CHiPs patrolwoman Caitlin O'Shaunessey eased the Police helicopter down
next to the red, white and blue painted hangar that housed Santini Air with
the ease of long practice. Now only ten o'clock in the morning, she and
her partner had already been on duty three hours, having participated in
the capture of an unimaginative jewel thief who'd tried to use a stolen ice
cream truck to make his escape. The felon had led them a merry chase, his
lights-flashing, bell-ringing vehicle zipping up major arteries and down
side streets until he'd been cornered at a construction site and arrested.
All in all, Caitlin had confessed to Gutierrez, it would have been an
amusing experience if not for the constant worry about her missing friends.
The chopper touched down and O'Shaunessey cut the engine, then glanced around at the automobiles, planes and helicopters queued neatly in their respective slots. "Sure do miss this place," she told her companion, pulling off her head mike and hooking it on the radio. "Had some good times with some good friends here."
Ramon Gutierrez patted her arm familiarly. They'd become close during the three months they'd been paired, and had developed a comfortable working relationship both in the air and on the ground. She credited him with helping her get over the deaths of her two friends, and providing unquestioned support while she put her life back in balance. "I heard of Santini and Hawke," he remarked, hanging his own headphones on the fuel mixture knob. "You never mentioned this Coldsmith-Briggs dude."
"Michael? Guess ah always considered him a little too top secret to chit- chat about." Caitlin's green eyes grew appreciative. "Ummm-um. Real charmer, that one, though. As sly and cunning as a rattlesnake, but before he's through, he'll have you thanking him for biting you. Handsome as they come, too," she went on dreamily. "Always dressed in white. And with that blond hair...." She sighed, earning herself a grin.
"Thought I detected more than a comradely interest in this case," Gutierrez baited her amiably, his white teeth flashing in the sunlight. "Miss Hot Pants."
Cait shot her partner a glare. "You have such a way with words," she scolded. "And no, Michael wasn't my type ... exactly. Mah momma always said that getting involved with a spy guaranteed you'd end up alone on Saturday night. 'Course," she added, blushing despite herself, "with all the beautiful women Michael had working for him, he never even looked in my direction."
Ramon made a great show out of looking her trim figure up and down. "That's something I doubt." He made a tsk'ing sound, but no move to assist while she secured the helicopter. "Must've been that Hawke guy you were hot for. C'mon, tell Papa. It was Stringfellow Hawke you had the hot pants for, wasn't it?"
Much to both their surprise, Caitlin's blush faded as quickly as it had come. She shook her head seriously. "Can't tell you I wasn't attracted to Hawke when I first met him. He's a real good lookin' boy with a lot of qualities you have to admire. Honest and brave an' he's got a streak of kindness in him that he doesn't let most people see. I ... guess I can admit that in the beginning I used all my womanly wiles to turn his head. But...."
"But?" Gutierrez prodded. His Hispanic accent grew stronger while he stared at her with more absorption than a perfectly innocent question might merit. "He was cold to you?"
"Worse -- he was nice to me."
Gutierrez blinked. "Whadd'a ya mean by that?"
She sighed. "String's been burned more than a couple'a times -- enough to make him shy as a yearling about getting involved emotionally. Nine times out of ten, if he's attracted to a lady, he gives 'em the cold shoulder to chase 'em away."
"He treated you like a sister, right?" Ramon guessed.
She gave vent to an unlady-like snort. "Which used to make me mad as a hornet. When there's no sparks coming back, it's almost easier if a boy treats you like dirt than like a sister. Got over that one quick enough, anyway."
Neither made a move to leave the chopper; Ramon regarded his partner with a great deal more perception than she was used to seeing in him. "You sound relieved," was his only comment.
"Maybe I am." Cait bit her lip, choosing her words carefully, as though it were important for him to understand. "String isn't exactly what you'd call a 'fun' guy, know what I mean? He carries too much hurt in him that he can't seem to let go. It ate him away inside when his brother was missing in action, and now that Dom's gone.... Well, he's been grim and sad ever since I met him; doesn't look like it's in him any more to let go of the past."
