Even without an ongoing war, Los Angeles International Airport was a
veritable whirlwind of motion as befit one of the busiest airports on the
surface of the planet. The impression of hyperactivity was only heightened
by the pace at which the travelers pursued their goals, each individual in
a continual rush as though to slow down was to lose out forever. There
were no dodderers in this crowd; men with briefcases dodged women with
strollers, suitcases and garment bags swinging like mad pendulums in their
collective grasp.
Amid this bedlam Pamela Billingsley stood like a shining beacon of composure, even her cool beauty attracting little attention from the distracted crowd. Dressed in a flight attendant's uniform and armed with a United Air employee's identification, Pamela stood quietly by the exit ramp the passengers of Flight 1067 from New York would use to enter the terminal. For the first and only time she checked herself in the reflective surface of the glass wall opposite; a small smile lifted her lips at the sight. Make up, hair, clothes -- all perfect as usual, although she had to admit to herself that she missed the distinctive white garb that had distinguished her as one of Michael's "Angels" for the past five years. Her chestnut hair was styled softly today, hanging loose to frame her square jawed face, her figure shown off to perfection by the specially tailored uniform. She was ready and she was certainly able. Morris wouldn't stand a chance!
Sharp hazel eyes scanned the crowd from her position against the wall, analyzing and evaluating every face she saw in a single flash. To her right, a mother stood surrounded by five whining children, admonishing them briefly before the entourage continued its trek to the next gate; even from down the corridor, Pamela could hear them screaming over the loudspeaker. Two Hari Krishnas in loose robes worked the crowd to her left, distributing pamphlets and soliciting funds. Businessmen and women, flight crews, Red Caps.... It was a pretty motley collection, she decided, but so far as she could perceive, not an enemy agent among them.
Flight 1067 was announced, snapping her around. She pulled several papers out of her pocket, holding them aloft and facing the door, alert for her target. Her cover was pre-set, background established with the airport administrator and indistinguishable from that of the other employees. Morris' dossier said he was a womanizer with a hefty libido and little self- control -- she could certainly cater to that! All she needed was an excuse -- one small excuse to meet the man, and nature should take its course. Unless, of course, Morris was secretly gay, and that had only happened once in her career. How her fellow agents had laughed about that!
Two attendants, one male, one female, busied themselves with the ramp, and moments later travelers were debarking in a stream like cattle through a chute. From her position, Pamela had no trouble spotting her target when he appeared. He was a full head taller than his traveling companions and burlier than his photos had indicated, a broad-shouldered, middle-aged black male with close cropped hair and a full beard. Pamela glanced once at the animalistic look in his hard eyes and reached her conclusion: a brute of a man but cunning -- perhaps the most dangerous of combinations, but also the most vulnerable to the type of offensive she was planning.
As people began to mill, she painted on her most plastic smile and initiated her strategy. "Mr. Mason?" she inquired of the first male she encountered, a portly businessman who gaped stupidly up at her. "I'm looking for Mr. Mason."
She'd hailed the third group before he heard her. Eyes so dark as to appear black, narrowed suspiciously at her use of his pseudonym, the broad shoulders stiffening as though the man was trying to decide whether or not to bolt. Pamela's smile widened as she met his eyes; she injected a note of lustful appreciation as she looked him up and down, having to fight a hefty dose of repugnance to achieve even a bit of sincerity. "Excuse me, are you Mr. Mason?"
The smile did it; Morris unbent enough to scrutinize her in return. "Why?" he volleyed, not yet ready to drop his guard.
Taking acknowledgment as a given, she turned her papers around so he could see them. "Hi! I'm Pamela! From Flyers Assistance?" She pointed pertly to her prestamped nametag. "I just had a question about your luggage. One of the name tags fell off and we wanted to make sure you got everything back."
So innocuous a reason relaxed the big man slightly although there was now a crafty awareness in his expression that set off subliminal alarms Pamela was at a loss to interpret. Simple caution? She hoped so. But since she'd taken care of all arrangements personally so that there was no possibility of a leak, how could it be anything else? Small, piglike eyes continued to scrutinize her figure with less than gentlemanly grace. Pamela tossed her head prettily, not a hint of offence marring her beautiful features. "If you'll walk this way?" She paused, waiting for the expected,
"Darlin', I wish I could, but with the way you move that little butt of yours, I don't think I can."
Pamela forced a giggle at the crudity, her hips swinging gently as she led him to the far side of the gate, where two small bags were just being delivered by a male attendant. Again Morris glanced around but, upon spying nothing untoward, relaxed completely and crouched to examine the luggage. "There ain't no tags on this one," he exclaimed as though he'd just discovered a new continent. He fingered a piece of broken elastic adorning the handle; Pamela knew that strap -- she'd broken it herself not ten minutes earlier.
She stooped next to him, the maneuver revealing a great deal of shapely leg. "But there is a tag on this one," she commented, pointing to a nylon carryall. "That's why we paged you. They are a set, aren't they?"
Morris dutifully studied the bag, nodding. "They're both mine."
