The olive-uniformed guards grabbed Hawke and Archangel by the arms, hauling
them roughly back into the laboratory then through a short corridor off to
the right. Archangel was aware of a blur of lights and color passing as a
kaleidoscope, disorientating and nauseating at once. There was a buzz --
an electronic lock disengaging -- and a panel slid open in one wall. The
prisoners were dragged inside and deposited unceremoniously on a tiled
floor, then footsteps retreated back to the hall. Almost as a gesture of
contempt, Rombauer threw the half-darkened glasses inside; miraculously
unbroken by the kick to his face, they landed on Michael's chest before
hitting the floor with a clatter. The guards withdrew and the door slid
shut behind them with a final little click.
Winded, Michael Coldsmith-Briggs remained where he'd fallen for several minutes, doubled up to relieve the pressure on his cramping abdomen. He took a deep breath, choking on the blood streaming from his nose down his throat. He was uncertain he could spare the energy it would cost him to roll onto his side, but as his only alternative was asphyxiation he made the attempt, barely managing the feat and not without generating a whole new arena of suffering in the rest of his body.
The pain was all consuming for several minutes, but Michael embraced it as a diversion, using it to banish the too-vivid scene of the atrocity he'd just witnessed. Dominic Santini could not have been considered a friend -- there were too many years of conflict between them, with Airwolf and even Hawke himself as the center of their dissention. Santini had not been shy about expressing his disapproval of the Firm, espionage in general, and Michael Briggs in particular, nor had he held back a single shot when facing Michael down in Hawke's behalf. But the old man's loyalty had proved him worthy of respect, and he'd always sided with Michael when he'd been needed most. Dominic hadn't deserved to die that way. And Hawke hadn't deserved to be hurt again. Not like that.
Everything went dim for a while but he concentrated hard, forcing his battered diaphragm to draw in enough oxygen to clear his head. In ... out ... in ... using the mere act of respiration as a focus to clear his mind. The pain was narrowing now, enough for him to pinpoint specific sources, most notably his head, stomach and left knee. He groaned but managed to bring up one hand to probe his face gingerly. Just as he thought -- broken nose. Not that it was the first time a plastic surgeon had been needed to restore his nose to perfection, but he didn't enjoy those sessions any more for their frequency. And he was going to have a black eye on top of it -- even as the flow slowed from his nostrils he could feel it begin to pool under his skin. Fortunately, it was on the left side of his face where the patch would cover most of the damage; his vision, at least, would remain unimpaired.
He moved his torso cautiously, relieved that the expected stab of bone grinding against bone did not come, nor could he feel that deep seated ache that in the past had heralded internal injuries. He counted that as a blessing. The guards had enjoyed their work -- those had not been love taps they'd delivered. Only his trained reflexes had allowed him to roll with the blows, preventing more serious injury than he'd sustained.
He rubbed his stomach ruefully, wishing he'd continued that weight lifting regimen he'd begun when he was twenty-one and more vain about his appearance. His muscles were not as solid as they'd been in his youth, but were not flabby either; they'd absorbed what he hadn't been able to avoid, protecting his organs from the worst of the impact. The worst, he told himself, not all. I'm going to sport bruises for weeks. Sit-ups are definitely in my future from now on. As for his knee.... That pain was a long time companion. He could only hope they hadn't damaged it beyond repair this time.
It took nearly five full minutes for his breathing to steady out and his head to clear; only then did he unfurl both arms and lift his head. "So much for an easy escape," he croaked, using his free hand to snatch up his glasses and perch them very cautiously on the bridge of his nose. I'd've really been annoyed if I'd lost them, he thought with sour humor. As if annoyed is all I'm going to have to worry about ... all poor Dominic had to worry about. Or Hawke.
Equilibrium finally reestablishing itself, he jacked himself up on one elbow, seeking the whereabouts of his companion, not that there was much area to search. Only a few feet from Briggs' left leg, Hawke lay sprawled on his back, eyes closed, face pale save for the purpling marks decorating the high cheekbones and jaw. Scarlet spattered his face and sweater, originating from another bruise to the right of one eye, and trickling backward to disappear into his light brown hair. Semi-conscious, he twitched weakly, obviously unable to do more.
He took a pretty bad beating, too, Michael thought with a degree of worry that surprised even him. Does Horn want an employee or a corpse? Maybe it was revenge he was after all along. His lips twisted. If so, he certainly got what he wanted. In spades.
Grunting with the effort, Michael dragged himself toward the supine form, his left leg from hip to ankle an aching, useless weight, the renewed pain in his chest warning him that maybe he had broken a rib or two, after all. He ignored it all, blocking out his own pain to take Hawke's smooth chin in his palm and tilt the younger man's face towards him, frowning when he saw a second swelling along one side of his jaw and the extent of the damage near his temple. His skin was a little cold, too -- incipient shock, perhaps. Sapphire was barely visible through the slitted lids, and Michael could sense the bleary scrutiny he was receiving in return. "Lie still," he told the pilot in what he hoped was a reassuring tone. "Let me see how badly you're injured before you try to move."
Surprisingly, Hawke obeyed the command, which worried Michael even further. Just how badly was he hurt, anyway? He released Hawke's chin and ran his fingers under the sweater and over the pilot's ribs, not liking the give he encountered on two of them, although thankfully he couldn't feel any rough edges. Cracked, maybe just more bruising. Hawke gave a choked sound at the touch, very much like a whimper, and brought a weak arm across his midsection as protest. Michael caught his wrist in a warning grip. "Let me finish," he ordered. He stopped then, remembering the grisly sizzling sound back in Horn's so-called lab, and turned Hawke's hand over, catching his breath at the sight of the charring across the palm. From what he could see, the burns had blistered almost instantly, the blisters giving way to the raw, bloody flesh beneath. A quick check showed the same to be true with the young man's other hand. Infection was certain, and Michael knew from past experience of his own that such wounds were agonizing in the extreme. Shock and concussion might be the least of their worries.
He next lifted the white sweater and t-shirt, pursing his lips at the marks decorating the lean abdomen. The guards had been a little more enthusiastic here than they had been with him, possibly because the frenzied pilot had been harder to subdue, more likely because Horn employed sadists who took pleasure in beating helpless men. Whatever the reason, Hawke was definitely concussed and might be bleeding internally; he couldn't tell. They both needed medical attention at any rate ... not that Michael foresaw a doctor in their immediate future. Whatever Horn had in store for them, this casual brutality was only a prelude. Much worse was yet to come.
Hawke's breathing was ragged but starting to even out a bit and, leaving a restraining hand lightly on his companion's shoulder, Briggs next scanned his surroundings. They were lying in a featureless white-tiled room devoid of windows or furniture save for one straight-backed wooden chair hardly designed for the comfort of 'guests.' There were no windows; the only visible entrance was the sliding door that fit snugly into the wall. By focusing all of his faculties he could make out the audible hum of voltage being channelled in that direction -- an electronic lock. Dimly he noted that, to Hawke with his superior hearing, it must be loud as a beehive ... provided he could hear anything beyond the echo of fists beating vainly against a metal sarcophagus. That, Michael could still hear all too clearly.
As if triggered by these wanderings, Hawke let out a shallow gasp and jerked up onto one arm, returning memory overcoming the undoubted pain of the beating he'd taken. Concussion meant nausea and this time was no exception. The pale skin went ashen, and Hawke gagged, his stomach, empty since the night before, trying its best to bring up what wasn't there. Michael, still too weak himself to be of any assistance, could only hold the man's head off the floor, and hope those probably-cracked, maybe-broken ribs didn't give.
It took a long time for the heaving to ease, leaving Hawke lying helplessly, trying to breathe shallowly and not succeeding. Briggs could imagine the kind of distress he was in, being nauseated on top of the beating; he felt that way himself. Finally, the blue eyes opened wide, regarding the far off ceiling with a blank stare.
Michael shifted until he was in the other's line of sight. "Hawke," he called softly, hesitantly touching the other's shoulder. When there was no immediate reaction to his beckon, Michael tightened his grip, giving the pilot a little shake. "Hawke, can you hear me? Stringfellow?" He thought a moment, then changed his tone, allowing it to grow gruffer, choosing words he'd once overheard an aging, overweight Italian use in the past. "String, don't do this to yourself, kid."