"Gave up hope?"
She smiled a little shyly. "I used to think that maybe when he got his Saint John back, Hawke'd lighten up a bit and we might share some of those sparks that weren't around before. After my pride recovered from the sister bit, I started to realize that getting involved with him wouldn't be the best thing for me, anyway, not if I ever wanted to have that normal life, husband and kids my mother's always dreamed about."
A light plane swooped low over the airport, the sound of the engines drowning out Gutierrez' response. He waited until it had passed, then pushed sunglasses up onto his dark curly hair and regarded her with roguish brown eyes. "If you're giving up on that boy, you could always make a play for his brother. That Saint John guy was a little quiet, but he struck me as having a bit of a sense of humor. Or how about Rivers? He don't quit, you know?"
She punched her partner in the arm. "Kind'a like some guys I could mention who live on bad jokes."
Ramon brightened. "Speaking of jokes, did you hear the one about--?"
"Yes," Cait returned firmly, unsnapping her seat harness. "C'mon. Let's go see if they've heard anything about String and Michael."
Following the sounds of strident voices, the two made their way back through the hangar. The words became clearer the closer they got to the office Caitlin had once shared with two very special friends.
"... hate just sitting around here!" That was Saint John Hawke's slightly nasal bellow, exasperation clear in his tones. "We should be helping in the investigation, or at least at the Lair finishing the repairs."
Rivers response was quieter but still with an undertone of the frustration that marked the older man. "Take it easy, buddy. Locke wanted to see us before we left for--" He broke off as O'Shaunessey and Gutierrez appeared in the entrance. "'Lo!"
"'Lo, yourself," Caitlin returned, whipping her sunglasses off her pert nose. "We wuz just flyin' by ..."
"... and decided to drop in," Mike finished, rotating the desk chair around to face them. Although his wavy blond locks were impeccably combed, his white sports shirt and brown slacks showed evidence of having been hastily tossed on. "If you're looking for an update, forget it. We haven't heard a word. Something that he ..." He jerked a thumb in the standing Saint John's direction. "... isn't taking too well, if you get my drift."
Caitlin scanned the elder Hawke brother narrowly. He was even less groomed than Mike this morning, his white t-shirt and jeans were wrinkled, his short bronze hair standing up in spikes. There were circles under the gray eyes as well that adequately bespoke a night of wakefully sitting by a phone. "I get 'cha," she drawled sympathetically. "Lost a little sleep myself. Where's Jo got to?"
When it became apparent that Hawke was not going to answer, Mike swung his feet up onto the desk, twisting his body to see around them. "Charter," he supplied, waggling his fingers in Caitlin's direction. "It was a short one and she was antsy, so she decided to take it. She'll be back in about an hour."
The phone chose that moment to ring, and four heads swivelled towards it. Mike, already at the desk, stretched a long arm around the parts, rough diagrams and tools that littered its surface, and picked up the receiver. "Santini Air," he rapped. He paused, then nodded. "Right. We'll see you soon." He hung up, lifting his head to scan the expectant faces around him. "That was Jason. He's on his way."
"He heard something?" Saint John asked hopefully, his breath increasing in tempo.
Mike shrugged and leaned forward to rest his chin in his supporting palms. "He wouldn't talk on the phone. Should be here in about fifteen minutes, though. He sounded like something was up."
Hawke checked the aviator's watch on his right wrist. "It's about time. It's after ten now."
Caitlin looked from one man to the other; when they only stared back at her, she prodded, "You haven't heard anything about String and Michael since last night?"
Hawke threw himself into the nearest visitor's chair and slid down until he was sitting on his spine. "Nothing. Jason was supposed to call the minute Pamela checked in, but until now we haven't heard a word."
"Undercover work can be tricky that way," Ramon remarked, stepping around Caitlin to perch on the cluttered desk. "I worked Vice a few years ago, and I know that sometimes you just can't get to a phone for normal check-in times."