"Good!" Pamela smiled and rose, accepting the beefy hand offered her and allowing the big man to help her up. "No harm done. We even saved you a trip to baggage claim! Efficiency, right?"
Rather than releasing her hand, Morris squeezed it, using the grip to pull the woman closer. "I like efficiency," he hinted. "Makes a stranger in town feel real welcome."
"Are you really a stranger?" Hazel eyes grew wide. "I hope you'll be meeting friends or family here. Or maybe even ... a wife?"
Morris shook his head. "All alone, Baby."
No kidding, Pamela thought, tasting something nasty in the back of her mouth. Nevertheless, her smile grew seductive, her fingers caressing his in a coy little gesture. "Maybe not completely alone ... if you play your cards right."
***
It was near morning by Stringfellow Hawke's estimate when the door buzzed then slid open, waking him out of the numbed half-aware state he'd sunken into some hours before even despite the vitriol that threaded his nervous system from his burned hands. The guards thundered into the cell, their heavy footsteps turning the throbbing behind his eyes into a veritable Fourth of July. Three men bracketed the door, rifles held at ready as though expecting the prisoners to stage a full-scale Attica uprising. We would if we could, Hawke warranted, feeling Michael stiffen at his side. Both of us would ... if we could. No matter how badly we hurt. He shivered against the chill that had been with him all night, and leaned his head back against the wall to stare at the newcomers, blinking to focus stubbornly bleary vision. The guards stared impassively back, as moved by his scowl as they would have been by an insect on the floor.
There was another clatter of heels on tile, slower this time -- the firm tread of a man in control -- and John Bradford Horn's debonair frame filled the entrance. He was dressed impeccably as always, today in a tan suit jacket over brown pants, his brown oxfords so highly polished that they reflected the ceiling lights almost as a glare. He ambled into the room, taking up a stance only feet from the seated men and offering them an affable smile. "Good morning, gentlemen!" he boomed with good-humor. "I hope you slept well?"
"How could we not?" Michael returned dryly, adjusting his glasses with one hand, "considering the Five Star accommodations we were given?" The levity lacked the bite Michael was capable of delivering under even the most adverse conditions, and String cast him a quick glance, wondering if he were injured more badly than he'd declared the previous night. He certainly looked every bit as wretched as Hawke felt, his posture slightly hunched to protect his belly, his nose swollen and sore looking. The single blue eye was shadowed too, dark with the knowledge of what was to come.
"I doubt they slept at all," Anastasia Zarkov remarked from a step behind Horn. Unlike her host, she was dressed casually in green slacks and shirt, a wrinkled lab coat tossed carelessly over her shoulders. "Expectation is even more potent a stimulant than amphetamines, and just as fatiguing." She studied Hawke closely, bright brown eyes sweeping him from head to foot, and he had to struggle not to shrink away; he recalled all too well the last time those beautiful eyes had been turned on him in pseudo- kindness. "I think he's still in shock, John. Perhaps I should dress his hands before we continue."
"Allow me my surprise first, Anastasia!" the industrialist admonished heartily, slipping an arm around her shoulders. "I bring you good news, gentlemen! It seems as though we might all have been a bit premature yesterday. Mr. Santini has not succumbed to his injuries after all!" He settled his benign gaze on Hawke, who was glaring back narrow-eyed and wishing for a single moment's break in the guards' attention. Just long enough for me to reach your neck, he wished grimly, the reflexive twitching in his fingers sending his hands into spasms. Unaware of these yearnings -- or perhaps simply uncaring -- Horn went on, "It seems I can offer you a chance at a fair trade after all, Mr. Hawke! Airwolf for Santini! How's that for a bargain?"
He blanked momentarily when Hawke told him precisely what he could do with his bargain, the surprise the first crack in that urbane facade. Hawke felt a touch of satisfaction at that, that wasn't erased when Horn leaned forward, hands on his hips, expression hardening. "Perhaps you didn't understand, boy. I said, your foster father ..." He emphasized the title. "... is still alive."
"He's been dead three months," Hawke spat back, resenting the appellation from this man. He disregarded the weapons pointed in his direction to climb awkwardly to his feet, then wobbled back against the wall, balancing his weight on his right ankle when his left threatened to give 'way. "He's dead just like you're going to be as soon as I get my chance." And he would get his chance, this he knew, for Saint John's miraculous return had restored his belief that there was some form of justice in the universe, some repayment for faith. He just hoped he would be in condition to take advantage of it when it came. Every inch of his body ached from two rather thorough beatings, the flame in his hands washing over him in waves to mix with the throbbing that radiated downward from his head to his rebellious and fortunately empty stomach. He could tell that Zarkov's diagnosis of shock was correct -- everything seemed to be happening at a distance and to another man, as though he were spectator rather than participant. He shivered, then tried to block out his discomfort, finding his condition ignorable to a large degree. It wasn't hard; he'd been hurt before and far worse by experts. No, the physical pain he suffered was no more than an inconvenience compared to the knife twisting his heart.
"Not dead yet," Horn was warning in a dangerous voice as though he could really carry out his threat; fortunately, Hawke knew better.