The reaction to that familiar voice came as expected. Hawke's breath caught in his throat, the name, "Dom...." emerging as a low sob.
Relieved at having broken through the numbed shock, Michael reassumed his own voice, despairing of finding anything to say that would help but compelled to try anyway. "Stringfellow, I'm sorry."
Hawke lifted himself slightly onto his elbow, not looking at Archangel but in his general direction. "He was alive, Michael," he managed in a low voice. "All this time Dom was alive and I didn't look for him. I didn't.... I didn't know...."
"You couldn't have known," Michael interrupted the stumbling words; more guilt was one thing Hawke didn't need to carry around. "There wasn't anything you could have done. Believe that."
"But I should have...." Hawke trailed off, one hand coming up to cover his face. He didn't need to finish the sentence; Briggs heard the unspoken words as plainly as if they'd been aloud. I should have traded them Airwolf for Dom.
Michael's gaze went cold, a frozen lump settling in the pit of his gut. "Don't even think about it," he snapped, giving the younger man a shake; he stopped at the short hiss of pain this elicited, and gentled his hold, offering support rather than reproach. He leaned closer, continuing in an intense voice, "If Horn gets Airwolf, you can write off that NATO installation, and that means Muhallah ends up with enough weapons to carry on their terrorist attacks for years. Think about it, not just soldiers but women and children. And that's just for a start!"
Hawke dropped his hand from his face, eyes brimming and containing a curious appeal, for what Michael didn't understand. Mercy? Forgiveness? A negation of the nightmare? "But Dom," he whispered.
Michael regarded his friend pityingly, grimacing at the anguish that radiated from him in waves. Over five years close association and many more spent cultivating the pilot into Firm material, Michael had seen Hawke upset before -- worried, angry, frantic -- the emotions slipping past the expressionless facade he wore like a second suit of clothes. This young man's core was steel, his passions so tightly channeled that they only added to his strength and determination, the duality combining to form this superb living weapon. Michael Briggs knew this -- understood the pilot's assets and weaknesses well -- and used them freely for his own purposes and the good of the country he served. Yet for all that, there wasn't one single instant that Michael had not been aware of the deep, soul eroding sorrow barely hidden behind those stony blue eyes, the aching loss that had stolen all joy from his heart and the smile from his lips.
"Listen, Hawke, I...." Michael trailed off, his single eye narrowing. He racked his astute mind for the proper line to take, carefully culling from the thousand stock declarations he could use so effectively. Michael's job and life often depended on his highly developed understanding of the human mind -- more intellectual than empathic and all the more effective because of it. Being able to read and manipulate emotions was Briggs' stock in trade, and this young man, for all the protective barriers he maintained, was an unsuspecting and all-too-frequent pawn in the larger games Michael played. No, not pawn -- knight. White knight. Honest, mercurial, and excruciatingly sensitive, the carefully submerged passions were the instruments Michael Coldsmith-Briggs played to wield the deadly, combat- ready soldier that was Stringfellow Hawke.
The phrases came to him even then. He could tell the younger man that his country needed him, that lives depended on him, that he, Michael, would die without his help ... any one of which would tap into the excessive guilt and responsibility that nourished themselves behind that mask. He could have his weapon even yet. He parted his lips ... then made the mistake of looking into those haunted blue eyes, and closed his mouth with a snap, self-disgust rising like bile in his throat. He couldn't do it. Not now -- not in the face of that much sheer misery. He ran a hand through his thick blond hair, cursing himself for the heart he'd never been able to successfully exorcize. Although he risked thousands of lives with the delay, he just couldn't bring himself to use a friend like this. ... Not yet.
Twenty-five years experience in what Hawke had once termed the "sewer" of espionage work had formed their own protective barriers around Briggs' emotions -- barriers that were routinely shredded these days. "You're objective or you're dead," was a truism he embraced unequivocally ... especially since the betrayal of his beautiful ex-lover, Maria. That philosophy had been applied to his working relationship with Stringfellow Hawke with a vengeance, social contact being kept to a bare minimum although without the coolness that characterized most of his professional relationships. At least, not on Michael's behalf. On Hawke's.... Well, Michael didn't consider fear of loss to be quite the same thing as a personal rejection.
This did permit a comfortably delusional status quo, but when quizzed by a curious Marella as to why he allowed the pilot to throw his weight around as he did, Michael had stated that it didn't matter -- he could 'persuade' Hawke's obedience better by giving him his head than by brute force and far more fully than the younger man must ever be allowed to suspect. Unstated and unacknowledged was the fact that there was something about the pilot that had touched him, reaching a section of his heart that he'd thought safely anesthetized. As a result, the carefully maintained stiffness between them had dwindled steadily over the past two years, thinning to what each might consider dangerously familiar levels.
Complicating things, even such a Company man as the Deputy Director of Operations for the Department of National Security, a.k.a., the Firm, was not totally immune to the degree of desperate grief the young man carried, nor could he ever forget that Hawke had saved his life several times over, most notably during the Fortune Teller incident, and again by pulling Michael out of East Germany despite having been injured himself in a stunt plane crash only the day before. My own people hung me out to dry both times, he reflected bitingly. Over the course of their association, Stringfellow Hawke's code of honor had reacted to Michael's to even evoke a type of reluctant friendship little though either would admit it, withstanding diametrically opposing points of view and based on a two-way trust that had been often shaken but never broken. Privately, Michael considered their rapport a liability, a strength, and a compliment, for Hawke offered trust rarely and only to those who met his high standards.
I had a brother once, too.
Michael scowled fiercely. Why had that thought intruded itself at this particular time? Stringfellow Hawke was nothing like Gary had been. Oh, on a few superficial levels, perhaps -- like Hawke, Gary had been born fair and slender, with an irritating degree of bullheaded stubbornness that seemed specially designed to get under Michael's skin. Beyond that, there was little that could be called up by way of similarity, and this was one comparison Michael had been extremely careful about not making in the past. So why now was Michael looking at Stringfellow Hawke and thinking about his brother, Gary, now lost to him for more than two decades?
Maybe because if it had been me lost for all those years like Saint John was, Gary wouldn't have given up on me, either. Maybe because we grieved our dead parents together, too. Maybe because of the way I still miss him after all this time. Maybe....
Despite his efforts, the emotional analogy to Gary Coldsmith-Briggs remained, the friendship he and Hawke shrilly denied, chipping at the carefully constructed detachment Michael had always maintained ... Needed! -- as Horn, or more likely, Zarkov, must have known it would, else why lock them together when it was common practice to isolate brainwashing subjects? Because they're studying us for reaction, intuition replied promptly. Michael had to admit the experiment was revealing -- he found he didn't like the idea of Hawke being mistreated again any more than he would have liked to see Gary hurt. He liked the fact that he cared at all even less. This was going to complicate matters badly. Blast!
He held his sleeve to his now barely bleeding nose, using the cover to study the huddled figure of his companion, striving to reinforce his intentions by peering past both facade and sorrow to the battle-tempered, combat soldier who was easily one of the most dangerous men Michael had ever met. He bit his lip, dismayed when all he could find instead was the crushed spirit of a grief stricken and vulnerable boy who had lived far too long in the shadow of loss. Shocked by the discovery and moved despite himself, Michael faltered, then surrendered to his first instinct and slid an arm around the young man, ignoring the blood that still seeped from Hawke's temple to further stain his once-white jacket. "It wasn't your fault," he murmured. "And you don't have to hold on, on my account. Let out the hurt, Stringfellow," he invited quietly, "so we can move on to survival."
The unexpected kindness was more than Hawke's already shredded composure could withstand. He shivered violently, new tears squeezing from between his tightly closed lids, and Michael tightened his hold, pulling the younger man closer. The hand that smoothed the disordered brown hair was gentle, Briggs' voice soothing and filled with compassion, and Hawke responded without volition as he had with only two other people in his life, by letting his control fade and the grief take him away.
