were shoulder to shoulder. "I don't believe we've had the pleasure, Mr. Horn," he said politely.
White, white teeth flashed in a delighted grin. "No, Mr. Coldsmith-Briggs, we haven't, although I daresay we know each other as intimately as if we'd been born from the same womb!" He bowed slightly from the waist. "John Bradford Horn, sir, at your service." He indicated his young female companion by lifting their joined arms. "My daughter, Angelica. My dear, I believe you'll remember Stringfellow Hawke?"
Pink lips tightened, the woman did not acknowledge the urbanity any more than Hawke did. She dropped her eyes and switched uncomfortably from one high-heeled foot to the other. "Do I have to be party to this, Father?" she asked almost too low for the room to hear.
Horn regarded her sharply although her obvious reluctance did nothing to dissuade his good humor. He tightened his hold on her elbow, pulling her closer against him. "I need you to be a part of this, Angelica. I need you to share my moment of triumph. But if you'd rather not...?" He inclined nearer her ear. "Must I remind you that the last time you met Mr. Hawke, he was trying to kill us both?"
Translucent skin darkening in a flush, she did look up again at Stringfellow Hawke, who had shifted his focus to an invisible spot on the nearer wall. "No, Father, you do not. But that doesn't mean I want to be part of this."
Horn's handsome face creased in a slight frown, clearing immediately. "Why don't you return to your room, Angelica. I shall notify you when dinner is ready."
She nodded and spun on her heel, then paused and turned back, regarding Hawke's stony expression sadly. "I'm sorry things have to be like this, String. I wish they could be different."
"Lover's spat?" Michael guessed, earning a glare from both Hawke and the woman.
"We could have been." Surprisingly that was from Hawke, who had finally tilted his head to meet Angelica's seeking eyes. His face showed nothing but stubbornness but his low voice carried an emotional undertone recognizable to one who knew him as betrayal. "Given a little more time together, and a little honesty, we could have been."
She looked away, her flush deepening. "I can't go against my father."
"That's my girl," Horn boomed heartily. He clapped the young woman on the arm, ignoring the shudder this caused. "I knew I was right in trusting you."
There was a knock at the door. At a gesture from Horn, one of the guards opened it to admit a second woman to the room. She was older than Angelica, in her early forties, perhaps, although still attractive, with the dark hair, pale skin and the high cheekbones of her Muskovite ancestors. "John, I thought I heard.... Oh, good! Our guests have arrived!"
Hawke stared, slow recognition then shock rooting him in place. "I remember you," he blurted, startled out of his stoic silence.
The woman's smile was slow and lazy, with a thread of such warmth that one might have mistaken her for a doting aunt rather than the dangerous professional she was. "Do you, Stringfellow?" she asked in lightly accented English. "I'm very flattered. You had so many other things in your mind, I would have thought our last meeting would have faded in your memory by now."
Michael cocked her head, taking in her neat if conservative gray suit jacket and black skirt, the friendly smile and untouchable distance in the brown eyes. "Although we've never met, I'm acquainted with your work in the field of mind control, Dr. Zarkov. I understand the KGB was quite sorry to lose you."
"You see, Anastasia," Horn commented with a smirk, "you're not as unknown as you like to think. What the KGB knows, the Firm knows."
"The KGB are a pack of idiots," the woman returned contemptuously, skimming Briggs' well-built figure with appreciation. "They didn't understand the need for patience to produce greatest effectiveness."
"I suppose it takes time to properly brainwash someone," the agent code named Archangel returned with more steel than he'd heretofore permitted to show.
She fluttered a hand negligently in Hawke's direction. "Ask our young friend about that. How long did it take for me to convince you to reveal where Airwolf was, Stringfellow?"
"I won't be fooled like that again," Hawke growled, lean jaw clenched. "I still can't believe that you were able to convince me that that stranger was really my brother."
A strand of short dark hair fell forward into her eyes, and Dr. Zarkov brushed it back. "You believed what you wished to believe, my darling. All I had to do was to supply your heart's delight. Speaking of which...." She pressed a long fingernail against her red lips thoughtfully. "John, are you sure you wish to go through with all that we discussed? It could cause difficulties in later stages."
Support for this statement came, surprisingly, from Horn's opposite side. Angelica touched his arm, beautiful face raised to his in appeal. "She's right, Father, you don't have to do this. Not any of it. Please."
Horn took her hand in his own, pressing it once before releasing it. It was, however, Zarkov he addressed. "Quite certain, Anastasia. Angelica and I...."
"Angelica," the blonde woman snapped, "was just leaving." Perfectly coiffured platinum hair gleamed under the lights as she turned. "Don't bother calling me for dinner. I don't think I'm going to be hungry." She spun, navy skirt swirling around her shapely legs, and strode for the door. "I ... am sorry, Stringfellow," she offered, then she was gone, slamming the door behind her.
Horn regarded the door thoughtfully for a single moment. "You'll have to excuse my daughter, gentlemen," he offered. "She always did tend to be high-strung. Too much like her mother, God rest her."
"Interesting gene pool," Michael remarked dryly. He tossed his head, attempting to reposition his partially blacked out glasses higher on his nose to no avail. This did however earn Horn a reproachful look from Zarkov.
"My dear John," she chided clucking her tongue. "Your hospitality is indeed lacking."
Horn ducked his head sheepishly. "Rombauer," he said, tilting his head until he could peer down his aquiline nose at his captives.
"Sir?" The thin, no-longer effeminate man took a step forward, although his gun never wavered from the center of Hawke's chest.
Horn slapped his wrists together then pulled them apart. "You've neglected to make our guests comfortable. That's bad form, old boy. Why don't you untie their hands? With five guns trained on them, they won't be going anywhere, I'm certain."
"I suppose not," the tall Rombauer returned with a gap-toothed grin. He handed his weapon to one of his casually clad comrades from the bar then, carefully avoiding blocking any of the guards' line of fire, he stepped behind first Michael then Hawke and untied the ropes binding their wrists. "There. Make yourselves ta' home, gents. Compliments of Mr. John Horn."
Freed, Michael used the opportunity to adjust his white jacket across his broad shoulders, smoothing at the wrinkles in the expensive linen with his open palms; Zarkov watched him with renewed appreciation but said nothing. "You'll pardon me for not shaking," he remarked with that refined air he rarely lost even under adversity. "I'm afraid my fingers are a bit numb."
"My apologies." Horn made his way to a small sideboard upon which sat a decanter and a set of crystal snifters. "May I offer you a drink to make up for it? Napoleon brandy. Very old."
Hawke said nothing, merely stood where he was trying to rub circulation back into his swollen fingers. Michael, however, nodded graciously at his pseudo-host. "I adore Napoleon brandy. One of the few pleasures in this life that agrees with my stomach these days."
Horn did the honors. He poured three glasses, offering one first to Zarkov, then to Archangel and retaining the third for himself. Holding the delicate crystal clumsily in both still-numb hands, Michael sniffed the brandy before taking a sip. "Ah. Excellent. There's nothing like a good cognac to clean the cobwebs out of the brain. Leaves it clear for ... bargaining?"
This last was offered as a query, and provoked a low chuckle from Horn. "I like your style, Mr. Coldsmith-Briggs. Right to the point as civilized men. Unlike our Mr. Hawke, there, who never was strong on the social graces. Obviously, he never learned the value of coming to terms with one's situation."