... Didn't he? Hawke caught his breath, another shiver running through him as he considered the possibility just once that maybe this wasn't a lie -- maybe Dom really was...? His jaw clenched with the effort of forcing away the visions of the day before. Too many people had played with his head over the past two years -- he couldn't trust what he'd seen. He had to believe what Michael said -- he had no choice. Michael would lie about a lot of things, he thought, swallowing hard, but he never lied to me about Saint John and that means he wouldn't lie to me about Dom. In that simple statement mingled a small amount of comfort with a staggering relief. This was one unwinnable decision he didn't have to make, one loss he wouldn't have to chalk up to his own unpayable account. One ghost he wouldn't have to carry for the rest of his life, although Dom's death would forever haunt him. But not like it was with Saint John. I would rather be dead myself than live with any more guilt like that.
"I could kill him right now and simply go on with my original plan." the industrialist added, unaware of the pilot's train of thought.
Hawke managed a cold laugh at the man's audacity, although he admitted frankly that without Michael's warning, he might have fallen for the threat. Once but not now. Thank you, Michael. "Pretty hard to kill a three-month-old corpse, isn't it?" he asked derisively, managing not to wince at the imagery. "You goin' in for séances these days?"
From his position on the pilot's left, Michael cleared his throat. He too was now standing although slightly hunched, one hand pressed against his abdomen. "Uh, Hawke, maybe...." When String glanced at him questioningly, he hesitated and shut his mouth with an audible snap. "Face it, Horn," he addressed the industrialist instead, "your little games aren't going to work this time. We're both older and wiser."
Arctic eyes flicked to Michael then dismissed him as business to be handled at another time. Horn took a deep breath, back on balance. "We'll do this the hard way then," he said, making a great show of smoothing his tan suit. "The way that worked before."
"You will pay for this."
"Threats, Archangel?" Horn asked, turning inquiringly towards the speaker. "I had thought you a man above such petty fantasies."
Michael stepped forward, limping on his bad leg but looking as dangerous as a hunting snow tiger nonetheless. He stopped when the rifles swiveled menacingly in his direction, unafraid but coldly calculating. "No fantasy. You can take that as a simple statement of fact."
Blue eye clashed with blue, challenge, parry and riposte exchanged with the flick of a lash. Hawke watched them from where he stood, too filled with bitterness himself even to be impressed by the white-suited agent's show of strength. Time held ... then something incorporeal passed between the antagonists and they both subtly relaxed, the dual over. "Worried about your friend, Archangel?" Horn asked, not looking completely pleased by what had just transpired. "Don't. You'll be joining him soon." He smiled, showing his teeth shark-like. "After all, Airwolf isn't the only thing I'm after. I'm sure, once you're properly persuaded, you'll be only too happy to offer whatever assistance I require. Such as the restoration of my Swiss bank accounts?"
Zarkov smiled charmingly, and Hawke could only wonder how a woman who could exude such maternal warmth could possess the heart of an asp. "I studied your files, too, Mr. Coldsmith-Briggs. You should be an interesting subject, perhaps even less difficult than our young man, here. The East Germans succeeded in brainwashing you once; an Irish terrorist broke you for information on another occasion. The cracks already left in your psyche could be all I need."
Horn jerked his head contemptuously at Hawke, who tensed. "Take him." While one soldier kept Briggs covered, his two colleagues strode forward, grabbing Hawke by both arms and locking his wrists behind his back. The pain in his hands and head nearly brought back a return of the blackness that had claimed him periodically over the long night hours, and he was tempted to give in to it, for any respite from the misery would have been welcome. But inside his breast Stringfellow Hawke nursed a gnawing hunger for revenge, sheer stubbornness keeping him alert for any opportunity to take it.
"You won't get either one of us," Hawke growled, his vision returning as he was dragged physically out of the room.
Michael's soft encouragement of, "Hold on, Stringfellow," was the last thing he heard before the door slid shut.
Twisting and kicking in the guards' grasp, the pilot was hauled unceremoniously back through a long corridor that his pilot's sense of direction told him led under the large building and to the north; obviously, the estate sprawled. Overhead the sound of boots could be heard, muffled by the heavy timbers but moving in disrhythm; Hawke guessed that to be the section dedicated to the troops' barracks. A right hand bend put them in an eastern section which contained only two doors, one of the normal glassed-in variety, the other a sliding security panel, both separated by a wide gap. Through the first a face peered, that of a child -- a little girl of about eight. Dark curls framed a heart-shaped face, and large brown eyes desperately met Hawke's own. No more than seconds later, the child was wrenched backward toward what appeared to be a medical lab, and Hawke was pulled several yards farther on.
Aghast at the possibilities inherent in that single, brief contact, Hawke turned horrified eyes to Zarkov's amused ones. "You're experimenting on children?" he blurted, all thoughts of revenge momentarily erased; nevertheless, the guards tightened their restraining hold on Hawke's arms nearly to the breaking point. Bowed backward, his lips tightened although he made no further reaction to the pain than that.