Michael Coldsmith-Briggs III was a man with a heart, but he was above all -- by both training and nature -- a professional. So even as he offered what scant comfort was his to give in his touch, never far from his thoughts was the understanding that, should he have any hope of getting out of this situation in one piece, as well as preserve Airwolf and the lives she could wipe out of existence, he would need Stringfellow Hawke in control. This odd combination of friendship and practicality kicked his shrewd mind into gear on several levels. Unseen by the man he held, he compressed his lips, a decision made even before the rationale fully evolved. Whatever happened, Horn was not about to let them escape; it was even possible that, if Santini wasn't truly dead, Horn would continue to use Hawke's foster father against him in some way. And why subject the boy to more pain when anger would serve them both better? He knew the young man's anger as a fearsome force -- a firestorm that swept opponents away on a nova blast, possibly even a protection against the mental assault that was sure to come. Their lives may be forfeit -- Michael conceded that -- had accepted the possibilities of death long before. But perhaps everything need not be lost. Airwolf could still be safeguarded -- Airwolf and the lives that she could take should Horn gain control of the unstoppable gunship.
These thoughts flashed through one corner of Michael's mind, providing a welcome distraction from the sheer pain of the man in his arms. Hawke wept violently, unheeding and uncaring of who held him, blindly seeking some solace in the human contact he'd been denied most of his life. Michael didn't mind. For this moment alone he could permit sentiment to crowd out the pragmatic in his treacherous human heart, and believe himself more man than spy.
It was a long time later that Stringfellow Hawke's crying slowed, the fierce independence that comprised so much of his personality creeping slowly back. With it came the reserve that no one had been able to penetrate except Saint John Hawke, Gabrielle Adamure, and Dominic Santini himself. Eventually the golden-brown head rose, damp blue eyes regarding Michael blankly. They stared at each other for long seconds, then Hawke seemed to suddenly become aware that Michael was still holding him. His already flushed cheeks grew a touch redder and he pulled back self- consciously. "I'm sorry," he muttered, swiping his wet face on his sleeve.
Sensing the withdraw, Michael unlocked his arms from around the younger man's chest and back, although maintaining contact by leaving one hand on his shoulder. Normally he would have protected both their prides with an offhand comment, the pseudo-drollery of men who have exposed too much of their hearts. Normally, perhaps. But now he allowed the sympathy he felt to show through; the time for pretense would come all too soon enough. "Don't be sorry for caring, Hawke, or for grieving. I've done enough of both in my lifetime to understand."
But Hawke only shook his head, denying the grace he'd only a moment before clung to. "Dom's greatest fear was being confined in a small space like that. He was buried in a hole in North Korea. That's how they killed him -- his version of hell."
A horrible death indeed -- as bad for the one left behind, perhaps. "I know how much he meant to you," Michael said quietly. He was obliged to swallow heavily before he could add, "Dominic was a good man. He loved you very much." The words were trite in his own ears but all he had to offer.
"He wasn't just my friend. Dom's been the only father I had since I was about ten. Saint John's too. Without him...." His voice faltered again, and he stopped, staring abstractedly at the blood stains on Michael's jacket. "No one else wanted us. Without him, they would've separated us -- put us in an orphanage. And then when Saint John was gone...." He gulped, shivering again. "He didn't deserve to go out like that. They have to pay, Michael. They're going to die for what they did."
"They'll pay," the man called Archangel swore with absolute conviction, and no one who heard him would have doubted but that this was so. One way or the other, he'd see to that ... if he survived.
"No." Hawke clenched one burned fist and bowed his head again. "I have to do it. It was my fault they.... My fault."
"It wasn't your fault," the older man repeated, knowing he wasn't getting through but needing to try anyway. No more guilt, Stringfellow.
"Does it matter?" Blue eyes dully searched Michael's, the misery reflected there making the agent tighten his grip until his fingers sank into the lean muscles in what must have been a painful grip. "Dom's dead. They k- killed him."
"And they're about to kill us," Michael snapped back, regretting the phrase as soon as it was uttered, knowing it would drop a barrier between them.
With a muttered oath Stringfellow Hawke jerked himself free. He backed painfully to the wall, cradling both hands to his chest, turning his face away. "If only...."
Again Michael heard the wistful note and his blood ran cold. Every man has a breaking point, he thought grimly, and Horn found Hawke's. Dominic or his brother -- and thank goodness Saint John isn't here right now! Besides, he thought fatalistically, we're probably all dead anyway -- time to salvage what we can out of this.
He hiked himself to a more commanding height onto his right knee, his redamaged left one sending up flaming skyrockets in protest. He ignored it with the ease of long familiarity and gripped Hawke's no-longer-pristine- white sweater, turning the younger man a bit toward him. "Listen to me," he ordered grimly. "Hawke?" He waited until the blue eyes focused on him, allowing his own gaze to harden and actually happy to see the returning glare at the liberty; it was the first flash of Hawke's indomitable spirit he'd seen since they'd been locked in here. "I know you recognized Dr. Anastasia Zarkov. How much of what she did to you before do you remember?
Stringfellow Hawke blinked and a tear detached itself from his light lashes, catching on the fair hair shading his jaw. He angrily palmed it off. "M-most, I think. At least, what happened after...."
"After she convinced you your brother was back from Viet Nam," Michael supplied, tugging lightly at the white wool by way of emphasis. "By using an impostor."
Hawke's blue eyes narrowed. "What are you talking about? That was no impostor. That was Dom."
"Was it?" Michael released the other man's sweater and leaned closer, drawing on every erg of persuasive ability he'd honed to a fine point over those twenty-five years of undercover work. "As I recall, Anastasia Zarkov made you believe an enemy agent was Saint John. Your own brother. What makes you so sure she's not doing it now with your foster father?"
Visibly shaken, Hawke could only stare. "That ... that had to be Dominic." He glanced wildly around the room, then gulped in sudden memory. "His hand!"
"What about it?" Briggs asked coolly, deliberately forcing himself not to scrutinize too closely what he was about to do. Sometimes covert work stunk.
Hawke swallowed. "There was a scar ... right here." He ran one nail down the middle of his right palm, carefully not touching the raw skin. "Dom got that cut pulling Saint John out of his first bar fight." He swiped at his eyes again. "His hand was bandaged for over a week. He said it was from a broken bottle. It was Saint John's eighteenth birthday and ... and Dom was...." He trailed off, biting his lip hard, fighting for control, finishing in a small voice, "Dom is dead and that's something I'm going to have to live with ... until it's all over for good."
"You sound like a defeatist." Michael remarked cuttingly, not liking the despondent note. Looking forward to dying was not something he could ever fathom.
Hawke shook his head sadly. "No. A wishful thinker."
There was so much sorrow in his face that Michael was forced to look away briefly to refirm his resolve. He took a deep breath and composed himself; there must be no cracks in his poise. Hawke was highly intelligent, experienced with the dark side of espionage operations and perceptive enough to see through even a very good lie. He was tough and strong and might have made a good agent in his own right had his temperament been more adaptable to the field. Michael, however, was not just a very good agent -- Michael was the best there was. He steadied his voice into what he considered a confident tone. "There was no scar," he stated flatly, leaving no room for argument. "I was startled at first, but when I looked closer I could tell it wasn't even Dominic."
That garnered some attention, at any rate. Badly confused and hiding it poorly, Hawke regarded him suspiciously, as though wary of a trap he could sense but not yet see. "I don't understand."
Michael casually brushed at the blood -- Hawke's blood and his own -- staining his jacket, then deliberately raised his gaze to meet the desperate blue eyes. "What's not to understand? There was no scar and that wasn't Dominic. This is just one more example of Horn and Zarkov trying to manipulate you into giving up Airwolf."
The response to this was a deep sigh. "They manipulate, you manipulate," the pilot muttered bitterly, hunching his shoulders in a defensive withdrawal. "Isn't that standard operating procedure?"
That's why you'll never be in the business, Briggs pointed out silently. Straight-forward combat, yes, but espionage.... You'll never learn to see the bigger picture when it comes to using people. The necessity of giving up one man for the many. He paused, feeling the aching void in his stomach that had once held a conscience every bit as sensitive as this young man's, remembering that Hawke had had to make that choice fifteen long years ago when he'd given up his brother to save the lives of a dozen and more wounded in Viet Nam. But you never accepted it and you've been paying for it ever since. Just like I will ... if either of us make it out of here.