"Obviously," Michael answered with some coldness. "However, Hawke has the most respectable virtue of being forthright to a fault. One may not like it, but one at least knows where one stands with him."
"There is the tiniest hint of a most charming innocence left in him that still believes nobility will triumph in the end." Zarkov seated herself on one end of the brown leather sofa, and crossed her legs, touching her chin with the tip of her finger. "Experience will disabuse him of the notion eventually although it has been a long time coming."
There was a snort from the quietly standing Rombauer at that; Horn leaned his head back until he could see him out of one eye. "You don't agree with the fair Anastasia, Abraham?"
The thin soldier adjusted his grip on his automatic, caressing the firing mechanism with his thumb. "Good always triumphs? Only a stupid man believes that, Boss. 'The good die young.' There's a saying to live by. ... Or not."
The industrialist considered this, then shrugged. "Innocence or ignorance. Both can amount to the same thing."
"Neither innocence nor ignorance are terms generally associated with Stringfellow Hawke," Michael commented coolly. "I believe the word you're looking for is morality. You may have to look up that definition." He cast his friend a glance, but Hawke was still contemplating the far wall, unaffected by either their enemies' derision or Michael's defense; he sighed and lowered himself clumsily onto the opposite end of the sofa, resting the glass on his knee. "Where do we stand with you, Mr. Horn? What is it you want from us this time? I assume it is us you were looking for?"
"I would have staged a simple attack on Mr. Hawke's cabin had I wanted only him." Horn's handsome face froze, sky blue eyes glowing glacial. "Or was I mistaken in assuming that it was you who froze eighty percent of the liquid assets I was banking in Switzerland?"
"Only eighty percent?" the agent returned, contriving to look modest and chagrined at once. "I must be slipping."
"You still want Airwolf." Hawke's voice was low and biting and the look he turned on Horn was full of hostility. "And my head."
Unruffled, the industrialist threw himself into a winged armchair opposite Archangel. "I've made no secret of that fact, Mr. Hawke. That magnificent flying weapon could simplify several of my projects."
"Your last project was to take over a small island nation for use as a sovereign base," Michael remarked. "Has that changed?"
Horn sampled his own glass, watching Briggs over the rim. "Not in the slightest. I'm very weary of ducking Interpol and your own international police forces. The life of a fugitive is hardly one I would have voluntarily chosen."
"Your psychological profile does infer a need for some form of stable home base, John" Zarkov commented absently. "And it would be nice to have a solid environment to continue my research."
He dismissed that with a wave. "However, I have many irons in the fire, Archangel, for which Airwolf would be most useful. And I must admit to having lost much self-esteem thanks to that last little debacle involving the young man there. Redeeming myself for that humiliation is a most inviting second choice." He sipped, regarding Hawke with a calculating eye. "Revenge would most certainly be as sweet as acquiring Airwolf. Frankly, I would prefer both; I may be persuaded to settle for the one."
"I doubt it," Hawke spat with unhidden disdain. "Man like you is going to take whatever cheap shot he can get."
"Revenge is getting closer and closer to supplanting my more practical incentives," Horn warned dangerously, anger visible for the first time. Abruptly he turned his attention back to the DNS agent, the amiable smile returning megawatt bright. "But enough of that! I must say, I had originally despaired of meeting you at all, Mr. Coldsmith-Briggs. You're a difficult man to locate."
Michael crossed his legs sedately, hiking up the knee of his white trousers fractionally to accommodate the action. "I've only recently returned from the Far East -- our Hong Kong office. I've barely finished unpacking."
"While your friend is still recovering from a six week stay in an Arizona hospital," Zarkov picked up, examining the pilot from head to foot. "Do sit down, Stringfellow. I'm sure your ankle must continue to ache after having been broken in so many places." Hawke ignored her in favor of continuing to scan his surroundings; he maintained his stiff posture, body tensed to take advantage of any opening for escape. Seeing this, Zarkov sighed. "I read your medical records, of course, after we located the clinic your brother took you to. You're fortunate to still be alive, young man."
"How fortunate he is," Archangel interjected smoothly, "is going to depend on Mr. Horn's plans."
Horn inclined his head in acknowledgment. "My terms are simple, and roughly the same as they were before. I want Airwolf and I want Hawke to pilot her for me. Minimum of three missions."
Michael stroked his mustache thoughtfully with one forefinger, the other hand still cupping the brandy. "You might have heard that Hawke and I are no longer associated with Airwolf. The Firm has taken complete control of the aircraft. I'm afraid you've gone through the trouble of capturing the wrong men."
"I'm aware that Airwolf has a new permanent flight crew." The information seemed to make no difference to the industrialist; rather, it only broadened his smile ever so slightly. "That would be Stringfellow's elder brother, Army Major Saint John Hawke, Air Force Major Mike Rivers and the new DNS liaison, Jason Locke. Oh, and I mustn't forget Miss Santini. I found the discovery of your brother in Cambodian hands most interesting," he added to the pilot as an aside. "Strategically speaking, that is."
If it was at all possible, Hawke's face hardened even further, a muscle jumping in his jaw. "You leave my brother out of this," he growled. He clenched his fists, only the fact that several guns swung instantly to target his chest prevented mayhem from breaking out then and there.
"Your brother wasn't the one who impeded my plans one year ago," the handsome former billionaire returned acidly, taking no notice of the barely averted skirmish. "However, my contact informs me that you still have access to Airwolf. That should be enough. Your brother's role at this point depends entirely on you."
"Enough for what?" Michael asked, his refinement slipping in favor of brevity.
Horn waved one perfectly manicured hand. "I understand that your section is investigating certain raids against NATO installations by the middle eastern group known as Muhallah."
"I assume even you aren't planning on going up against the whole nation of Israel," Michael snorted. "They want to take Muhallah down pretty badly."
Horn smoothed a crease in his blue trousers, his air nonchalant. "What Muhallah does with the weaponry I provide is not my concern, so long as I get paid ahead of time. Unfortunately, I'm having a minor cash flow problem; this should correct that." Noticing Michael's perplexity, he scowled. "You didn't seriously believe Muhallah was capable of coordinating those raids on NATO, did you?" He buffed his nails on his navy suit jacket proudly. "One of my employees is handling that part of it under my supervision. The weapons will be sold to Muhallah at a tidy profit."
Michael's single blue eye lit with understanding. "That clears up the questions of why everything is being temporarily stockpiled at a single location, and why Muhallah's connection has been so tenuous. This isn't one single operation, but two."
Horn nodded. "My contact tells me that the investigation of Muhallah's alliance with my ... employee is your department's province, Archangel. Something which understandably concerns me."
"Your 'contact' is well informed. He must be highly placed within the organization." Briggs settled deeper into his seat, resting one hand on his sore leg. "I don't suppose you'd like to tell us who that contact might be?"
Horn cluck-clucked. "Good attempt, but this isn't a movie. The bad guy doesn't tell all his secrets before the end credits. Suffice it to say that I'm very interested in the extent and nature of your inquiry."
There was a pause during which Michael took a long sip of his drink, swallowing the aged amber fluid with genuine enjoyment. "I was wondering why you wanted me," he said at last, touching his tongue to his lips. "Obviously, your man is not part of my section or you'd already have that information."