Caitlin stowed her sunglasses into the breast pocket of her CHiPs uniform, and raised sympathetic green eyes. "Ramon and I questioned everyone we could at Ling-Ling's -- not that patrons of that sleazy joint make themselves readily available. Only person who saw anything and will admit to it is a dancer named Chastity -- a pretty improbable name from the looks of her."
"She saw who kidnapped String?" Hawke asked, gray eyes showing a single spark of hope; it died when Caitlin shook her head.
"Chastity remembered seeing a man in a white suit with an eye patch; that would be Michael. She said he tipped her a five and was flashy looking. She couldn't recall his companion too well; he sat back against the wall in a shadow."
"She did say that some homo at the bar made a pass at him," Ramon added helpfully.
"Ah don't think homo is a politically correct term for a cop to use," Caitlin chastised more from habit than immediate interest.
Mike quirked a brow humorously, obviously taken by the mental image of the hard-edged Stringfellow Hawke being propositioned by another man. "Wish I'd've seen that one," he smirked. "Talk about hot ammo!"
Saint John was too gone with worry to be amused. He ignored his facetious teammate, steady gaze boring into the woman like daggers. "Did she remember anything about that man? What he looked like? Was he a regular?"
Caitlin tightened her thin lips, her negative regretful. "The dancer thinks he followed them out the back door but that's about it. She was kind of out of it -- drugs or alcohol, I don't know which, and no one else noticed anything."
"Drugs and alcohol," Gutierrez said, dark eyes narrow with grim knowledge. He brushed his shaggy mustache with one finger, smoothing the strands over his upper lip. "I ran into a lot like her when I was working Vice. Her mind is pretty well gone by now. It's a miracle she could tell us as much as she did."
O'Shaunessey picked up again. "We got us another problem. My friend Jack in forensics went over the cars, the bar -- the whole durned area -- pretty thoroughly before the order squashing my request came down. Ramon and I were supposed to see him this morning on the Q.T." She paused. "Jack wasn't around; seems he's temporarily attached to another unit for a while, and is under a gag order not to talk to either Ramon or me."
"Officers' reports?" Locke asked.
Ramon shook his head. "Gone. Even the computer records were wiped clean from outside the department."
Caitlin cast a look at her partner, who was staring grimly at the top of the desk. "Ramon and I already got orders to let the Feds handle anything new from here on. I sense stinky cover-up here."
Saint John absorbed all this ardently, as though therein lay some clue to his brother's whereabouts. He clenched and unclenched one big fist, stress making a muscle in his long jaw jump. "We shouldn't be sitting here; we should be out there looking."
"Looking where?" Gutierrez asked reasonably, still stroking his mustache. "Looking for what?" He raised his free hand, palm up. "Try to stay cool, man. We can't do anything without something more to go on."
"Wait? That's my brother out there," Saint John growled, slamming his fist into his thigh with what must have been bruising force. "String's in bad trouble -- I can feel it! He needs me." This last was offered in a mumble too low for the rest to hear. He blinked, straightened his shoulders and went on louder, "He never gave up on me. There's no way I'm going to give up on him."
"We aren't sayin' you should give up!" O'Shaunessey protested, touching his arm gently. "We're not giving up, either. Them boys are friends of mine, too, you know."
"Cait's right." Her partner lifted one shoulder fractionally. "I meant you shouldn't wear yourself out when there's nothing you can do yet. So," he resumed after a moment, making an obvious attempt at distracting conversation. "This Stringfellow is your younger brother, isn't he? You much older'n him?"
"Four-five years older than his baby brother," Mike interjected mischievously, falling in with the patrolman's design on breaking the uncomfortable tension. "His tag along. His shadow. His...."
Hawke, not unaware of their intentions, jerked upright, nervous energy carrying him in a circuit of the room. "You will insist on calling him that, won't you, Mike," he said, an involuntary smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.
Rivers crossed his ankles on the desk, interlacing his fingers behind his head. Although also visibly worried, his laugh was light hearted and carried a thread of friendly humor. "Blame yourself, pal. You were the one that squealed that you and that Taggert guy used to call him that in 'Nam."