For Michael Coldsmith-Briggs, the larger picture did loom this day, giving him no options whatsoever save to play the hand dealt him with the weapons available. One of those weapons was Stringfellow Hawke. The pilot, Briggs knew, was loyal to a fault, and when he accepted you as a friend, he accepted a certain amount of trust too, deny it though he might. And there was trust between them, hard won and fragile, that had been built slowly and inexorably over two years' mutual interest in the restoration of Hawke's brother. Michael gathered that trust around him, knowing the younger man was in no condition to examine clearly the game they were playing. There was no fence; either Hawke believed him or he believed John Bradford Horn, a man who had already attempted to destroy him. You can't really trust either of us, Stringfellow, he thought with acerbic irony. But I'm not about to leave you a choice in the matter. It cost Michael one more tweak of his conscience to lay his trump card on the table. "Have I ever lied to you about something like this?"
He knew he'd succeeded when Hawke blinked at him, a hardness creeping in to mingle with the grief. He grabbed Michael's jacket, snagging his fingers in the white lapel and twisting. "Are you sure?" he demanded, his voice hoarse and intense. "Sure that wasn't Dom?"
Michael met that demanding gaze unflinchingly. He raised his right hand to Hawke's, covering it but not forcing it open, feeling the fresh blood from those badly seared palms. Once the shock wore off enough to let the pain seep through fully, Stringfellow Hawke was going to be in agony; he needed to convince him before then. "I'm sure."
They sat like that, face to face, for long seconds, and Michael all but held his breath while the other man considered his words. Then Hawke slowly unlocked his fingers, trailing them down the new scarlet stains on the older man's white clothes before letting his hand drop back to his own lap. He was still trembling, but Michael could see that at least his mind was working again, that razor sharp intellect engaging on the far edge of pain, considering this new angle for himself. "I-I remember what Zarkov did," he said more to himself than the other. "I remember the helicopter crash ... even though it was only a fake I remember it like it was real. Waking up in the hospital ... being told that-that you and Dom were ... dead."
The last word was inaudible; Michael didn't need to have it repeated. The flash of misery that crossed the bruised face was clear enough. "Do you remember the man they brought in? The one they said was your brother?"
Hawke nodded. "I believed them. When I saw Saint John ... the impostor, I was ... happy." He laughed bitterly. "I should have known better."
"What about her techniques?" Michael goaded, not letting the pilot forego his anger for depression. "Do you remember how she influenced you? How she blocked your real brother's image out of your mind?"
Hawke shook his head, his jaw tightening at the reminder. "I saw the tapes afterward. I remember drugs in an IV. There isn't anything else except that, when that man walked into the room, I really believed he was Saint John."
Michael settled more comfortably -- if that word applied to any part of his aching body -- against the wall by his friend's shoulder. Hawke looked like he needed the wall as a brace every bit as much as Michael did -- he was swaying slightly, his brow furrowed with the effort at remaining upright, and damp with the cold sweat of shock. Michael, however, carefully kept his distance -- was determined to deny any trace of emotional support save what he himself fashioned. Stay angry, Hawke, he implored silently, itching to offer any touch, any gesture, that would ease the other's pain and salve his own tormented conscience. But I can't. You have to stand on that anger and use it against Horn. It's the only weapon you've got left.
The damage to this already battered psyche would be doubled, Briggs knew, drawing on the psychology degree he'd earned a lifetime ago. The grief and hurt Hawke was internalizing were cancers that ate from the inside out, often scarring a man for the rest of his life. Michael had seen this happen a hundred times over, and regretted seeing it happen to the pilot again and again. Unfortunately, the consequences of letting Hawke fall apart now, no matter how cathartic the emotional release could be, were greater by far and much longer reaching. Those few moments of mourning Michael had been unable to forbid earlier were all there was to be. Abraham sacrificed his own son, Michael told himself sourly. Guess I can do the same to you, my friend. Aloud, he said, "I saw the pictures of Zarkov's man. He didn't look anything like Saint John."
Hawke bit his lip. "I couldn't tell. After Zarkov was through, I couldn't remember what my real brother looked like."
"But the memories weren't permanent."
Again that hesitation, then Hawke glanced at him cautiously as though admitting a crime. "They ... were. At least, for a long time. I would look at Saint John's picture ... and I'd see that impostor's face. I thought about Viet Nam and Mace and ... I'd see the other, too. Their faces all blurry and running together like a bad film." He leaned his head wearily against the wall, studying the single bulb high above their heads, but his fists were clenched, the knuckles white. "She took him away from me. Even inside. Right up until the minute I saw Saint John in the hospital, I ... couldn't even remember what my own brother looked like!"
"Because of Zarkov," Michael hammered home, cementing his point. "And Horn."
"Another lie." A muscle jumped in the other's lean jaw, his eyes blazing like sapphire. "They're going to pay." Michael watched warily as Stringfellow Hawke wiped blood off his face, his motion jerky as if moving hurt. He dragged himself first to his knees, then his feet, leaning heavily against the wall and favoring his recently broken ankle. He scanned the ceiling for the camera they both knew was there, as his eyes narrowed, fury deepening their color. "Horn!" he choked, opening and closing his hands; Michael could imagine Horn's throat inside them. There was predictably no answer from the industrialist captor, however, a fact which seemed to infuriate the pilot closer to full awareness. He slammed already swollen knuckles against the sterile white surface of the closed door, then swayed, wrapping one arm around his ribcage, the other hand flying to his temple. He took a shallow breath, gagging, then straightened, fury unabated. "Horn!" he called again. "Show yourself!"
"He's not--" Michael began, gaining his knees only with difficulty. Wasn't there any part of his body that didn't hurt?
But Hawke was unheeding of Briggs' hail. He turned, scanning the room wildly. Michael took one look at those mad eyes and felt a not-too- irrational desire to be elsewhere -- fast. Hawke seemed not to notice him at all; he limped past the still kneeling man to the wooden chair, sweeping it up and slamming it against the unresponsive door with all the power in his deceptively slim body. The chair literally reduced to splinters.
Reacting on instinct, the man code named Archangel forced his battered muscles to bring him upright, then threw up one arm, shielding his face from the rain of wood, and feeling slivers strike his protecting white jacket. He looked up again when Hawke fell to his knees, clutching his ribs, his face taking on a hint of gray. Briggs took a single step forward, nearly falling himself when his damaged knee refusing to hold him. He was close enough to reach for Hawke's shoulder, however, only to be shrugged angrily off when the pilot again struggled erect, eyes unseeing. "Horn!" he screamed again, louder, now attacking the door in a frenzy of rage, attempting to open it with his bare hands. Oblivious to pain, he beat at it with both fists, while Michael hung back, letting him expend his fury on the unresponsive and uncaring steel.
Finally, insanity-fueled energy rapidly waning and pain returning in force, Stringfellow Hawke slapped the door one last time and ceased his useless assault. He sagged weakly, leaning his forehead against the barely scratched, blood-stained surface, his breath coming in gasps, his whole posture a badge of frustrated defeat. Then and only then did Michael step forward. Moving cautiously so he wouldn't startle those lightning reflexes back into action, and praying he wouldn't likewise be reduced to splinters by the volatile young man, he stopped only inches away and rested both hands lightly on the slumped shoulders. He could feel Hawke shudder at his touch, although not strike out. "Save it," he admonished coolly. "We'll get our chance soon enough."
Stringfellow Hawke turned, chin coming up dangerously, and Michael adjusted his grip until he was holding the slightly shorter man by the upper arms, as much to keep himself on his feet ... Foot? His left leg still wasn't working any too well. ... as to support the pilot, who was swaying. If the parchment white skin was any indication, the younger man was hanging on to consciousness by sheer stubborn determination alone. Michael knew how he felt.
"They won't get me again like that," Hawke swore in a hard voice, full of hatred. He knuckled moisture off his cheeks and settled a fiery gaze on the door. "Never again. I'll kill them first."
Michael believed him and felt himself relax ever so slightly. This was what he'd worked for, for a furious Hawke was indeed a force to be reckoned with. As counterpoint to the relief, guilt gnawed in his gut, leaving a rancid taste in his mouth. Manipulation came so easily to him; he took a long hard look at the results of that manipulation, viewed a badly injured young man on the edge of grief-driven madness and murder, and saw it for the handiwork it was -- his own. Sickened, he looked away, wondering if even a modicum of what he'd told Hawke was the truth; he hoped it was. A dead impostor would be easier to live with than believing that that really had been Santini they'd watch suffocate. Let the dead bury their dead. He'd completed his job, however, and done all he could to safeguard Airwolf and the lives she could take in the wrong hands; the rest was up to Hawke. He darted a glance at his companion. And if I was going to trust my fate in anyone's hands, it would be yours, my friend. At his side, Hawke was erect and grim, but determined, anger flashing in his eyes. Michael wished he could work up some righteous anger himself; his was too diluted by fear to do the job properly.