"And know how close you were getting to discovering my involvement. Very discerning of you." John Horn leaned forward, tapping his thigh, his mouth thinning until it resembled a gash on his face. "You will tell me the state of your investigation, Mr. Coldsmith-Briggs, so that I can plug any holes in my security before either my identity or my plans are compromised."
Michael grinned openly although his gaze was as cold as Hawke's. "You don't seriously believe that?"
Horn nodded at the smugly smiling Anastasia Zarkov. "Oh, but I do. Just as I believe that the boy will bring me Airwolf. At best, he will be assisting my men with the machine on several missions. At worst, Airwolf will not be used against Muhallah's base before payment is made for the full cache of weapons." He waved expansively at the stiffly standing Hawke. "Ask the boy, Mr. Briggs. John Bradford Horn always gets what he wants."
Hawke's lips parted in a derisive sneer. "What's first? Torture? More drugs? Or are you going to try Zarkov's brainwashing again?"
Horn scratched his nose, returning the younger man's look with a calculating one of his own. "The beautiful Anastasia has requested the opportunity to work with you again immediately, but I'm on a bit of a schedule this time. It might be expedient for us both to consider a straight trade."
Stringfellow snorted. "What could you possibly have to offer that would make me give up Airwolf and the lives you'd use her -- and me -- to take?"
Horn placed his brandy on a small table by his chair and stood, brushing at the knife-edge creases in his trousers. "Rather than explaining, allow me to show you the goods of my exchange. Gentlemen?" Following his lead, the guards repositioned themselves, two of them gesturing at Hawke and Coldsmith-Briggs with the barrels of their machine pistols. After a moment, Michael also placed his glass down and stood, falling into step with Hawke, the two allowing the guards to usher them through several living chambers then down a single staircase toward the rear of the house. They traversed a long hall, finally entering a laboratory, peopled with a half-dozen white-coated scientist types who barely acknowledged their passage.
"Looks like a biolab," Michael said conversationally, stopping halfway through the room to peek into a microscope.
"Actually," the ex-KGB psychologist supplied helpfully, "it is a combination biolab and private hospital ward. This facility takes up the entire ground floor wing of this mansion."
Michael relinquished the microscope at a prod in the back by one of the guards' pistols, continuing through a heavy steel door to a large chamber that must have defined the very rear of the building. It was spacious and, without windows, completely sealed. Banks of unfamiliar equipment and monitors lined two walls, the center occupied by a seven-foot long, vertical cylinder fed with three pipes and connected to a central computer. Bending over the main board stood a petite oriental woman in a labcoat, her slender fingers delicately adjusting some switches.
"Everything ready, Lydia?" Horn greeted the woman brusquely the minute the trio and their accompanying guards had breasted the threshold.
She looked up, almond shaped eyes flicking once over the group before dismissing them as of no consequence. "Everything is precisely as Dr. Zarkov directed, sir."
Horn rubbed his hands together eagerly. "Excellent. Now, gentlemen, I must ask you again, will you surrender Airwolf to my possession?"
The glacial look Hawke turned on the older man would have done credit to the Pleistocene age. "You know the answer to that, Horn. And if that thing is some new type of torture device...."
Horn actually chuckled at that. "Nothing could be further from the truth, my boy. I'm offering you a trade, remember? Lydia." At his signal the woman pressed a button, and the metal cylinder began to tip slowly toward the horizontal. "Before I forget," Horn interjected when both prisoners stepped forward curiously, "I find it only fair to warn you, multiple security devices were installed to prevent your interfering with whatever happens. Defense can range from painful to fatal."
Hawke shot him a wary look. "What is this?"
Michael glanced from the cylinder to the equipment and feed pipes, blond brows bisected in a deep frown. "It looks like a cryo-suspension tube, although what its purpose might be I can't fathom."
At a nod from Horn, the woman, Lydia, left her board to join the group. "It only resembles a cryo-tube," she explained in a bored voice. "The Yakeyama chamber contains not liquid nitrogen, but a highly oxygenated and completely sterile nutrient solution designed to promote healing of damaged tissues. It's experimental but has been found to be primarily useful for regenerating tissue in victims who've been badly burned."
The cylinder had by now assumed an upright position, revealing a plate set into the metal. Through the thick glass a face could be seen, scarred but familiar enough to leach every trace of color out of Stringfellow Hawke's cheeks. "No, it ... can't ... be him."
Horn smiled, exposing his teeth like a shark. "Oh, but it can. What do you say now, Stringfellow Hawke? Do you consider Dominic Santini a fair trade for Airwolf?"
Hawke stared mesmerized at the distorted face in the tube, eyes wide and filled with stunned disbelief. It was Michael who answered, furious understanding flooding his cheeks with red. "You aren't looking for a trade," he accused with an insight garnered over twenty years of dealing with brutality and betrayal of this caliber. "This isn't about Airwolf -- it's about revenge."
"I always said you were astute. What do you think, Stringfellow?" Horn asked silkily.
Hawke's breath caught in his throat. "I--"
Horn shook his head sadly. "You hesitated too long, Mr. Hawke. Had you been more amenable earlier I might have been willing to discuss the matter. I'm afraid you're going to have to live with the consequences now. Ah! Our friend is awake." Even as he spoke, Santini's brown eyes snapped open, the burn-twisted mouth describing an "O" of fear. From inside the tube came a barely audible sound of struggling, one hand coming up to scrabble at the glass pane, seeking desperate escape.
"He can't breathe!" Hawke gasped, spinning on Horn. "Get him out of there!"
The industrialist retreated involuntarily before the younger man's wild look to the safety afforded by the ring of guards, arctic eyes sparkling. "I told you it was too late for that."
"Don't do this, Horn!" Michael charged, spreading both hands. "Zarkov?" But the woman only watched impassively, her calmness even more chilling than Horn's cruel glee.
"Dom," Hawke breathed, face parchment white but determined. He disregarded the guns to dart to the cylindrical prison, spying a twist-handle in the front inset. "Don't worry, Dom, I--" His call degenerated into a pained scream the minute he touched the shiny metal. A sizzling sound emanated from the point of contact, and he fell backward, gaping dumbfounded at the seared skin on his palms.
"A 'defense system,'" Michael growled, pulling the pilot to his feet. "Perhaps the automatic controls...?" He crossed to the main board, staring perplexed at the dozens of switches and gauges arrayed there. "Which one opens the tube without killing Dominic?"
By all appearances the question would become moot in short order. Awareness had seeped into Dominic Santini's face, his mouth opening and closing soundlessly. Brown eyes rolled up until only the whites showed, even as his hand left off scratching at the glass to claw his throat.
Tearing his horrified gaze from the ghastly sight, Hawke shoved Michael violently aside, positioning himself in front of the main panel. "There's no time," he gasped, sounding as though he were choking himself. He splayed his fingers across the same switches that Lydia had pressed earlier. "We'll have to try every--"
This time he didn't even manage a scream. Blue light outlined Hawke's slender body, rippling every muscle and stirring the brown hair. Michael, plying switches on the secondary board, was likewise caught in the high voltage backlash, his body bowed backwards until it looked as though it must break in half. Timed to appear in non-lethal pulses, the circuit cooled without warning, the sudden release dropping both men nervelessly to the floor.
Horn lounged against the doorframe where he had a good view of the entire show. "I did warn you about unauthorized use," he remarked, obviously enjoying himself hugely.