Seeing this, Zarkov stepped closer. Not overly tall in her low heels, she had to stand on tip-toe until she could look directly into his eyes. She studied his face silently for several seconds then smiled and ran a painted nail gently down his cheek. "Children like you, my love," she said in so caressing a voice that an outsider might have been excused for thinking her a mother soothing a favored son. She laughed as Hawke jerked away from her touch. "Fragile young children like you."
Horn was less amused. His handsome face flushed, small veins standing out in his forehead. He glared at one of the guards holding Hawke. "I left orders that the child was to be kept out of sight."
"The techs had to run a security check on her cell," the stockier of the two explained, not letting go his own responsibility. "She was only supposed to be here a few minutes."
Dr. Zarkov dropped her hand onto her hip, spinning in place to face the millionaire industrialist. "It is not a problem that our dear Stringfellow has seen the girl," she assured him in her accented English. "I can promise you that in a few hours he won't remember his own name, much less sweet Amy's." She glanced over her shoulder, this time ignoring Hawke altogether. "Bring him inside. We're ready to begin."
Like the first, this room proved to be set up as some sort of laboratory, although different from little Amy's temporary cell. A small bank of equipment was neatly arranged against the far wall before which sat a padded gurney outfitted with restraint straps. The right side was dominated by a large mirror -- undoubtedly one-way glass. Hawke couldn't suppress a shudder as he was fastened down, secured by the wrists and ankles. "You won't get me this time," he gritted, a bare tremor in his voice. "Not this time."
"Won't we, my darling?" Zarkov stared down at him from one side of the gurney, Horn peeking interestedly over her shoulder. She rested her hand on Hawke's chest, giving him a pat. "I'm familiar with the inorganic hallucinogenic-opiate analogs John used on you a year ago. Follow-up analysis revealed that they tend to remain in the tissues for quite some time, up to three or four years, in point of fact. Since your body has carried them for two, the cumulative effects of a second dose should increase your susceptibility to my own brand of suggestion several times over." She brushed his hair back, and Hawke couldn't resist feeling a thrill of fear at her clinical attitude. "My theory is that these drugs used under the modified delusional pattern induced by my original conditioning attempt, can be reactivated in tandem, the ... How do you say in English? ... imprints already made in your brain brought forward until your reactions to stimuli can be predicted and controlled with maximum accuracy." She patted him again, curiosity lighting her brown eyes. "Do you feel it, Stringfellow? The thrill of scientific exploration?"
All Hawke felt was very afraid.
They used torture to break through his guard, agony so intense the shrieks were ripped again and again from his cracked lips. Barriers were impossible to maintain in the face of such torment, resistance a pitiful joke. He barely noticed the pinprick injection that came after an eternity of screaming his life out in a hellfire existence. A long time later, when the ideas began to come, they were seemingly of their own accord, and Hawke, too numb from pain and exhaustion and grief to question anything closely, found himself unable to discern which were his own and which were their's. Even his own identity slipped away, his sense of self only something he'd known once in a dream.
"Who are you?" a voice asked at one point. "What is your name?"
"I-I don't know," he croaked through anguished tears. "I don't know!"
"Don't fret, my love," someone gentle assured him. "We shall remember everything ... together."
The voice was soothing, feminine, and he latched on to it like a lifeline. Like my mother's voice, he thought, grasping at a memory so deeply buried that only the mental disinternment he was undergoing could have brought it forward. She's soft like my mother. "Mom?"
Laughter like the tinkling of bells answered his despairing cry. "My poor darling. You trust me, yes?"
Mom, he thought again, beginning to relax, for Carmella Hawke -- his mother -- had been a haven for the sensitive young boy against the hurts and pains of the world, both parents a steady foundation Saint John had helped provide after they were gone. He wept when he was unable to quite remember what his brother looked like. The images of two men answered his summons, one large boned and lean but well muscled, with calm gray eyes and long, strong features. The other was shorter, older, square jawed and worn, with a shock of gray hair and a limp. Saint John? I don't even have you any more! Both those anchors, parents and brother, were gone, he dully acknowledged, but Dom had proven himself a more than adequate replacement. Dom was.... His eyes flew open. Dom!
The universe -- reality -- reestablished itself with shocking clarity. Quite suddenly Stringfellow saw beyond the red haze of suffering, blinking to focus on sterile walls and bright lights, and two faces leaning over him. Anger flared nova hot, a lightning flash burning through the pain. The sight of Dominic Santini appeared as an overlay, clawing out his life in a metal tube, choking his last breath in terror. "Y-you won't ... get me ... again," he managed to snarl, glad when those despised faces blanked with dismay.
"This isn't going to work," Horn gritted as though through a tunnel; his female companion touched his arm.
"Give me a chance. We have other options." Zarkov gestured to a female attendant, who passed across another hypodermic. "I'll try another two cc's; perhaps that will give us the opening we need."
It wouldn't work. Stringfellow Hawke would never again slave for the man who'd taken his father, brother and very soul. This he knew with every fiber of his being. He grabbed on to the image of Santini, embraced the grief and the fury that attended it, absorbed the physical pains and hurts and let them feed the laser core that was his own hatred. On top of this he touched another concept, the ethereal transcendence men called freedom embodied in the sleek, aerodynamic lines and awesome power of Airwolf. "I won't let them have you, either," he whispered, feeling the prick of the needle. "Won't--"
And then the pain crashed in again and the world stopped.