***
Winded, Michael Coldsmith-Briggs remained where he'd fallen for several minutes, doubled up to relieve the pressure on his cramping abdomen. He took a deep breath, choking on the blood streaming from his nose down his throat. He was uncertain he could spare the energy it would cost him to roll onto his side, but as his only alternative was asphyxiation he made the attempt, barely managing the feat and not without generating a whole new arena of suffering in the rest of his body.
The pain was all consuming for several minutes, but Michael embraced it as a diversion, using it to banish the too-vivid scene of the atrocity he'd just witnessed. Dominic Santini could not have been considered a friend -- there were too many years of conflict between them, with Airwolf and even Hawke himself as the center of their dissention. Santini had not been shy about expressing his disapproval of the Firm, espionage in general, and Michael Briggs in particular, nor had he held back a single shot when facing Michael down in Hawke's behalf. But the old man's loyalty had proved him worthy of respect, and he'd always sided with Michael when he'd been needed most. Dominic hadn't deserved to die that way. And Hawke hadn't deserved to be hurt again. Not like that.
Everything went dim for a while but he concentrated hard, forcing his battered diaphragm to draw in enough oxygen to clear his head. In ... out ... in ... using the mere act of respiration as a focus to clear his mind. The pain was narrowing now, enough for him to pinpoint specific sources, most notably his head, stomach and left knee. He groaned but managed to bring up one hand to probe his face gingerly. Just as he thought -- broken nose. Not that it was the first time a plastic surgeon had been needed to restore his nose to perfection, but he didn't enjoy those sessions any more for their frequency. And he was going to have a black eye on top of it -- even as the flow slowed from his nostrils he could feel it begin to pool under his skin. Fortunately, it was on the left side of his face where the patch would cover most of the damage; his vision, at least, would remain unimpaired.
He moved his torso cautiously, relieved that the expected stab of bone grinding against bone did not come, nor could he feel that deep seated ache that in the past had heralded internal injuries. He counted that as a blessing. The guards had enjoyed their work -- those had not been love taps they'd delivered. Only his trained reflexes had allowed him to roll with the blows, preventing more serious injury than he'd sustained.
He rubbed his stomach ruefully, wishing he'd continued that weight lifting regimen he'd begun when he was twenty-one and more vain about his appearance. His muscles were not as solid as they'd been in his youth, but were not flabby either; they'd absorbed what he hadn't been able to avoid, protecting his organs from the worst of the impact. The worst, he told himself, not all. I'm going to sport bruises for weeks. Sit-ups are definitely in my future from now on. As for his knee.... That pain was a long time companion. He could only hope they hadn't damaged it beyond repair this time.
It took nearly five full minutes for his breathing to steady out and his head to clear; only then did he unfurl both arms and lift his head. "So much for an easy escape," he croaked, using his free hand to snatch up his glasses and perch them very cautiously on the bridge of his nose. I'd've really been annoyed if I'd lost them, he thought with sour humor. As if annoyed is all I'm going to have to worry about ... all poor Dominic had to worry about. Or Hawke.
Equilibrium finally reestablishing itself, he jacked himself up on one elbow, seeking the whereabouts of his companion, not that there was much area to search. Only a few feet from Briggs' left leg, Hawke lay sprawled on his back, eyes closed, face pale save for the purpling marks decorating the high cheekbones and jaw. Scarlet spattered his face and sweater, originating from another bruise to the right of one eye, and trickling backward to disappear into his light brown hair. Semi-conscious, he twitched weakly, obviously unable to do more.
He took a pretty bad beating, too, Michael thought with a degree of worry that surprised even him. Does Horn want an employee or a corpse? Maybe it was revenge he was after all along. His lips twisted. If so, he certainly got what he wanted. In spades.
Grunting with the effort, Michael dragged himself toward the supine form, his left leg from hip to ankle an aching, useless weight, the renewed pain in his chest warning him that maybe he had broken a rib or two, after all. He ignored it all, blocking out his own pain to take Hawke's smooth chin in his palm and tilt the younger man's face towards him, frowning when he saw a second swelling along one side of his jaw and the extent of the damage near his temple. His skin was a little cold, too -- incipient shock, perhaps. Sapphire was barely visible through the slitted lids, and Michael could sense the bleary scrutiny he was receiving in return. "Lie still," he told the pilot in what he hoped was a reassuring tone. "Let me see how badly you're injured before you try to move."
Surprisingly, Hawke obeyed the command, which worried Michael even further. Just how badly was he hurt, anyway? He released Hawke's chin and ran his fingers under the sweater and over the pilot's ribs, not liking the give he encountered on two of them, although thankfully he couldn't feel any rough edges. Cracked, maybe just more bruising. Hawke gave a choked sound at the touch, very much like a whimper, and brought a weak arm across his midsection as protest. Michael caught his wrist in a warning grip. "Let me finish," he ordered. He stopped then, remembering the grisly sizzling sound back in Horn's so-called lab, and turned Hawke's hand over, catching his breath at the sight of the charring across the palm. From what he could see, the burns had blistered almost instantly, the blisters giving way to the raw, bloody flesh beneath. A quick check showed the same to be true with the young man's other hand. Infection was certain, and Michael knew from past experience of his own that such wounds were agonizing in the extreme. Shock and concussion might be the least of their worries.
He next lifted the white sweater and t-shirt, pursing his lips at the marks decorating the lean abdomen. The guards had been a little more enthusiastic here than they had been with him, possibly because the frenzied pilot had been harder to subdue, more likely because Horn employed sadists who took pleasure in beating helpless men. Whatever the reason, Hawke was definitely concussed and might be bleeding internally; he couldn't tell. They both needed medical attention at any rate ... not that Michael foresaw a doctor in their immediate future. Whatever Horn had in store for them, this casual brutality was only a prelude. Much worse was yet to come.
Hawke's breathing was ragged but starting to even out a bit and, leaving a restraining hand lightly on his companion's shoulder, Briggs next scanned his surroundings. They were lying in a featureless white-tiled room devoid of windows or furniture save for one straight-backed wooden chair hardly designed for the comfort of 'guests.' There were no windows; the only visible entrance was the sliding door that fit snugly into the wall. By focusing all of his faculties he could make out the audible hum of voltage being channelled in that direction -- an electronic lock. Dimly he noted that, to Hawke with his superior hearing, it must be loud as a beehive ... provided he could hear anything beyond the echo of fists beating vainly against a metal sarcophagus. That, Michael could still hear all too clearly.
As if triggered by these wanderings, Hawke let out a shallow gasp and jerked up onto one arm, returning memory overcoming the undoubted pain of the beating he'd taken. Concussion meant nausea and this time was no exception. The pale skin went ashen, and Hawke gagged, his stomach, empty since the night before, trying its best to bring up what wasn't there. Michael, still too weak himself to be of any assistance, could only hold the man's head off the floor, and hope those probably-cracked, maybe-broken ribs didn't give.
It took a long time for the heaving to ease, leaving Hawke lying helplessly, trying to breathe shallowly and not succeeding. Briggs could imagine the kind of distress he was in, being nauseated on top of the beating; he felt that way himself. Finally, the blue eyes opened wide, regarding the far off ceiling with a blank stare.
Michael shifted until he was in the other's line of sight. "Hawke," he called softly, hesitantly touching the other's shoulder. When there was no immediate reaction to his beckon, Michael tightened his grip, giving the pilot a little shake. "Hawke, can you hear me? Stringfellow?" He thought a moment, then changed his tone, allowing it to grow gruffer, choosing words he'd once overheard an aging, overweight Italian use in the past. "String, don't do this to yourself, kid."
The reaction to that familiar voice came as expected. Hawke's breath caught in his throat, the name, "Dom...." emerging as a low sob.
Relieved at having broken through the numbed shock, Michael reassumed his own voice, despairing of finding anything to say that would help but compelled to try anyway. "Stringfellow, I'm sorry."