"If I'd only known," the bigger blond groaned, lifting his face appealingly to the heavens. "Sooner or later you're going to forget and call him that to his face."
"He'll slam your butt all the way to Albuquerque," Cait chuckled, resting her hands lightly on her slim hips.
Rivers shrugged modestly. "Welllll, he'll probably try." He stopped and cleared his throat. "But, maybe we shouldn't mention it to him anyway. I ... uh ... wouldn't want to, like, cause a family squabble or anything."
"Especially the anything," Caitlin confided to Saint John, who had wandered in her direction. "I doubt String would believe his ears, anyway." She frowned, a stray thought shadowing her elfin features. "Wait a minute ... Taggert? Mace Taggert?"
Saint John cut his gaze in her direction, brightening at the name. "You know Mace? He, String and I were pretty tight in 'Nam. Mace was like another brother." When she only looked at him sadly, he licked his lips. "Mace...?"
"Dead." Caitlin dropped her eyes then forcibly raised them again to meet his. "String had to kill him 'bout a year ago. It was self-defense but he took it real hard."
"Mace. Dead." Hawke repeated the words as though he couldn't quite grasp their meaning. Denial sprang a negative to his lips immediately. "String couldn't hurt Mace any more than I could -- any more than Mace could hurt one of us. We were as close as...."
Caitlin touched his arm, immediately withdrawing, sensing the contact would not be welcome. "Mace Taggert was dealing in armaments. This time he had stolen a prototype gunship named HX-1 that was every bit as deadly as Airwolf. He was going to turn it over to another country for the money. He had to be stopped." She withdrew a step from the stunned, hurt gaze that pierced her. "Dom told me Taggert blamed Hawke for leaving you both over in Viet Nam all those years ago. He was gonna kill them both."
Had she deliberately chosen that phrase as the one thing that would banish the hurt disbelief from his face, she succeeded admirably. Saint John Hawke's jaw tightened, gray eyes becoming bits of glittering steel. "He had no right to lay that on String. With dozens of lives at stake, the kid had no choice."
"We may mix like gasoline and a match," Mike interjected carefully, "but I would never've pegged him for someone who would desert his unit. He didn't lose us on that last mission in Mexico, he wouldn't do it in a firefight in Viet Nam."
Saint John swung on him with a single flash of gratitude for the words in his brother's defense. "String never ran from anything in his life. He was forced into making a lousy decision -- the right decision. I ... I hate to think what he had to pay for it all these years." He swallowed hard and turned a fierce look on Caitlin. "He shouldn't have had to."
The woman raised a conciliatory hand. "Whoa, pard. You don't have to tell me that. Ah know the boy, remember?" She hesitated, slipping carefully into something she obviously feared being rebuffed from. "You might want to talk to Hawke ... String about it, though. He blamed himself for a long time after that."
"I will." And he would -- everyone there could see that.
Again seeking a change to a safer subject, Caitlin glanced at the parts- strewn desk with an experienced eye. "This here's the initiator circuit, ain't it? What happened, take a shell through the ADF pod?" She frowned. "I think you're rewiring that A-B module wrong. It should be charging this loop here instead of draining it."
"That's my girl," Gutierrez chuckled, winking at Mike.
"I was just about to say that myself," Rivers retorted huffily, carefully folding the diagrams and putting them in his pocket. "Give a guy a chance, huh?"
The sound of approaching footsteps forestalled a response. They were harbinger of the appearance of the tall, broad shouldered DNS agent who was acting as liaison with the Airwolf team. Jason Locke was dressed nattily once again in a navy blue suit, white shirt and red tie. His short black curls gleamed with oil under the artificial lights, his mustache, shorter and neater than Gutierrez', looked to have been recently trimmed.
"You have news?" Hawke demanded, pouncing on the man almost before he'd fully entered the door.
Jason didn't answer at first. He ignored Rivers' irreverent greeting, nodded amiably at the two highway patrolmen, and crossed to one of the naugahyde visitors' chairs scattered around the perimeter of the office. He hiked the knees of his trousers up to sit, then changed his mind and smoothed them again, turning to face the tall pilot on a level.