Amid this bedlam Pamela Billingsley stood like a shining beacon of composure, even her cool beauty attracting little attention from the distracted crowd. Dressed in a flight attendant's uniform and armed with a United Air employee's identification, Pamela stood quietly by the exit ramp the passengers of Flight 1067 from New York would use to enter the terminal. For the first and only time she checked herself in the reflective surface of the glass wall opposite; a small smile lifted her lips at the sight. Make up, hair, clothes -- all perfect as usual, although she had to admit to herself that she missed the distinctive white garb that had distinguished her as one of Michael's "Angels" for the past five years. Her chestnut hair was styled softly today, hanging loose to frame her square jawed face, her figure shown off to perfection by the specially tailored uniform. She was ready and she was certainly able. Morris wouldn't stand a chance!
Sharp hazel eyes scanned the crowd from her position against the wall, analyzing and evaluating every face she saw in a single flash. To her right, a mother stood surrounded by five whining children, admonishing them briefly before the entourage continued its trek to the next gate; even from down the corridor, Pamela could hear them screaming over the loudspeaker. Two Hari Krishnas in loose robes worked the crowd to her left, distributing pamphlets and soliciting funds. Businessmen and women, flight crews, Red Caps.... It was a pretty motley collection, she decided, but so far as she could perceive, not an enemy agent among them.
Flight 1067 was announced, snapping her around. She pulled several papers out of her pocket, holding them aloft and facing the door, alert for her target. Her cover was pre-set, background established with the airport administrator and indistinguishable from that of the other employees. Morris' dossier said he was a womanizer with a hefty libido and little self- control -- she could certainly cater to that! All she needed was an excuse -- one small excuse to meet the man, and nature should take its course. Unless, of course, Morris was secretly gay, and that had only happened once in her career. How her fellow agents had laughed about that!
Two attendants, one male, one female, busied themselves with the ramp, and moments later travelers were debarking in a stream like cattle through a chute. From her position, Pamela had no trouble spotting her target when he appeared. He was a full head taller than his traveling companions and burlier than his photos had indicated, a broad-shouldered, middle-aged black male with close cropped hair and a full beard. Pamela glanced once at the animalistic look in his hard eyes and reached her conclusion: a brute of a man but cunning -- perhaps the most dangerous of combinations, but also the most vulnerable to the type of offensive she was planning.
As people began to mill, she painted on her most plastic smile and initiated her strategy. "Mr. Mason?" she inquired of the first male she encountered, a portly businessman who gaped stupidly up at her. "I'm looking for Mr. Mason."
She'd hailed the third group before he heard her. Eyes so dark as to appear black, narrowed suspiciously at her use of his pseudonym, the broad shoulders stiffening as though the man was trying to decide whether or not to bolt. Pamela's smile widened as she met his eyes; she injected a note of lustful appreciation as she looked him up and down, having to fight a hefty dose of repugnance to achieve even a bit of sincerity. "Excuse me, are you Mr. Mason?"
The smile did it; Morris unbent enough to scrutinize her in return. "Why?" he volleyed, not yet ready to drop his guard.
Taking acknowledgment as a given, she turned her papers around so he could see them. "Hi! I'm Pamela! From Flyers Assistance?" She pointed pertly to her prestamped nametag. "I just had a question about your luggage. One of the name tags fell off and we wanted to make sure you got everything back."
So innocuous a reason relaxed the big man slightly although there was now a crafty awareness in his expression that set off subliminal alarms Pamela was at a loss to interpret. Simple caution? She hoped so. But since she'd taken care of all arrangements personally so that there was no possibility of a leak, how could it be anything else? Small, piglike eyes continued to scrutinize her figure with less than gentlemanly grace. Pamela tossed her head prettily, not a hint of offence marring her beautiful features. "If you'll walk this way?" She paused, waiting for the expected,
"Darlin', I wish I could, but with the way you move that little butt of yours, I don't think I can."
Pamela forced a giggle at the crudity, her hips swinging gently as she led him to the far side of the gate, where two small bags were just being delivered by a male attendant. Again Morris glanced around but, upon spying nothing untoward, relaxed completely and crouched to examine the luggage. "There ain't no tags on this one," he exclaimed as though he'd just discovered a new continent. He fingered a piece of broken elastic adorning the handle; Pamela knew that strap -- she'd broken it herself not ten minutes earlier.
She stooped next to him, the maneuver revealing a great deal of shapely leg. "But there is a tag on this one," she commented, pointing to a nylon carryall. "That's why we paged you. They are a set, aren't they?"
Morris dutifully studied the bag, nodding. "They're both mine."
"Good!" Pamela smiled and rose, accepting the beefy hand offered her and allowing the big man to help her up. "No harm done. We even saved you a trip to baggage claim! Efficiency, right?"
Rather than releasing her hand, Morris squeezed it, using the grip to pull the woman closer. "I like efficiency," he hinted. "Makes a stranger in town feel real welcome."