Hawke lifted himself slightly onto his elbow, not looking at Archangel but in his general direction. "He was alive, Michael," he managed in a low voice. "All this time Dom was alive and I didn't look for him. I didn't.... I didn't know...."
"You couldn't have known," Michael interrupted the stumbling words; more guilt was one thing Hawke didn't need to carry around. "There wasn't anything you could have done. Believe that."
"But I should have...." Hawke trailed off, one hand coming up to cover his face. He didn't need to finish the sentence; Briggs heard the unspoken words as plainly as if they'd been aloud. I should have traded them Airwolf for Dom.
Michael's gaze went cold, a frozen lump settling in the pit of his gut. "Don't even think about it," he snapped, giving the younger man a shake; he stopped at the short hiss of pain this elicited, and gentled his hold, offering support rather than reproach. He leaned closer, continuing in an intense voice, "If Horn gets Airwolf, you can write off that NATO installation, and that means Muhallah ends up with enough weapons to carry on their terrorist attacks for years. Think about it, not just soldiers but women and children. And that's just for a start!"
Hawke dropped his hand from his face, eyes brimming and containing a curious appeal, for what Michael didn't understand. Mercy? Forgiveness? A negation of the nightmare? "But Dom," he whispered.
Michael regarded his friend pityingly, grimacing at the anguish that radiated from him in waves. Over five years close association and many more spent cultivating the pilot into Firm material, Michael had seen Hawke upset before -- worried, angry, frantic -- the emotions slipping past the expressionless facade he wore like a second suit of clothes. This young man's core was steel, his passions so tightly channeled that they only added to his strength and determination, the duality combining to form this superb living weapon. Michael Briggs knew this -- understood the pilot's assets and weaknesses well -- and used them freely for his own purposes and the good of the country he served. Yet for all that, there wasn't one single instant that Michael had not been aware of the deep, soul eroding sorrow barely hidden behind those stony blue eyes, the aching loss that had stolen all joy from his heart and the smile from his lips.
"Listen, Hawke, I...." Michael trailed off, his single eye narrowing. He racked his astute mind for the proper line to take, carefully culling from the thousand stock declarations he could use so effectively. Michael's job and life often depended on his highly developed understanding of the human mind -- more intellectual than empathic and all the more effective because of it. Being able to read and manipulate emotions was Briggs' stock in trade, and this young man, for all the protective barriers he maintained, was an unsuspecting and all-too-frequent pawn in the larger games Michael played. No, not pawn -- knight. White knight. Honest, mercurial, and excruciatingly sensitive, the carefully submerged passions were the instruments Michael Coldsmith-Briggs played to wield the deadly, combat- ready soldier that was Stringfellow Hawke.
The phrases came to him even then. He could tell the younger man that his country needed him, that lives depended on him, that he, Michael, would die without his help ... any one of which would tap into the excessive guilt and responsibility that nourished themselves behind that mask. He could have his weapon even yet. He parted his lips ... then made the mistake of looking into those haunted blue eyes, and closed his mouth with a snap, self-disgust rising like bile in his throat. He couldn't do it. Not now -- not in the face of that much sheer misery. He ran a hand through his thick blond hair, cursing himself for the heart he'd never been able to successfully exorcize. Although he risked thousands of lives with the delay, he just couldn't bring himself to use a friend like this. ... Not yet.
Twenty-five years experience in what Hawke had once termed the "sewer" of espionage work had formed their own protective barriers around Briggs' emotions -- barriers that were routinely shredded these days. "You're objective or you're dead," was a truism he embraced unequivocally ... especially since the betrayal of his beautiful ex-lover, Maria. That philosophy had been applied to his working relationship with Stringfellow Hawke with a vengeance, social contact being kept to a bare minimum although without the coolness that characterized most of his professional relationships. At least, not on Michael's behalf. On Hawke's.... Well, Michael didn't consider fear of loss to be quite the same thing as a personal rejection.
This did permit a comfortably delusional status quo, but when quizzed by a curious Marella as to why he allowed the pilot to throw his weight around as he did, Michael had stated that it didn't matter -- he could 'persuade' Hawke's obedience better by giving him his head than by brute force and far more fully than the younger man must ever be allowed to suspect. Unstated and unacknowledged was the fact that there was something about the pilot that had touched him, reaching a section of his heart that he'd thought safely anesthetized. As a result, the carefully maintained stiffness between them had dwindled steadily over the past two years, thinning to what each might consider dangerously familiar levels.
Complicating things, even such a Company man as the Deputy Director of Operations for the Department of National Security, a.k.a., the Firm, was not totally immune to the degree of desperate grief the young man carried, nor could he ever forget that Hawke had saved his life several times over, most notably during the Fortune Teller incident, and again by pulling Michael out of East Germany despite having been injured himself in a stunt plane crash only the day before. My own people hung me out to dry both times, he reflected bitingly. Over the course of their association, Stringfellow Hawke's code of honor had reacted to Michael's to even evoke a type of reluctant friendship little though either would admit it, withstanding diametrically opposing points of view and based on a two-way trust that had been often shaken but never broken. Privately, Michael considered their rapport a liability, a strength, and a compliment, for Hawke offered trust rarely and only to those who met his high standards.
I had a brother once, too.
Michael scowled fiercely. Why had that thought intruded itself at this particular time? Stringfellow Hawke was nothing like Gary had been. Oh, on a few superficial levels, perhaps -- like Hawke, Gary had been born fair and slender, with an irritating degree of bullheaded stubbornness that seemed specially designed to get under Michael's skin. Beyond that, there was little that could be called up by way of similarity, and this was one comparison Michael had been extremely careful about not making in the past. So why now was Michael looking at Stringfellow Hawke and thinking about his brother, Gary, now lost to him for more than two decades?
Maybe because if it had been me lost for all those years like Saint John was, Gary wouldn't have given up on me, either. Maybe because we grieved our dead parents together, too. Maybe because of the way I still miss him after all this time. Maybe....
Despite his efforts, the emotional analogy to Gary Coldsmith-Briggs remained, the friendship he and Hawke shrilly denied, chipping at the carefully constructed detachment Michael had always maintained ... Needed! -- as Horn, or more likely, Zarkov, must have known it would, else why lock them together when it was common practice to isolate brainwashing subjects? Because they're studying us for reaction, intuition replied promptly. Michael had to admit the experiment was revealing -- he found he didn't like the idea of Hawke being mistreated again any more than he would have liked to see Gary hurt. He liked the fact that he cared at all even less. This was going to complicate matters badly. Blast!
He held his sleeve to his now barely bleeding nose, using the cover to study the huddled figure of his companion, striving to reinforce his intentions by peering past both facade and sorrow to the battle-tempered, combat soldier who was easily one of the most dangerous men Michael had ever met. He bit his lip, dismayed when all he could find instead was the crushed spirit of a grief stricken and vulnerable boy who had lived far too long in the shadow of loss. Shocked by the discovery and moved despite himself, Michael faltered, then surrendered to his first instinct and slid an arm around the young man, ignoring the blood that still seeped from Hawke's temple to further stain his once-white jacket. "It wasn't your fault," he murmured. "And you don't have to hold on, on my account. Let out the hurt, Stringfellow," he invited quietly, "so we can move on to survival."
The unexpected kindness was more than Hawke's already shredded composure could withstand. He shivered violently, new tears squeezing from between his tightly closed lids, and Michael tightened his hold, pulling the younger man closer. The hand that smoothed the disordered brown hair was gentle, Briggs' voice soothing and filled with compassion, and Hawke responded without volition as he had with only two other people in his life, by letting his control fade and the grief take him away.
Michael Coldsmith-Briggs III was a man with a heart, but he was above all -- by both training and nature -- a professional. So even as he offered what scant comfort was his to give in his touch, never far from his thoughts was the understanding that, should he have any hope of getting out of this situation in one piece, as well as preserve Airwolf and the lives she could wipe out of existence, he would need Stringfellow Hawke in control. This odd combination of friendship and practicality kicked his shrewd mind into gear on several levels. Unseen by the man he held, he compressed his lips, a decision made even before the rationale fully evolved. Whatever happened, Horn was not about to let them escape; it was even possible that, if Santini wasn't truly dead, Horn would continue to use Hawke's foster father against him in some way. And why subject the boy to more pain when anger would serve them both better? He knew the young man's anger as a fearsome force -- a firestorm that swept opponents away on a nova blast, possibly even a protection against the mental assault that was sure to come. Their lives may be forfeit -- Michael conceded that -- had accepted the possibilities of death long before. But perhaps everything need not be lost. Airwolf could still be safeguarded -- Airwolf and the lives that she could take should Horn gain control of the unstoppable gunship.