"Jason," Saint John gritted, gray eyes pleading. "Have you heard anything about my brother?"
Locke, never one for beating around the bush, shook his head curtly. "Only indirectly," he began without preamble. "At this point, it's not good news, either."
"You heard from Pamela," Caitlin guessed, moving to stand behind the desk where she could see the black man's face more clearly.
The agent hesitated. "We heard about Pamela," he corrected her grimly, "from the Los Angeles Police Department. They found her body in a field two miles from LAX. She'd been beaten to death."
"We didn't hear about that," Ramon said, puzzled. "I put in the inter- departmental information request myself. It came back marked File Empty."
"Did it?" Jason murmured. "That's interesting. I happened to have a paid contact within the LAPD who notified me. I wonder if I would have heard anything at all without her?"
Hawke stood frozen, his face draining. "Bishop Morris," he breathed, again clenching his fist. "Back in 'Nam he used to enjoy beating then raping the village women. It was how he got his kicks."
"But was it just sex or did he make her as an agent?" Caitlin asked, unconsciously resting one hand on Mike's shoulder. When he glanced quizzically up at her, she flushed and stepped back a pace. "Ah meant, identify her as an agent," she snapped, in no mood to be teased.
"I know what you meant," he returned somberly, also stricken by the death of the pretty agent.
Locke studied the pitted surface of the desk for a moment. "According to preliminary reports, she'd been systematically beaten but not sexually assaulted. There's no indication she made any effort to defend herself." He shook his head regretfully. "She couldn't have suspected anything. She was a good agent; if there had been an opportunity to take any one of them down with her, she would have done it."
Hawke's thin lips were a solid line across his face, his features so hard they might have been carved out of stone. "Then they were expecting her," he said through his teeth. "You have a leak somewhere, Jason."
"Or we do," Mike interjected, staring meaningfully at Ramon Gutierrez.
It took a moment for this to sink in. When it did, the patrolman leaped to his feet, brown eyes blazing. "Don't try to pin this on me," he snarled. "Until yesterday I never had nothing to do with your lousy spy organization."
"Ramon isn't your leak." Caitlin stepped from behind Mike, again touching his shoulder. "I've worked with the man for three months now and I'd know if he was a dirty cop." Rivers glanced speculatively up at her, and she repeated tartly, "I'd know it. And ah've worked with the Firm and Airwolf too long to be suspected now."
Before Rivers could respond to that, Locke held up a arresting hand. "She's right, Major. I ran a check on them both yesterday; they came up clean."
"Thank you for the endorsement," Gutierrez retorted sarcastically. "May I put that on my resumé?" His heavy brows remained bridged in a frown, but his muscles relaxed fractionally, the potentially explosive situation defused for the moment.
"Maybe it's not a leak," Caitlin hazarded, speaking as much to herself as the room. "Maybe Pamela just made an error? Gave herself away?"
Locke shook his head although maintaining his erect stance. "Pamela Billingsley was one of the finest field operatives Archangel had. She wouldn't have made a mistake on an undercover assignment." He pursed his full lips, eyes hooded and still locked on Saint John's. "I'm afraid Hawke is right. We've got a leak in the Company."
"How many people knew her assignment?" Mike asked, shooting Gutierrez one last look before dismissing him.
This time Locke did sit. It looked like it was an effort to pry his gaze away from Hawke's searching one, but he succeeded, resting his dark eyes on the computer equipment standing against the far wall. "Too many people were involved. Several from Archangel's section, a couple from my own. I called in a team from the security department to give me an independent check on the personnel, but so far, whoever was involved has covered his tracks beautifully."
Saint John studied the floor intently. "Who actually arranged the meeting between String and Michael?" he asked, shoving his hands into his pockets. "Were you able to track at least that much down?"
Locke made a motion with his right hand, then folded both in his lap. "I questioned Archangel's communications officer, Sun Li, personally. She received a coded message from Stringfellow changing the site from his cabin to Ling-Ling's, and that's all she knows."