"G-got ta help Dom," Hawke choked, pushing the heavier man off his right leg. Where his burned hands contacted the white suit they left behind a bloody smear. Hawke seemed not to notice or didn't care; he pushed again, this time managing to roll free of the still twitching agent. "Stop it, Horn!" he begged, this time having to crawl back to what was fast becoming Dominic Santini's sepulcher. He faltered not at all before deliberately wrapping his fingers around the red-hot handle, managing to choke out, "I'll give you--" before that sizzling returned and the smell of burning flesh filled the air. Whatever he was about to offer choked off into another scream, agony again taking his breath although he didn't let go the handle. He held on, biting his lip and putting put all his weight into this last, desperate effort at freeing his friend.
Meanwhile, Michael had regained his feet. He stood back, engineer's eye expertly scanning the cylinder urgently for any opening in its defenses, but the scenario had been carefully planned and there was not even a weapon to use to smash the thick glass faceplate. Although his hesitation lasted mere seconds it was long enough for there to be a dramatic change to be wrought in Dominic Santini. Brown eyes rapidly glazing over, the elderly pilot's face went lax, his jaw dropping open. Then the eyes closed and his head lolled forward; from all indications, he was no longer making an attempt at respiration, if that were even possible inside the fluid filled tube.
Michael's own breath caught at the sight but he had no chance for more reaction than that for his attention diverted irresistibly toward a low, barely audible whimper from Hawke, who was still struggling with the front panel. Bracing himself, Michael seized the pilot's wrists, yanking his fingers loose from the boobytrapped steel. Hawke uttered a low moan of protest as they came free, his awareness fading long enough for Michael to drag him physically back and away. The both of them went down in a heap, Hawke flailing wildly and Michael carefully not letting go of him.
"My revenge is indeed sweet," Horn uttered blissfully, without a shred of remorse for the suffering he was causing.
Although the phrase was offered in conversational tones, neither man gave any indication of having heard him. "No," Hawke choked, tears on his cheeks, eyes as vacant as those of a wild animal. His struggles grew savage and only their lack of coordination allowed Michael to retain his grip at all. "Got 'ta help Dom," was repeated over and over in a smothered voice no one would have recognized as his own.
By contrast, Michael's words were quiet. "I don't think you can help him, Hawke." A muscular man, Archangel locked both arms and one leg around his friend's body in a wrestling hold that might have held a sumo. He grunted when Hawke jammed an elbow into his ribs, only the virtue of a bad attack angle preventing those ribs from popping like rivets. "Stop it, Hawke," he forced through clenched teeth. "He's gone."
Hawke shook his head frantically, his struggles not waning. Unbreakable hold or not, his youth, strength and sheer ferocity were beginning to loosen Michael's grip on him. "No! Get him out! Please...."
Although hampered by their awkward position on the floor, Archangel nevertheless managed to shake him roughly, breaking through the frenzy, shouting, "It's too late!" He pulled the young man around until they could both see the seemingly lifeless body through the glass panel, adding more gently, "I am sorry."
That at last seemed to sink in, for Hawke's face lost all expression; he went utterly still, slumping back against Michael's chest. His wide eyes fixed blankly on the horrible, immobile form of his friend, and there was a darkness in them that spoke of something less than sane. He took a deep breath, and Briggs slowly relaxed his hold.
"Stringfellow," the agent began hesitantly, also shaken, keeping one hand on the other's shoulder.
There was no reaction to his beckon. Hawke straightened away from the support without so much as a glance. He struggled to his knees and lifted his face toward the grinning John Horn.
"I did give you a chance," the industrialist chortled, eyes gleaming with pleasure. "If Santini is dead, his blood remains on your hands."
The room went utterly silent as Hawke continued to regard him steadily through those empty, soulless eyes. Ever so slowly, Horn's grin faded, his face twisting into what could only be defined as nervousness. He opened his mouth to say something else but had no chance for, with the speed of a jungle cat, Hawke launched himself from his kneeling position, the sheer unexpectedness of his attack actually carrying him past the guards before they could react. Zarkov was knocked to the side, a guttural noise escaping Hawke's clenched teeth as he impacted with the unprepared Horn, bringing the older man down under him. Powerful fingers wrapped around Horn's throat, and, blue eyes blazing ferally, Stringfellow Hawke began to squeeze.
Recovering from their astonishment, two of the guards bracketed the enraged pilot, each raining an onslaught of blows and kicks that should have ended the fight then and there. It was to no avail -- Hawke was an automaton, impervious to pain and single minded in his deadly pursuit. The seared fingers continued to choke the life out of John Horn, sinking deep into his throat. It wasn't until the wiry Rombauer had joined the guards' endeavor that there was any measure of success; he brought the barrel of his gun down twice against Hawke's already bruised temple, breaking the deathgrip at once. Hawke uttered a little moan and slumped forward across Horn's chest to be summarily rolled off by one of the uniforms.
Michael, although given no more warning than Horn's security men, was only a heartbeat slower than Hawke. Left with no option but to back his partner's play, he balanced his weight on his left foot, planting his right dead center on the nearest opponent's chest, following up with a beautiful left hook to the man's pugnacious jaw. The olive clad guard had not even hit the floor before Michael had pivoted on his next target. Unfortunately, these men were highly trained and carried the added advantage of superior numbers. Even as the Firm's Deputy Director began his second aggressive move, two more mercenaries were pouring into the room to join the fight. One, the massive redhead from the bar, lashed out with the side of his boot, catching Michael's left knee at the joint; another swung the flat handle of his assault rifle, grand slamming the agent in the diaphragm and knocking the wind out of him. A lightning fast crescent kick connected with Michael's face, and ended the fray. By this time, Hawke was slumped on the floor and the guards had retreated to a safe distance, bodies tense, weapons again held at ready.
Rombauer stepped forward cautiously and offered a helping hand to the supine Horn, pulling him up. The industrialist rose unsteadily, rubbing his throat and making gasping noises for oxygen. There was no distress in his expression, however, only the satisfaction of a man whose plans have just come to fruition. "I told you revenge would be as sweet as acquiring Airwolf," he addressed Hawke in a raspy voice. "I was right." He gestured at the guards, who pulled both semiconscious men to their feet. "Take them back to their cell. Vengeance, like a fine wine, is best savored in private."
"Take them into the study," the thin man ordered the two other 'escorts,' speaking for the first time since the trip began. He gestured with his gun to a short, pudgy attendant in butler's uniform, who had opened the door for them. "Tell the boss we're here."
The thin man followed his charges through the house, arriving in their wake at a spacious, book-lined chamber, paneled in walnut and filled with comfortably masculine leather furniture. "Nice, huh?" he asked the prisoners, regaining his conversational ability without preamble. "Gonna have me a place like this someday. Someday soon."
Stretching as much as possible to ease the cramp in their bound hands and arms, Michael and Stringfellow turned in opposite directions, examining the room for themselves. Sharp blue eyes sized up every detail of their location, from solid looking door to large bay window set in the far wall. "You can see for miles in this clear desert air," Michael remarked, wandering toward the window, permanent limp more pronounced after spending so long immobile. "We've been heading northwest, haven't we?"
"We're near Las Vegas," Hawke said, coming to join his partner, also keeping his weight on his good leg. "Not more than an hour south by my reckoning."
Michael nodded absently, craning his neck to see as much of the grounds as possible. "Pretty view. And it worries me greatly that we can see it at all." At his companion's raised brow he explained, "No blindfold means they're not worried that we'll be able to report any of this later."