These thoughts flashed through one corner of Michael's mind, providing a welcome distraction from the sheer pain of the man in his arms. Hawke wept violently, unheeding and uncaring of who held him, blindly seeking some solace in the human contact he'd been denied most of his life. Michael didn't mind. For this moment alone he could permit sentiment to crowd out the pragmatic in his treacherous human heart, and believe himself more man than spy.
It was a long time later that Stringfellow Hawke's crying slowed, the fierce independence that comprised so much of his personality creeping slowly back. With it came the reserve that no one had been able to penetrate except Saint John Hawke, Gabrielle Adamure, and Dominic Santini himself. Eventually the golden-brown head rose, damp blue eyes regarding Michael blankly. They stared at each other for long seconds, then Hawke seemed to suddenly become aware that Michael was still holding him. His already flushed cheeks grew a touch redder and he pulled back self- consciously. "I'm sorry," he muttered, swiping his wet face on his sleeve.
Sensing the withdraw, Michael unlocked his arms from around the younger man's chest and back, although maintaining contact by leaving one hand on his shoulder. Normally he would have protected both their prides with an offhand comment, the pseudo-drollery of men who have exposed too much of their hearts. Normally, perhaps. But now he allowed the sympathy he felt to show through; the time for pretense would come all too soon enough. "Don't be sorry for caring, Hawke, or for grieving. I've done enough of both in my lifetime to understand."
But Hawke only shook his head, denying the grace he'd only a moment before clung to. "Dom's greatest fear was being confined in a small space like that. He was buried in a hole in North Korea. That's how they killed him -- his version of hell."
A horrible death indeed -- as bad for the one left behind, perhaps. "I know how much he meant to you," Michael said quietly. He was obliged to swallow heavily before he could add, "Dominic was a good man. He loved you very much." The words were trite in his own ears but all he had to offer.
"He wasn't just my friend. Dom's been the only father I had since I was about ten. Saint John's too. Without him...." His voice faltered again, and he stopped, staring abstractedly at the blood stains on Michael's jacket. "No one else wanted us. Without him, they would've separated us -- put us in an orphanage. And then when Saint John was gone...." He gulped, shivering again. "He didn't deserve to go out like that. They have to pay, Michael. They're going to die for what they did."
"They'll pay," the man called Archangel swore with absolute conviction, and no one who heard him would have doubted but that this was so. One way or the other, he'd see to that ... if he survived.
"No." Hawke clenched one burned fist and bowed his head again. "I have to do it. It was my fault they.... My fault."
"It wasn't your fault," the older man repeated, knowing he wasn't getting through but needing to try anyway. No more guilt, Stringfellow.
"Does it matter?" Blue eyes dully searched Michael's, the misery reflected there making the agent tighten his grip until his fingers sank into the lean muscles in what must have been a painful grip. "Dom's dead. They k- killed him."
"And they're about to kill us," Michael snapped back, regretting the phrase as soon as it was uttered, knowing it would drop a barrier between them.
With a muttered oath Stringfellow Hawke jerked himself free. He backed painfully to the wall, cradling both hands to his chest, turning his face away. "If only...."
Again Michael heard the wistful note and his blood ran cold. Every man has a breaking point, he thought grimly, and Horn found Hawke's. Dominic or his brother -- and thank goodness Saint John isn't here right now! Besides, he thought fatalistically, we're probably all dead anyway -- time to salvage what we can out of this.
He hiked himself to a more commanding height onto his right knee, his redamaged left one sending up flaming skyrockets in protest. He ignored it with the ease of long familiarity and gripped Hawke's no-longer-pristine- white sweater, turning the younger man a bit toward him. "Listen to me," he ordered grimly. "Hawke?" He waited until the blue eyes focused on him, allowing his own gaze to harden and actually happy to see the returning glare at the liberty; it was the first flash of Hawke's indomitable spirit he'd seen since they'd been locked in here. "I know you recognized Dr. Anastasia Zarkov. How much of what she did to you before do you remember?
Stringfellow Hawke blinked and a tear detached itself from his light lashes, catching on the fair hair shading his jaw. He angrily palmed it off. "M-most, I think. At least, what happened after...."
"After she convinced you your brother was back from Viet Nam," Michael supplied, tugging lightly at the white wool by way of emphasis. "By using an impostor."
Hawke's blue eyes narrowed. "What are you talking about? That was no impostor. That was Dom."
"Was it?" Michael released the other man's sweater and leaned closer, drawing on every erg of persuasive ability he'd honed to a fine point over those twenty-five years of undercover work. "As I recall, Anastasia Zarkov made you believe an enemy agent was Saint John. Your own brother. What makes you so sure she's not doing it now with your foster father?"
Visibly shaken, Hawke could only stare. "That ... that had to be Dominic." He glanced wildly around the room, then gulped in sudden memory. "His hand!"
"What about it?" Briggs asked coolly, deliberately forcing himself not to scrutinize too closely what he was about to do. Sometimes covert work stunk.
Hawke swallowed. "There was a scar ... right here." He ran one nail down the middle of his right palm, carefully not touching the raw skin. "Dom got that cut pulling Saint John out of his first bar fight." He swiped at his eyes again. "His hand was bandaged for over a week. He said it was from a broken bottle. It was Saint John's eighteenth birthday and ... and Dom was...." He trailed off, biting his lip hard, fighting for control, finishing in a small voice, "Dom is dead and that's something I'm going to have to live with ... until it's all over for good."
"You sound like a defeatist." Michael remarked cuttingly, not liking the despondent note. Looking forward to dying was not something he could ever fathom.
Hawke shook his head sadly. "No. A wishful thinker."
There was so much sorrow in his face that Michael was forced to look away briefly to refirm his resolve. He took a deep breath and composed himself; there must be no cracks in his poise. Hawke was highly intelligent, experienced with the dark side of espionage operations and perceptive enough to see through even a very good lie. He was tough and strong and might have made a good agent in his own right had his temperament been more adaptable to the field. Michael, however, was not just a very good agent -- Michael was the best there was. He steadied his voice into what he considered a confident tone. "There was no scar," he stated flatly, leaving no room for argument. "I was startled at first, but when I looked closer I could tell it wasn't even Dominic."
That garnered some attention, at any rate. Badly confused and hiding it poorly, Hawke regarded him suspiciously, as though wary of a trap he could sense but not yet see. "I don't understand."
Michael casually brushed at the blood -- Hawke's blood and his own -- staining his jacket, then deliberately raised his gaze to meet the desperate blue eyes. "What's not to understand? There was no scar and that wasn't Dominic. This is just one more example of Horn and Zarkov trying to manipulate you into giving up Airwolf."
The response to this was a deep sigh. "They manipulate, you manipulate," the pilot muttered bitterly, hunching his shoulders in a defensive withdrawal. "Isn't that standard operating procedure?"
That's why you'll never be in the business, Briggs pointed out silently. Straight-forward combat, yes, but espionage.... You'll never learn to see the bigger picture when it comes to using people. The necessity of giving up one man for the many. He paused, feeling the aching void in his stomach that had once held a conscience every bit as sensitive as this young man's, remembering that Hawke had had to make that choice fifteen long years ago when he'd given up his brother to save the lives of a dozen and more wounded in Viet Nam. But you never accepted it and you've been paying for it ever since. Just like I will ... if either of us make it out of here.
For Michael Coldsmith-Briggs, the larger picture did loom this day, giving him no options whatsoever save to play the hand dealt him with the weapons available. One of those weapons was Stringfellow Hawke. The pilot, Briggs knew, was loyal to a fault, and when he accepted you as a friend, he accepted a certain amount of trust too, deny it though he might. And there was trust between them, hard won and fragile, that had been built slowly and inexorably over two years' mutual interest in the restoration of Hawke's brother. Michael gathered that trust around him, knowing the younger man was in no condition to examine clearly the game they were playing. There was no fence; either Hawke believed him or he believed John Bradford Horn, a man who had already attempted to destroy him. You can't really trust either of us, Stringfellow, he thought with acerbic irony. But I'm not about to leave you a choice in the matter. It cost Michael one more tweak of his conscience to lay his trump card on the table. "Have I ever lied to you about something like this?"