"Are you really a stranger?" Hazel eyes grew wide. "I hope you'll be meeting friends or family here. Or maybe even ... a wife?"
Morris shook his head. "All alone, Baby."
No kidding, Pamela thought, tasting something nasty in the back of her mouth. Nevertheless, her smile grew seductive, her fingers caressing his in a coy little gesture. "Maybe not completely alone ... if you play your cards right."
***
It was near morning by Stringfellow Hawke's estimate when the door buzzed then slid open, waking him out of the numbed half-aware state he'd sunken into some hours before even despite the vitriol that threaded his nervous system from his burned hands. The guards thundered into the cell, their heavy footsteps turning the throbbing behind his eyes into a veritable Fourth of July. Three men bracketed the door, rifles held at ready as though expecting the prisoners to stage a full-scale Attica uprising. We would if we could, Hawke warranted, feeling Michael stiffen at his side. Both of us would ... if we could. No matter how badly we hurt. He shivered against the chill that had been with him all night, and leaned his head back against the wall to stare at the newcomers, blinking to focus stubbornly bleary vision. The guards stared impassively back, as moved by his scowl as they would have been by an insect on the floor.
There was another clatter of heels on tile, slower this time -- the firm tread of a man in control -- and John Bradford Horn's debonair frame filled the entrance. He was dressed impeccably as always, today in a tan suit jacket over brown pants, his brown oxfords so highly polished that they reflected the ceiling lights almost as a glare. He ambled into the room, taking up a stance only feet from the seated men and offering them an affable smile. "Good morning, gentlemen!" he boomed with good-humor. "I hope you slept well?"
"How could we not?" Michael returned dryly, adjusting his glasses with one hand, "considering the Five Star accommodations we were given?" The levity lacked the bite Michael was capable of delivering under even the most adverse conditions, and String cast him a quick glance, wondering if he were injured more badly than he'd declared the previous night. He certainly looked every bit as wretched as Hawke felt, his posture slightly hunched to protect his belly, his nose swollen and sore looking. The single blue eye was shadowed too, dark with the knowledge of what was to come.
"I doubt they slept at all," Anastasia Zarkov remarked from a step behind Horn. Unlike her host, she was dressed casually in green slacks and shirt, a wrinkled lab coat tossed carelessly over her shoulders. "Expectation is even more potent a stimulant than amphetamines, and just as fatiguing." She studied Hawke closely, bright brown eyes sweeping him from head to foot, and he had to struggle not to shrink away; he recalled all too well the last time those beautiful eyes had been turned on him in pseudo- kindness. "I think he's still in shock, John. Perhaps I should dress his hands before we continue."
"Allow me my surprise first, Anastasia!" the industrialist admonished heartily, slipping an arm around her shoulders. "I bring you good news, gentlemen! It seems as though we might all have been a bit premature yesterday. Mr. Santini has not succumbed to his injuries after all!" He settled his benign gaze on Hawke, who was glaring back narrow-eyed and wishing for a single moment's break in the guards' attention. Just long enough for me to reach your neck, he wished grimly, the reflexive twitching in his fingers sending his hands into spasms. Unaware of these yearnings -- or perhaps simply uncaring -- Horn went on, "It seems I can offer you a chance at a fair trade after all, Mr. Hawke! Airwolf for Santini! How's that for a bargain?"
He blanked momentarily when Hawke told him precisely what he could do with his bargain, the surprise the first crack in that urbane facade. Hawke felt a touch of satisfaction at that, that wasn't erased when Horn leaned forward, hands on his hips, expression hardening. "Perhaps you didn't understand, boy. I said, your foster father ..." He emphasized the title. "... is still alive."
"He's been dead three months," Hawke spat back, resenting the appellation from this man. He disregarded the weapons pointed in his direction to climb awkwardly to his feet, then wobbled back against the wall, balancing his weight on his right ankle when his left threatened to give 'way. "He's dead just like you're going to be as soon as I get my chance." And he would get his chance, this he knew, for Saint John's miraculous return had restored his belief that there was some form of justice in the universe, some repayment for faith. He just hoped he would be in condition to take advantage of it when it came. Every inch of his body ached from two rather thorough beatings, the flame in his hands washing over him in waves to mix with the throbbing that radiated downward from his head to his rebellious and fortunately empty stomach. He could tell that Zarkov's diagnosis of shock was correct -- everything seemed to be happening at a distance and to another man, as though he were spectator rather than participant. He shivered, then tried to block out his discomfort, finding his condition ignorable to a large degree. It wasn't hard; he'd been hurt before and far worse by experts. No, the physical pain he suffered was no more than an inconvenience compared to the knife twisting his heart.
"Not dead yet," Horn was warning in a dangerous voice as though he could really carry out his threat; fortunately, Hawke knew better.