Saint John's head jerked up at that. "Who else would have access to my brother's codes?"
Locke stared steadily at him. "Someone with a higher clearance than Sun Li. I checked her log-in sheet -- she definitely received a communique with Hawke's confirmation codes changing the meeting location. What we can't prove is where the message originated; there's no record of it incoming on the switchboards, nor do we know who actually made contact with Stringfellow."
"Then we've got a dead end," Mike remarked, shooting Hawke an apologetic glance. "Sorry, buddy."
Jason shook his head firmly. "Not yet. This scheme is too complicated for there to be no loose ends to trace. My next priority will be to check all the computer records and find out who ordered the police department to drop the case, and who was capable of erasing the records of the investigation. It's tedious and will take time, but it should turn up something eventually."
Hawke swallowed heavily, his next statement made without much hope. "So until or unless it does, we're back to square one."
"Not completely." Locke waited until he had all their attention before speaking again, his clasped hands tightening. "Pamela was a brave woman. She managed to leave us one piece of information. It was scrawled on her own skin with something sharp, possibly while she was dying."
Gutierrez put the question into words spoken through a dry throat. "What information?"
"A single word: Horn. It could be some kind of project code name. We're checking the files for a possible connection with Michael, but...."
He broke off at an audible gasp from Caitlin. Her mouth gaped open, horror etching her elfin face deeply. "John Bradford Horn," she breathed, fingers flying to her lips. "Oh, mah--" Horror became a rage that contorted her pretty features. "Ah should've figured that desert rat was behind all this."
"John Bradford Horn ... the billionaire industrialist?" Mike exclaimed, surprise bringing his feet down off the desk. "Why would he want to kidnap two Government agents?"
Caitlin touched the gun holstered at her hip, her fingers caressing its hard stock as though she wanted nothing more than to use it. "Horn's already made two tries at getting Airwolf. First time he used that tramp daughter of his as bait. She tricked Hawke -- I mean, String -- into flying to her father's mansion. Then Horn used some kind'a drug on him -- brainwashed him into shooting Dom and giving him Airwolf." She shifted slightly until she was addressing the frowning Saint John. "The second time was a little more straightforward; he used plain ol' violence. Ended up killing some poor woman who didn't deserve what she got."
Gutierrez cocked his head curiously. "What's an Airwolf?" Everyone in the room turned to stare at him, obviously having forgotten he was there. "Just thought I'd ask," he added lamely, raising both hands in a placating gesture.
"Airwolf is a top secret weapon," Locke answered, telling the man as little as possible. "Something you're going to forget about the minute you walk out of this room." His face eased at the patrolman's nod. "Archangel's unit has APB's out on Bishop Morris; I'll have them issue another one for Horn. All we can do now is wait for something to break."
"It's dead certain Horn will be warned that we're looking for him," Mike pointed out with deceptive casualness. "He'll be prepared for us."
"It won't do him any good," Saint John returned grimly, and there was a frost in his gray eyes that bespoke a certainty more chilling than the threat. "If he's hurt String, there isn't enough preparation in the world to keep me from killing him with my own hands."
***
The chopper touched down and O'Shaunessey cut the engine, then glanced around at the automobiles, planes and helicopters queued neatly in their respective slots. "Sure do miss this place," she told her companion, pulling off her head mike and hooking it on the radio. "Had some good times with some good friends here."
Ramon Gutierrez patted her arm familiarly. They'd become close during the three months they'd been paired, and had developed a comfortable working relationship both in the air and on the ground. She credited him with helping her get over the deaths of her two friends, and providing unquestioned support while she put her life back in balance. "I heard of Santini and Hawke," he remarked, hanging his own headphones on the fuel mixture knob. "You never mentioned this Coldsmith-Briggs dude."
"Michael? Guess ah always considered him a little too top secret to chit- chat about." Caitlin's green eyes grew appreciative. "Ummm-um. Real charmer, that one, though. As sly and cunning as a rattlesnake, but before he's through, he'll have you thanking him for biting you. Handsome as they come, too," she went on dreamily. "Always dressed in white. And with that blond hair...." She sighed, earning herself a grin.