He knew he'd succeeded when Hawke blinked at him, a hardness creeping in to mingle with the grief. He grabbed Michael's jacket, snagging his fingers in the white lapel and twisting. "Are you sure?" he demanded, his voice hoarse and intense. "Sure that wasn't Dom?"
Michael met that demanding gaze unflinchingly. He raised his right hand to Hawke's, covering it but not forcing it open, feeling the fresh blood from those badly seared palms. Once the shock wore off enough to let the pain seep through fully, Stringfellow Hawke was going to be in agony; he needed to convince him before then. "I'm sure."
They sat like that, face to face, for long seconds, and Michael all but held his breath while the other man considered his words. Then Hawke slowly unlocked his fingers, trailing them down the new scarlet stains on the older man's white clothes before letting his hand drop back to his own lap. He was still trembling, but Michael could see that at least his mind was working again, that razor sharp intellect engaging on the far edge of pain, considering this new angle for himself. "I-I remember what Zarkov did," he said more to himself than the other. "I remember the helicopter crash ... even though it was only a fake I remember it like it was real. Waking up in the hospital ... being told that-that you and Dom were ... dead."
The last word was inaudible; Michael didn't need to have it repeated. The flash of misery that crossed the bruised face was clear enough. "Do you remember the man they brought in? The one they said was your brother?"
Hawke nodded. "I believed them. When I saw Saint John ... the impostor, I was ... happy." He laughed bitterly. "I should have known better."
"What about her techniques?" Michael goaded, not letting the pilot forego his anger for depression. "Do you remember how she influenced you? How she blocked your real brother's image out of your mind?"
Hawke shook his head, his jaw tightening at the reminder. "I saw the tapes afterward. I remember drugs in an IV. There isn't anything else except that, when that man walked into the room, I really believed he was Saint John."
Michael settled more comfortably -- if that word applied to any part of his aching body -- against the wall by his friend's shoulder. Hawke looked like he needed the wall as a brace every bit as much as Michael did -- he was swaying slightly, his brow furrowed with the effort at remaining upright, and damp with the cold sweat of shock. Michael, however, carefully kept his distance -- was determined to deny any trace of emotional support save what he himself fashioned. Stay angry, Hawke, he implored silently, itching to offer any touch, any gesture, that would ease the other's pain and salve his own tormented conscience. But I can't. You have to stand on that anger and use it against Horn. It's the only weapon you've got left.
The damage to this already battered psyche would be doubled, Briggs knew, drawing on the psychology degree he'd earned a lifetime ago. The grief and hurt Hawke was internalizing were cancers that ate from the inside out, often scarring a man for the rest of his life. Michael had seen this happen a hundred times over, and regretted seeing it happen to the pilot again and again. Unfortunately, the consequences of letting Hawke fall apart now, no matter how cathartic the emotional release could be, were greater by far and much longer reaching. Those few moments of mourning Michael had been unable to forbid earlier were all there was to be. Abraham sacrificed his own son, Michael told himself sourly. Guess I can do the same to you, my friend. Aloud, he said, "I saw the pictures of Zarkov's man. He didn't look anything like Saint John."
Hawke bit his lip. "I couldn't tell. After Zarkov was through, I couldn't remember what my real brother looked like."
"But the memories weren't permanent."
Again that hesitation, then Hawke glanced at him cautiously as though admitting a crime. "They ... were. At least, for a long time. I would look at Saint John's picture ... and I'd see that impostor's face. I thought about Viet Nam and Mace and ... I'd see the other, too. Their faces all blurry and running together like a bad film." He leaned his head wearily against the wall, studying the single bulb high above their heads, but his fists were clenched, the knuckles white. "She took him away from me. Even inside. Right up until the minute I saw Saint John in the hospital, I ... couldn't even remember what my own brother looked like!"
"Because of Zarkov," Michael hammered home, cementing his point. "And Horn."
"Another lie." A muscle jumped in the other's lean jaw, his eyes blazing like sapphire. "They're going to pay." Michael watched warily as Stringfellow Hawke wiped blood off his face, his motion jerky as if moving hurt. He dragged himself first to his knees, then his feet, leaning heavily against the wall and favoring his recently broken ankle. He scanned the ceiling for the camera they both knew was there, as his eyes narrowed, fury deepening their color. "Horn!" he choked, opening and closing his hands; Michael could imagine Horn's throat inside them. There was predictably no answer from the industrialist captor, however, a fact which seemed to infuriate the pilot closer to full awareness. He slammed already swollen knuckles against the sterile white surface of the closed door, then swayed, wrapping one arm around his ribcage, the other hand flying to his temple. He took a shallow breath, gagging, then straightened, fury unabated. "Horn!" he called again. "Show yourself!"
"He's not--" Michael began, gaining his knees only with difficulty. Wasn't there any part of his body that didn't hurt?
But Hawke was unheeding of Briggs' hail. He turned, scanning the room wildly. Michael took one look at those mad eyes and felt a not-too- irrational desire to be elsewhere -- fast. Hawke seemed not to notice him at all; he limped past the still kneeling man to the wooden chair, sweeping it up and slamming it against the unresponsive door with all the power in his deceptively slim body. The chair literally reduced to splinters.
Reacting on instinct, the man code named Archangel forced his battered muscles to bring him upright, then threw up one arm, shielding his face from the rain of wood, and feeling slivers strike his protecting white jacket. He looked up again when Hawke fell to his knees, clutching his ribs, his face taking on a hint of gray. Briggs took a single step forward, nearly falling himself when his damaged knee refusing to hold him. He was close enough to reach for Hawke's shoulder, however, only to be shrugged angrily off when the pilot again struggled erect, eyes unseeing. "Horn!" he screamed again, louder, now attacking the door in a frenzy of rage, attempting to open it with his bare hands. Oblivious to pain, he beat at it with both fists, while Michael hung back, letting him expend his fury on the unresponsive and uncaring steel.
Finally, insanity-fueled energy rapidly waning and pain returning in force, Stringfellow Hawke slapped the door one last time and ceased his useless assault. He sagged weakly, leaning his forehead against the barely scratched, blood-stained surface, his breath coming in gasps, his whole posture a badge of frustrated defeat. Then and only then did Michael step forward. Moving cautiously so he wouldn't startle those lightning reflexes back into action, and praying he wouldn't likewise be reduced to splinters by the volatile young man, he stopped only inches away and rested both hands lightly on the slumped shoulders. He could feel Hawke shudder at his touch, although not strike out. "Save it," he admonished coolly. "We'll get our chance soon enough."
Stringfellow Hawke turned, chin coming up dangerously, and Michael adjusted his grip until he was holding the slightly shorter man by the upper arms, as much to keep himself on his feet ... Foot? His left leg still wasn't working any too well. ... as to support the pilot, who was swaying. If the parchment white skin was any indication, the younger man was hanging on to consciousness by sheer stubborn determination alone. Michael knew how he felt.
"They won't get me again like that," Hawke swore in a hard voice, full of hatred. He knuckled moisture off his cheeks and settled a fiery gaze on the door. "Never again. I'll kill them first."
Michael believed him and felt himself relax ever so slightly. This was what he'd worked for, for a furious Hawke was indeed a force to be reckoned with. As counterpoint to the relief, guilt gnawed in his gut, leaving a rancid taste in his mouth. Manipulation came so easily to him; he took a long hard look at the results of that manipulation, viewed a badly injured young man on the edge of grief-driven madness and murder, and saw it for the handiwork it was -- his own. Sickened, he looked away, wondering if even a modicum of what he'd told Hawke was the truth; he hoped it was. A dead impostor would be easier to live with than believing that that really had been Santini they'd watch suffocate. Let the dead bury their dead. He'd completed his job, however, and done all he could to safeguard Airwolf and the lives she could take in the wrong hands; the rest was up to Hawke. He darted a glance at his companion. And if I was going to trust my fate in anyone's hands, it would be yours, my friend. At his side, Hawke was erect and grim, but determined, anger flashing in his eyes. Michael wished he could work up some righteous anger himself; his was too diluted by fear to do the job properly.
***