... Didn't he? Hawke caught his breath, another shiver running through him as he considered the possibility just once that maybe this wasn't a lie -- maybe Dom really was...? His jaw clenched with the effort of forcing away the visions of the day before. Too many people had played with his head over the past two years -- he couldn't trust what he'd seen. He had to believe what Michael said -- he had no choice. Michael would lie about a lot of things, he thought, swallowing hard, but he never lied to me about Saint John and that means he wouldn't lie to me about Dom. In that simple statement mingled a small amount of comfort with a staggering relief. This was one unwinnable decision he didn't have to make, one loss he wouldn't have to chalk up to his own unpayable account. One ghost he wouldn't have to carry for the rest of his life, although Dom's death would forever haunt him. But not like it was with Saint John. I would rather be dead myself than live with any more guilt like that.
"I could kill him right now and simply go on with my original plan." the industrialist added, unaware of the pilot's train of thought.
Hawke managed a cold laugh at the man's audacity, although he admitted frankly that without Michael's warning, he might have fallen for the threat. Once but not now. Thank you, Michael. "Pretty hard to kill a three-month-old corpse, isn't it?" he asked derisively, managing not to wince at the imagery. "You goin' in for séances these days?"
From his position on the pilot's left, Michael cleared his throat. He too was now standing although slightly hunched, one hand pressed against his abdomen. "Uh, Hawke, maybe...." When String glanced at him questioningly, he hesitated and shut his mouth with an audible snap. "Face it, Horn," he addressed the industrialist instead, "your little games aren't going to work this time. We're both older and wiser."
Arctic eyes flicked to Michael then dismissed him as business to be handled at another time. Horn took a deep breath, back on balance. "We'll do this the hard way then," he said, making a great show of smoothing his tan suit. "The way that worked before."
"You will pay for this."
"Threats, Archangel?" Horn asked, turning inquiringly towards the speaker. "I had thought you a man above such petty fantasies."
Michael stepped forward, limping on his bad leg but looking as dangerous as a hunting snow tiger nonetheless. He stopped when the rifles swiveled menacingly in his direction, unafraid but coldly calculating. "No fantasy. You can take that as a simple statement of fact."
Blue eye clashed with blue, challenge, parry and riposte exchanged with the flick of a lash. Hawke watched them from where he stood, too filled with bitterness himself even to be impressed by the white-suited agent's show of strength. Time held ... then something incorporeal passed between the antagonists and they both subtly relaxed, the dual over. "Worried about your friend, Archangel?" Horn asked, not looking completely pleased by what had just transpired. "Don't. You'll be joining him soon." He smiled, showing his teeth shark-like. "After all, Airwolf isn't the only thing I'm after. I'm sure, once you're properly persuaded, you'll be only too happy to offer whatever assistance I require. Such as the restoration of my Swiss bank accounts?"
Zarkov smiled charmingly, and Hawke could only wonder how a woman who could exude such maternal warmth could possess the heart of an asp. "I studied your files, too, Mr. Coldsmith-Briggs. You should be an interesting subject, perhaps even less difficult than our young man, here. The East Germans succeeded in brainwashing you once; an Irish terrorist broke you for information on another occasion. The cracks already left in your psyche could be all I need."
Horn jerked his head contemptuously at Hawke, who tensed. "Take him." While one soldier kept Briggs covered, his two colleagues strode forward, grabbing Hawke by both arms and locking his wrists behind his back. The pain in his hands and head nearly brought back a return of the blackness that had claimed him periodically over the long night hours, and he was tempted to give in to it, for any respite from the misery would have been welcome. But inside his breast Stringfellow Hawke nursed a gnawing hunger for revenge, sheer stubbornness keeping him alert for any opportunity to take it.
"You won't get either one of us," Hawke growled, his vision returning as he was dragged physically out of the room.
Michael's soft encouragement of, "Hold on, Stringfellow," was the last thing he heard before the door slid shut.
Twisting and kicking in the guards' grasp, the pilot was hauled unceremoniously back through a long corridor that his pilot's sense of direction told him led under the large building and to the north; obviously, the estate sprawled. Overhead the sound of boots could be heard, muffled by the heavy timbers but moving in disrhythm; Hawke guessed that to be the section dedicated to the troops' barracks. A right hand bend put them in an eastern section which contained only two doors, one of the normal glassed-in variety, the other a sliding security panel, both separated by a wide gap. Through the first a face peered, that of a child -- a little girl of about eight. Dark curls framed a heart-shaped face, and large brown eyes desperately met Hawke's own. No more than seconds later, the child was wrenched backward toward what appeared to be a medical lab, and Hawke was pulled several yards farther on.
Aghast at the possibilities inherent in that single, brief contact, Hawke turned horrified eyes to Zarkov's amused ones. "You're experimenting on children?" he blurted, all thoughts of revenge momentarily erased; nevertheless, the guards tightened their restraining hold on Hawke's arms nearly to the breaking point. Bowed backward, his lips tightened although he made no further reaction to the pain than that.
Seeing this, Zarkov stepped closer. Not overly tall in her low heels, she had to stand on tip-toe until she could look directly into his eyes. She studied his face silently for several seconds then smiled and ran a painted nail gently down his cheek. "Children like you, my love," she said in so caressing a voice that an outsider might have been excused for thinking her a mother soothing a favored son. She laughed as Hawke jerked away from her touch. "Fragile young children like you."