The younger man's head bobbed, dislodging a strand of longish blond-brown hair to his forehead. "Because we're not expected to come out of this alive no matter what happens."
Briggs glanced meaningfully at their three jeans-clad escorts. "Right."
They turned in unison as the library door opened again to admit two figures, both as fair as Michael. The first was masculine -- fiftyish but well-preserved, handsome lean face highlighted by a pair of cruel arctic blue eyes. Approximately Michael's six foot height, he was dressed in a blue silk Versace suit that had cost as much as some men earned in a year. The second was a woman, six inches shorter and willowy, her platinum hair pulled back in a severe french twist and her eyes the same color as the male's if less cold. The two strolled into the room arm-in-arm, followed by two additional soldiers, both dressed similarly in olive drab fatigues and carrying assault rifles.
"Stringfellow Hawke," the man boomed genially, taking a lighted cigar out of his mouth. "How good to see you again."
There was no answer from the young pilot at first. At sight of these two, Stringfellow Hawke went utterly still, eyes narrowing into slits and glittering like bits of sapphire. "I should have known it would be you," he spat, avoiding the girl's questing gaze to glare into her companion's face.
Michael glanced from their captors to Hawke once, then took a step forward until they were shoulder to shoulder. "I don't believe we've had the pleasure, Mr. Horn," he said politely.
White, white teeth flashed in a delighted grin. "No, Mr. Coldsmith-Briggs, we haven't, although I daresay we know each other as intimately as if we'd been born from the same womb!" He bowed slightly from the waist. "John Bradford Horn, sir, at your service." He indicated his young female companion by lifting their joined arms. "My daughter, Angelica. My dear, I believe you'll remember Stringfellow Hawke?"
Pink lips tightened, the woman did not acknowledge the urbanity any more than Hawke did. She dropped her eyes and switched uncomfortably from one high-heeled foot to the other. "Do I have to be party to this, Father?" she asked almost too low for the room to hear.
Horn regarded her sharply although her obvious reluctance did nothing to dissuade his good humor. He tightened his hold on her elbow, pulling her closer against him. "I need you to be a part of this, Angelica. I need you to share my moment of triumph. But if you'd rather not...?" He inclined nearer her ear. "Must I remind you that the last time you met Mr. Hawke, he was trying to kill us both?"
Translucent skin darkening in a flush, she did look up again at Stringfellow Hawke, who had shifted his focus to an invisible spot on the nearer wall. "No, Father, you do not. But that doesn't mean I want to be part of this."
Horn's handsome face creased in a slight frown, clearing immediately. "Why don't you return to your room, Angelica. I shall notify you when dinner is ready."
She nodded and spun on her heel, then paused and turned back, regarding Hawke's stony expression sadly. "I'm sorry things have to be like this, String. I wish they could be different."
"Lover's spat?" Michael guessed, earning a glare from both Hawke and the woman.
"We could have been." Surprisingly that was from Hawke, who had finally tilted his head to meet Angelica's seeking eyes. His face showed nothing but stubbornness but his low voice carried an emotional undertone recognizable to one who knew him as betrayal. "Given a little more time together, and a little honesty, we could have been."
She looked away, her flush deepening. "I can't go against my father."
"That's my girl," Horn boomed heartily. He clapped the young woman on the arm, ignoring the shudder this caused. "I knew I was right in trusting you."
There was a knock at the door. At a gesture from Horn, one of the guards opened it to admit a second woman to the room. She was older than Angelica, in her early forties, perhaps, although still attractive, with the dark hair, pale skin and the high cheekbones of her Muskovite ancestors. "John, I thought I heard.... Oh, good! Our guests have arrived!"
Hawke stared, slow recognition then shock rooting him in place. "I remember you," he blurted, startled out of his stoic silence.
The woman's smile was slow and lazy, with a thread of such warmth that one might have mistaken her for a doting aunt rather than the dangerous professional she was. "Do you, Stringfellow?" she asked in lightly accented English. "I'm very flattered. You had so many other things in your mind, I would have thought our last meeting would have faded in your memory by now."
Michael cocked her head, taking in her neat if conservative gray suit jacket and black skirt, the friendly smile and untouchable distance in the brown eyes. "Although we've never met, I'm acquainted with your work in the field of mind control, Dr. Zarkov. I understand the KGB was quite sorry to lose you."
"You see, Anastasia," Horn commented with a smirk, "you're not as unknown as you like to think. What the KGB knows, the Firm knows."
"The KGB are a pack of idiots," the woman returned contemptuously, skimming Briggs' well-built figure with appreciation. "They didn't understand the need for patience to produce greatest effectiveness."
"I suppose it takes time to properly brainwash someone," the agent code named Archangel returned with more steel than he'd heretofore permitted to show.
She fluttered a hand negligently in Hawke's direction. "Ask our young friend about that. How long did it take for me to convince you to reveal where Airwolf was, Stringfellow?"
"I won't be fooled like that again," Hawke growled, lean jaw clenched. "I still can't believe that you were able to convince me that that stranger was really my brother."
A strand of short dark hair fell forward into her eyes, and Dr. Zarkov brushed it back. "You believed what you wished to believe, my darling. All I had to do was to supply your heart's delight. Speaking of which...." She pressed a long fingernail against her red lips thoughtfully. "John, are you sure you wish to go through with all that we discussed? It could cause difficulties in later stages."
Support for this statement came, surprisingly, from Horn's opposite side. Angelica touched his arm, beautiful face raised to his in appeal. "She's right, Father, you don't have to do this. Not any of it. Please."
Horn took her hand in his own, pressing it once before releasing it. It was, however, Zarkov he addressed. "Quite certain, Anastasia. Angelica and I...."
"Angelica," the blonde woman snapped, "was just leaving." Perfectly coiffured platinum hair gleamed under the lights as she turned. "Don't bother calling me for dinner. I don't think I'm going to be hungry." She spun, navy skirt swirling around her shapely legs, and strode for the door. "I ... am sorry, Stringfellow," she offered, then she was gone, slamming the door behind her.
Horn regarded the door thoughtfully for a single moment. "You'll have to excuse my daughter, gentlemen," he offered. "She always did tend to be high-strung. Too much like her mother, God rest her."
"Interesting gene pool," Michael remarked dryly. He tossed his head, attempting to reposition his partially blacked out glasses higher on his nose to no avail. This did however earn Horn a reproachful look from Zarkov.
"My dear John," she chided clucking her tongue. "Your hospitality is indeed lacking."
Horn ducked his head sheepishly. "Rombauer," he said, tilting his head until he could peer down his aquiline nose at his captives.
"Sir?" The thin, no-longer effeminate man took a step forward, although his gun never wavered from the center of Hawke's chest.
Horn slapped his wrists together then pulled them apart. "You've neglected to make our guests comfortable. That's bad form, old boy. Why don't you untie their hands? With five guns trained on them, they won't be going anywhere, I'm certain."
"I suppose not," the tall Rombauer returned with a gap-toothed grin. He handed his weapon to one of his casually clad comrades from the bar then, carefully avoiding blocking any of the guards' line of fire, he stepped behind first Michael then Hawke and untied the ropes binding their wrists. "There. Make yourselves ta' home, gents. Compliments of Mr. John Horn."
Freed, Michael used the opportunity to adjust his white jacket across his broad shoulders, smoothing at the wrinkles in the expensive linen with his open palms; Zarkov watched him with renewed appreciation but said nothing. "You'll pardon me for not shaking," he remarked with that refined air he rarely lost even under adversity. "I'm afraid my fingers are a bit numb."
"My apologies." Horn made his way to a small sideboard upon which sat a decanter and a set of crystal snifters. "May I offer you a drink to make up for it? Napoleon brandy. Very old."
Hawke said nothing, merely stood where he was trying to rub circulation back into his swollen fingers. Michael, however, nodded graciously at his pseudo-host. "I adore Napoleon brandy. One of the few pleasures in this life that agrees with my stomach these days."
Horn did the honors. He poured three glasses, offering one first to Zarkov, then to Archangel and retaining the third for himself. Holding the delicate crystal clumsily in both still-numb hands, Michael sniffed the brandy before taking a sip. "Ah. Excellent. There's nothing like a good cognac to clean the cobwebs out of the brain. Leaves it clear for ... bargaining?"
This last was offered as a query, and provoked a low chuckle from Horn. "I like your style, Mr. Coldsmith-Briggs. Right to the point as civilized men. Unlike our Mr. Hawke, there, who never was strong on the social graces. Obviously, he never learned the value of coming to terms with one's situation."
"Obviously," Michael answered with some coldness. "However, Hawke has the most respectable virtue of being forthright to a fault. One may not like it, but one at least knows where one stands with him."
"There is the tiniest hint of a most charming innocence left in him that still believes nobility will triumph in the end." Zarkov seated herself on one end of the brown leather sofa, and crossed her legs, touching her chin with the tip of her finger. "Experience will disabuse him of the notion eventually although it has been a long time coming."
There was a snort from the quietly standing Rombauer at that; Horn leaned his head back until he could see him out of one eye. "You don't agree with the fair Anastasia, Abraham?"
The thin soldier adjusted his grip on his automatic, caressing the firing mechanism with his thumb. "Good always triumphs? Only a stupid man believes that, Boss. 'The good die young.' There's a saying to live by. ... Or not."
The industrialist considered this, then shrugged. "Innocence or ignorance. Both can amount to the same thing."
"Neither innocence nor ignorance are terms generally associated with Stringfellow Hawke," Michael commented coolly. "I believe the word you're looking for is morality. You may have to look up that definition." He cast his friend a glance, but Hawke was still contemplating the far wall, unaffected by either their enemies' derision or Michael's defense; he sighed and lowered himself clumsily onto the opposite end of the sofa, resting the glass on his knee. "Where do we stand with you, Mr. Horn? What is it you want from us this time? I assume it is us you were looking for?"
"I would have staged a simple attack on Mr. Hawke's cabin had I wanted only him." Horn's handsome face froze, sky blue eyes glowing glacial. "Or was I mistaken in assuming that it was you who froze eighty percent of the liquid assets I was banking in Switzerland?"
"Only eighty percent?" the agent returned, contriving to look modest and chagrined at once. "I must be slipping."
"You still want Airwolf." Hawke's voice was low and biting and the look he turned on Horn was full of hostility. "And my head."
Unruffled, the industrialist threw himself into a winged armchair opposite Archangel. "I've made no secret of that fact, Mr. Hawke. That magnificent flying weapon could simplify several of my projects."
"Your last project was to take over a small island nation for use as a sovereign base," Michael remarked. "Has that changed?"
Horn sampled his own glass, watching Briggs over the rim. "Not in the slightest. I'm very weary of ducking Interpol and your own international police forces. The life of a fugitive is hardly one I would have voluntarily chosen."
"Your psychological profile does infer a need for some form of stable home base, John" Zarkov commented absently. "And it would be nice to have a solid environment to continue my research."
He dismissed that with a wave. "However, I have many irons in the fire, Archangel, for which Airwolf would be most useful. And I must admit to having lost much self-esteem thanks to that last little debacle involving the young man there. Redeeming myself for that humiliation is a most inviting second choice." He sipped, regarding Hawke with a calculating eye. "Revenge would most certainly be as sweet as acquiring Airwolf. Frankly, I would prefer both; I may be persuaded to settle for the one."
"I doubt it," Hawke spat with unhidden disdain. "Man like you is going to take whatever cheap shot he can get."
"Revenge is getting closer and closer to supplanting my more practical incentives," Horn warned dangerously, anger visible for the first time. Abruptly he turned his attention back to the DNS agent, the amiable smile returning megawatt bright. "But enough of that! I must say, I had originally despaired of meeting you at all, Mr. Coldsmith-Briggs. You're a difficult man to locate."
Michael crossed his legs sedately, hiking up the knee of his white trousers fractionally to accommodate the action. "I've only recently returned from the Far East -- our Hong Kong office. I've barely finished unpacking."
"While your friend is still recovering from a six week stay in an Arizona hospital," Zarkov picked up, examining the pilot from head to foot. "Do sit down, Stringfellow. I'm sure your ankle must continue to ache after having been broken in so many places." Hawke ignored her in favor of continuing to scan his surroundings; he maintained his stiff posture, body tensed to take advantage of any opening for escape. Seeing this, Zarkov sighed. "I read your medical records, of course, after we located the clinic your brother took you to. You're fortunate to still be alive, young man."
"How fortunate he is," Archangel interjected smoothly, "is going to depend on Mr. Horn's plans."
Horn inclined his head in acknowledgment. "My terms are simple, and roughly the same as they were before. I want Airwolf and I want Hawke to pilot her for me. Minimum of three missions."
Michael stroked his mustache thoughtfully with one forefinger, the other hand still cupping the brandy. "You might have heard that Hawke and I are no longer associated with Airwolf. The Firm has taken complete control of the aircraft. I'm afraid you've gone through the trouble of capturing the wrong men."
"I'm aware that Airwolf has a new permanent flight crew." The information seemed to make no difference to the industrialist; rather, it only broadened his smile ever so slightly. "That would be Stringfellow's elder brother, Army Major Saint John Hawke, Air Force Major Mike Rivers and the new DNS liaison, Jason Locke. Oh, and I mustn't forget Miss Santini. I found the discovery of your brother in Cambodian hands most interesting," he added to the pilot as an aside. "Strategically speaking, that is."
If it was at all possible, Hawke's face hardened even further, a muscle jumping in his jaw. "You leave my brother out of this," he growled. He clenched his fists, only the fact that several guns swung instantly to target his chest prevented mayhem from breaking out then and there.
"Your brother wasn't the one who impeded my plans one year ago," the handsome former billionaire returned acidly, taking no notice of the barely averted skirmish. "However, my contact informs me that you still have access to Airwolf. That should be enough. Your brother's role at this point depends entirely on you."
"Enough for what?" Michael asked, his refinement slipping in favor of brevity.
Horn waved one perfectly manicured hand. "I understand that your section is investigating certain raids against NATO installations by the middle eastern group known as Muhallah."
"I assume even you aren't planning on going up against the whole nation of Israel," Michael snorted. "They want to take Muhallah down pretty badly."
Horn smoothed a crease in his blue trousers, his air nonchalant. "What Muhallah does with the weaponry I provide is not my concern, so long as I get paid ahead of time. Unfortunately, I'm having a minor cash flow problem; this should correct that." Noticing Michael's perplexity, he scowled. "You didn't seriously believe Muhallah was capable of coordinating those raids on NATO, did you?" He buffed his nails on his navy suit jacket proudly. "One of my employees is handling that part of it under my supervision. The weapons will be sold to Muhallah at a tidy profit."