Horn was less amused. His handsome face flushed, small veins standing out in his forehead. He glared at one of the guards holding Hawke. "I left orders that the child was to be kept out of sight."
"The techs had to run a security check on her cell," the stockier of the two explained, not letting go his own responsibility. "She was only supposed to be here a few minutes."
Dr. Zarkov dropped her hand onto her hip, spinning in place to face the millionaire industrialist. "It is not a problem that our dear Stringfellow has seen the girl," she assured him in her accented English. "I can promise you that in a few hours he won't remember his own name, much less sweet Amy's." She glanced over her shoulder, this time ignoring Hawke altogether. "Bring him inside. We're ready to begin."
Like the first, this room proved to be set up as some sort of laboratory, although different from little Amy's temporary cell. A small bank of equipment was neatly arranged against the far wall before which sat a padded gurney outfitted with restraint straps. The right side was dominated by a large mirror -- undoubtedly one-way glass. Hawke couldn't suppress a shudder as he was fastened down, secured by the wrists and ankles. "You won't get me this time," he gritted, a bare tremor in his voice. "Not this time."
"Won't we, my darling?" Zarkov stared down at him from one side of the gurney, Horn peeking interestedly over her shoulder. She rested her hand on Hawke's chest, giving him a pat. "I'm familiar with the inorganic hallucinogenic-opiate analogs John used on you a year ago. Follow-up analysis revealed that they tend to remain in the tissues for quite some time, up to three or four years, in point of fact. Since your body has carried them for two, the cumulative effects of a second dose should increase your susceptibility to my own brand of suggestion several times over." She brushed his hair back, and Hawke couldn't resist feeling a thrill of fear at her clinical attitude. "My theory is that these drugs used under the modified delusional pattern induced by my original conditioning attempt, can be reactivated in tandem, the ... How do you say in English? ... imprints already made in your brain brought forward until your reactions to stimuli can be predicted and controlled with maximum accuracy." She patted him again, curiosity lighting her brown eyes. "Do you feel it, Stringfellow? The thrill of scientific exploration?"
All Hawke felt was very afraid.
They used torture to break through his guard, agony so intense the shrieks were ripped again and again from his cracked lips. Barriers were impossible to maintain in the face of such torment, resistance a pitiful joke. He barely noticed the pinprick injection that came after an eternity of screaming his life out in a hellfire existence. A long time later, when the ideas began to come, they were seemingly of their own accord, and Hawke, too numb from pain and exhaustion and grief to question anything closely, found himself unable to discern which were his own and which were their's. Even his own identity slipped away, his sense of self only something he'd known once in a dream.
"Who are you?" a voice asked at one point. "What is your name?"
"I-I don't know," he croaked through anguished tears. "I don't know!"
"Don't fret, my love," someone gentle assured him. "We shall remember everything ... together."
The voice was soothing, feminine, and he latched on to it like a lifeline. Like my mother's voice, he thought, grasping at a memory so deeply buried that only the mental disinternment he was undergoing could have brought it forward. She's soft like my mother. "Mom?"
Laughter like the tinkling of bells answered his despairing cry. "My poor darling. You trust me, yes?"
Mom, he thought again, beginning to relax, for Carmella Hawke -- his mother -- had been a haven for the sensitive young boy against the hurts and pains of the world, both parents a steady foundation Saint John had helped provide after they were gone. He wept when he was unable to quite remember what his brother looked like. The images of two men answered his summons, one large boned and lean but well muscled, with calm gray eyes and long, strong features. The other was shorter, older, square jawed and worn, with a shock of gray hair and a limp. Saint John? I don't even have you any more! Both those anchors, parents and brother, were gone, he dully acknowledged, but Dom had proven himself a more than adequate replacement. Dom was.... His eyes flew open. Dom!
The universe -- reality -- reestablished itself with shocking clarity. Quite suddenly Stringfellow saw beyond the red haze of suffering, blinking to focus on sterile walls and bright lights, and two faces leaning over him. Anger flared nova hot, a lightning flash burning through the pain. The sight of Dominic Santini appeared as an overlay, clawing out his life in a metal tube, choking his last breath in terror. "Y-you won't ... get me ... again," he managed to snarl, glad when those despised faces blanked with dismay.
"This isn't going to work," Horn gritted as though through a tunnel; his female companion touched his arm.
"Give me a chance. We have other options." Zarkov gestured to a female attendant, who passed across another hypodermic. "I'll try another two cc's; perhaps that will give us the opening we need."
It wouldn't work. Stringfellow Hawke would never again slave for the man who'd taken his father, brother and very soul. This he knew with every fiber of his being. He grabbed on to the image of Santini, embraced the grief and the fury that attended it, absorbed the physical pains and hurts and let them feed the laser core that was his own hatred. On top of this he touched another concept, the ethereal transcendence men called freedom embodied in the sleek, aerodynamic lines and awesome power of Airwolf. "I won't let them have you, either," he whispered, feeling the prick of the needle. "Won't--"
And then the pain crashed in again and the world stopped.