Michael's single blue eye lit with understanding. "That clears up the questions of why everything is being temporarily stockpiled at a single location, and why Muhallah's connection has been so tenuous. This isn't one single operation, but two."
Horn nodded. "My contact tells me that the investigation of Muhallah's alliance with my ... employee is your department's province, Archangel. Something which understandably concerns me."
"Your 'contact' is well informed. He must be highly placed within the organization." Briggs settled deeper into his seat, resting one hand on his sore leg. "I don't suppose you'd like to tell us who that contact might be?"
Horn cluck-clucked. "Good attempt, but this isn't a movie. The bad guy doesn't tell all his secrets before the end credits. Suffice it to say that I'm very interested in the extent and nature of your inquiry."
There was a pause during which Michael took a long sip of his drink, swallowing the aged amber fluid with genuine enjoyment. "I was wondering why you wanted me," he said at last, touching his tongue to his lips. "Obviously, your man is not part of my section or you'd already have that information."
"And know how close you were getting to discovering my involvement. Very discerning of you." John Horn leaned forward, tapping his thigh, his mouth thinning until it resembled a gash on his face. "You will tell me the state of your investigation, Mr. Coldsmith-Briggs, so that I can plug any holes in my security before either my identity or my plans are compromised."
Michael grinned openly although his gaze was as cold as Hawke's. "You don't seriously believe that?"
Horn nodded at the smugly smiling Anastasia Zarkov. "Oh, but I do. Just as I believe that the boy will bring me Airwolf. At best, he will be assisting my men with the machine on several missions. At worst, Airwolf will not be used against Muhallah's base before payment is made for the full cache of weapons." He waved expansively at the stiffly standing Hawke. "Ask the boy, Mr. Briggs. John Bradford Horn always gets what he wants."
Hawke's lips parted in a derisive sneer. "What's first? Torture? More drugs? Or are you going to try Zarkov's brainwashing again?"
Horn scratched his nose, returning the younger man's look with a calculating one of his own. "The beautiful Anastasia has requested the opportunity to work with you again immediately, but I'm on a bit of a schedule this time. It might be expedient for us both to consider a straight trade."
Stringfellow snorted. "What could you possibly have to offer that would make me give up Airwolf and the lives you'd use her -- and me -- to take?"
Horn placed his brandy on a small table by his chair and stood, brushing at the knife-edge creases in his trousers. "Rather than explaining, allow me to show you the goods of my exchange. Gentlemen?" Following his lead, the guards repositioned themselves, two of them gesturing at Hawke and Coldsmith-Briggs with the barrels of their machine pistols. After a moment, Michael also placed his glass down and stood, falling into step with Hawke, the two allowing the guards to usher them through several living chambers then down a single staircase toward the rear of the house. They traversed a long hall, finally entering a laboratory, peopled with a half-dozen white-coated scientist types who barely acknowledged their passage.
"Looks like a biolab," Michael said conversationally, stopping halfway through the room to peek into a microscope.
"Actually," the ex-KGB psychologist supplied helpfully, "it is a combination biolab and private hospital ward. This facility takes up the entire ground floor wing of this mansion."
Michael relinquished the microscope at a prod in the back by one of the guards' pistols, continuing through a heavy steel door to a large chamber that must have defined the very rear of the building. It was spacious and, without windows, completely sealed. Banks of unfamiliar equipment and monitors lined two walls, the center occupied by a seven-foot long, vertical cylinder fed with three pipes and connected to a central computer. Bending over the main board stood a petite oriental woman in a labcoat, her slender fingers delicately adjusting some switches.
"Everything ready, Lydia?" Horn greeted the woman brusquely the minute the trio and their accompanying guards had breasted the threshold.
She looked up, almond shaped eyes flicking once over the group before dismissing them as of no consequence. "Everything is precisely as Dr. Zarkov directed, sir."
Horn rubbed his hands together eagerly. "Excellent. Now, gentlemen, I must ask you again, will you surrender Airwolf to my possession?"
The glacial look Hawke turned on the older man would have done credit to the Pleistocene age. "You know the answer to that, Horn. And if that thing is some new type of torture device...."
Horn actually chuckled at that. "Nothing could be further from the truth, my boy. I'm offering you a trade, remember? Lydia." At his signal the woman pressed a button, and the metal cylinder began to tip slowly toward the horizontal. "Before I forget," Horn interjected when both prisoners stepped forward curiously, "I find it only fair to warn you, multiple security devices were installed to prevent your interfering with whatever happens. Defense can range from painful to fatal."
Hawke shot him a wary look. "What is this?"
Michael glanced from the cylinder to the equipment and feed pipes, blond brows bisected in a deep frown. "It looks like a cryo-suspension tube, although what its purpose might be I can't fathom."
At a nod from Horn, the woman, Lydia, left her board to join the group. "It only resembles a cryo-tube," she explained in a bored voice. "The Yakeyama chamber contains not liquid nitrogen, but a highly oxygenated and completely sterile nutrient solution designed to promote healing of damaged tissues. It's experimental but has been found to be primarily useful for regenerating tissue in victims who've been badly burned."
The cylinder had by now assumed an upright position, revealing a plate set into the metal. Through the thick glass a face could be seen, scarred but familiar enough to leach every trace of color out of Stringfellow Hawke's cheeks. "No, it ... can't ... be him."
Horn smiled, exposing his teeth like a shark. "Oh, but it can. What do you say now, Stringfellow Hawke? Do you consider Dominic Santini a fair trade for Airwolf?"
Hawke stared mesmerized at the distorted face in the tube, eyes wide and filled with stunned disbelief. It was Michael who answered, furious understanding flooding his cheeks with red. "You aren't looking for a trade," he accused with an insight garnered over twenty years of dealing with brutality and betrayal of this caliber. "This isn't about Airwolf -- it's about revenge."
"I always said you were astute. What do you think, Stringfellow?" Horn asked silkily.
Hawke's breath caught in his throat. "I--"
Horn shook his head sadly. "You hesitated too long, Mr. Hawke. Had you been more amenable earlier I might have been willing to discuss the matter. I'm afraid you're going to have to live with the consequences now. Ah! Our friend is awake." Even as he spoke, Santini's brown eyes snapped open, the burn-twisted mouth describing an "O" of fear. From inside the tube came a barely audible sound of struggling, one hand coming up to scrabble at the glass pane, seeking desperate escape.
"He can't breathe!" Hawke gasped, spinning on Horn. "Get him out of there!"
The industrialist retreated involuntarily before the younger man's wild look to the safety afforded by the ring of guards, arctic eyes sparkling. "I told you it was too late for that."
"Don't do this, Horn!" Michael charged, spreading both hands. "Zarkov?" But the woman only watched impassively, her calmness even more chilling than Horn's cruel glee.
"Dom," Hawke breathed, face parchment white but determined. He disregarded the guns to dart to the cylindrical prison, spying a twist-handle in the front inset. "Don't worry, Dom, I--" His call degenerated into a pained scream the minute he touched the shiny metal. A sizzling sound emanated from the point of contact, and he fell backward, gaping dumbfounded at the seared skin on his palms.
"A 'defense system,'" Michael growled, pulling the pilot to his feet. "Perhaps the automatic controls...?" He crossed to the main board, staring perplexed at the dozens of switches and gauges arrayed there. "Which one opens the tube without killing Dominic?"
By all appearances the question would become moot in short order. Awareness had seeped into Dominic Santini's face, his mouth opening and closing soundlessly. Brown eyes rolled up until only the whites showed, even as his hand left off scratching at the glass to claw his throat.
Tearing his horrified gaze from the ghastly sight, Hawke shoved Michael violently aside, positioning himself in front of the main panel. "There's no time," he gasped, sounding as though he were choking himself. He splayed his fingers across the same switches that Lydia had pressed earlier. "We'll have to try every--"
This time he didn't even manage a scream. Blue light outlined Hawke's slender body, rippling every muscle and stirring the brown hair. Michael, plying switches on the secondary board, was likewise caught in the high voltage backlash, his body bowed backwards until it looked as though it must break in half. Timed to appear in non-lethal pulses, the circuit cooled without warning, the sudden release dropping both men nervelessly to the floor.
Horn lounged against the doorframe where he had a good view of the entire show. "I did warn you about unauthorized use," he remarked, obviously enjoying himself hugely.
"G-got ta help Dom," Hawke choked, pushing the heavier man off his right leg. Where his burned hands contacted the white suit they left behind a bloody smear. Hawke seemed not to notice or didn't care; he pushed again, this time managing to roll free of the still twitching agent. "Stop it, Horn!" he begged, this time having to crawl back to what was fast becoming Dominic Santini's sepulcher. He faltered not at all before deliberately wrapping his fingers around the red-hot handle, managing to choke out, "I'll give you--" before that sizzling returned and the smell of burning flesh filled the air. Whatever he was about to offer choked off into another scream, agony again taking his breath although he didn't let go the handle. He held on, biting his lip and putting put all his weight into this last, desperate effort at freeing his friend.
Meanwhile, Michael had regained his feet. He stood back, engineer's eye expertly scanning the cylinder urgently for any opening in its defenses, but the scenario had been carefully planned and there was not even a weapon to use to smash the thick glass faceplate. Although his hesitation lasted mere seconds it was long enough for there to be a dramatic change to be wrought in Dominic Santini. Brown eyes rapidly glazing over, the elderly pilot's face went lax, his jaw dropping open. Then the eyes closed and his head lolled forward; from all indications, he was no longer making an attempt at respiration, if that were even possible inside the fluid filled tube.
Michael's own breath caught at the sight but he had no chance for more reaction than that for his attention diverted irresistibly toward a low, barely audible whimper from Hawke, who was still struggling with the front panel. Bracing himself, Michael seized the pilot's wrists, yanking his fingers loose from the boobytrapped steel. Hawke uttered a low moan of protest as they came free, his awareness fading long enough for Michael to drag him physically back and away. The both of them went down in a heap, Hawke flailing wildly and Michael carefully not letting go of him.
"My revenge is indeed sweet," Horn uttered blissfully, without a shred of remorse for the suffering he was causing.
Although the phrase was offered in conversational tones, neither man gave any indication of having heard him. "No," Hawke choked, tears on his cheeks, eyes as vacant as those of a wild animal. His struggles grew savage and only their lack of coordination allowed Michael to retain his grip at all. "Got 'ta help Dom," was repeated over and over in a smothered voice no one would have recognized as his own.
By contrast, Michael's words were quiet. "I don't think you can help him, Hawke." A muscular man, Archangel locked both arms and one leg around his friend's body in a wrestling hold that might have held a sumo. He grunted when Hawke jammed an elbow into his ribs, only the virtue of a bad attack angle preventing those ribs from popping like rivets. "Stop it, Hawke," he forced through clenched teeth. "He's gone."
Hawke shook his head frantically, his struggles not waning. Unbreakable hold or not, his youth, strength and sheer ferocity were beginning to loosen Michael's grip on him. "No! Get him out! Please...."
Although hampered by their awkward position on the floor, Archangel nevertheless managed to shake him roughly, breaking through the frenzy, shouting, "It's too late!" He pulled the young man around until they could both see the seemingly lifeless body through the glass panel, adding more gently, "I am sorry."
That at last seemed to sink in, for Hawke's face lost all expression; he went utterly still, slumping back against Michael's chest. His wide eyes fixed blankly on the horrible, immobile form of his friend, and there was a darkness in them that spoke of something less than sane. He took a deep breath, and Briggs slowly relaxed his hold.
"Stringfellow," the agent began hesitantly, also shaken, keeping one hand on the other's shoulder.
There was no reaction to his beckon. Hawke straightened away from the support without so much as a glance. He struggled to his knees and lifted his face toward the grinning John Horn.
"I did give you a chance," the industrialist chortled, eyes gleaming with pleasure. "If Santini is dead, his blood remains on your hands."
The room went utterly silent as Hawke continued to regard him steadily through those empty, soulless eyes. Ever so slowly, Horn's grin faded, his face twisting into what could only be defined as nervousness. He opened his mouth to say something else but had no chance for, with the speed of a jungle cat, Hawke launched himself from his kneeling position, the sheer unexpectedness of his attack actually carrying him past the guards before they could react. Zarkov was knocked to the side, a guttural noise escaping Hawke's clenched teeth as he impacted with the unprepared Horn, bringing the older man down under him. Powerful fingers wrapped around Horn's throat, and, blue eyes blazing ferally, Stringfellow Hawke began to squeeze.
Recovering from their astonishment, two of the guards bracketed the enraged pilot, each raining an onslaught of blows and kicks that should have ended the fight then and there. It was to no avail -- Hawke was an automaton, impervious to pain and single minded in his deadly pursuit. The seared fingers continued to choke the life out of John Horn, sinking deep into his throat. It wasn't until the wiry Rombauer had joined the guards' endeavor that there was any measure of success; he brought the barrel of his gun down twice against Hawke's already bruised temple, breaking the deathgrip at once. Hawke uttered a little moan and slumped forward across Horn's chest to be summarily rolled off by one of the uniforms.
Michael, although given no more warning than Horn's security men, was only a heartbeat slower than Hawke. Left with no option but to back his partner's play, he balanced his weight on his left foot, planting his right dead center on the nearest opponent's chest, following up with a beautiful left hook to the man's pugnacious jaw. The olive clad guard had not even hit the floor before Michael had pivoted on his next target. Unfortunately, these men were highly trained and carried the added advantage of superior numbers. Even as the Firm's Deputy Director began his second aggressive move, two more mercenaries were pouring into the room to join the fight. One, the massive redhead from the bar, lashed out with the side of his boot, catching Michael's left knee at the joint; another swung the flat handle of his assault rifle, grand slamming the agent in the diaphragm and knocking the wind out of him. A lightning fast crescent kick connected with Michael's face, and ended the fray. By this time, Hawke was slumped on the floor and the guards had retreated to a safe distance, bodies tense, weapons again held at ready.
Rombauer stepped forward cautiously and offered a helping hand to the supine Horn, pulling him up. The industrialist rose unsteadily, rubbing his throat and making gasping noises for oxygen. There was no distress in his expression, however, only the satisfaction of a man whose plans have just come to fruition. "I told you revenge would be as sweet as acquiring Airwolf," he addressed Hawke in a raspy voice. "I was right." He gestured at the guards, who pulled both semiconscious men to their feet. "Take them back to their cell. Vengeance, like a fine wine, is best savored in private."