"Thought I detected more than a comradely interest in this case," Gutierrez baited her amiably, his white teeth flashing in the sunlight. "Miss Hot Pants."
Cait shot her partner a glare. "You have such a way with words," she scolded. "And no, Michael wasn't my type ... exactly. Mah momma always said that getting involved with a spy guaranteed you'd end up alone on Saturday night. 'Course," she added, blushing despite herself, "with all the beautiful women Michael had working for him, he never even looked in my direction."
Ramon made a great show out of looking her trim figure up and down. "That's something I doubt." He made a tsk'ing sound, but no move to assist while she secured the helicopter. "Must've been that Hawke guy you were hot for. C'mon, tell Papa. It was Stringfellow Hawke you had the hot pants for, wasn't it?"
Much to both their surprise, Caitlin's blush faded as quickly as it had come. She shook her head seriously. "Can't tell you I wasn't attracted to Hawke when I first met him. He's a real good lookin' boy with a lot of qualities you have to admire. Honest and brave an' he's got a streak of kindness in him that he doesn't let most people see. I ... guess I can admit that in the beginning I used all my womanly wiles to turn his head. But...."
"But?" Gutierrez prodded. His Hispanic accent grew stronger while he stared at her with more absorption than a perfectly innocent question might merit. "He was cold to you?"
"Worse -- he was nice to me."
Gutierrez blinked. "Whadd'a ya mean by that?"
She sighed. "String's been burned more than a couple'a times -- enough to make him shy as a yearling about getting involved emotionally. Nine times out of ten, if he's attracted to a lady, he gives 'em the cold shoulder to chase 'em away."
"He treated you like a sister, right?" Ramon guessed.
She gave vent to an unlady-like snort. "Which used to make me mad as a hornet. When there's no sparks coming back, it's almost easier if a boy treats you like dirt than like a sister. Got over that one quick enough, anyway."
Neither made a move to leave the chopper; Ramon regarded his partner with a great deal more perception than she was used to seeing in him. "You sound relieved," was his only comment.
"Maybe I am." Cait bit her lip, choosing her words carefully, as though it were important for him to understand. "String isn't exactly what you'd call a 'fun' guy, know what I mean? He carries too much hurt in him that he can't seem to let go. It ate him away inside when his brother was missing in action, and now that Dom's gone.... Well, he's been grim and sad ever since I met him; doesn't look like it's in him any more to let go of the past."
"Gave up hope?"
She smiled a little shyly. "I used to think that maybe when he got his Saint John back, Hawke'd lighten up a bit and we might share some of those sparks that weren't around before. After my pride recovered from the sister bit, I started to realize that getting involved with him wouldn't be the best thing for me, anyway, not if I ever wanted to have that normal life, husband and kids my mother's always dreamed about."
A light plane swooped low over the airport, the sound of the engines drowning out Gutierrez' response. He waited until it had passed, then pushed sunglasses up onto his dark curly hair and regarded her with roguish brown eyes. "If you're giving up on that boy, you could always make a play for his brother. That Saint John guy was a little quiet, but he struck me as having a bit of a sense of humor. Or how about Rivers? He don't quit, you know?"
She punched her partner in the arm. "Kind'a like some guys I could mention who live on bad jokes."
Ramon brightened. "Speaking of jokes, did you hear the one about--?"
"Yes," Cait returned firmly, unsnapping her seat harness. "C'mon. Let's go see if they've heard anything about String and Michael."
Following the sounds of strident voices, the two made their way back through the hangar. The words became clearer the closer they got to the office Caitlin had once shared with two very special friends.
"... hate just sitting around here!" That was Saint John Hawke's slightly nasal bellow, exasperation clear in his tones. "We should be helping in the investigation, or at least at the Lair finishing the repairs."
Rivers response was quieter but still with an undertone of the frustration that marked the older man. "Take it easy, buddy. Locke wanted to see us before we left for--" He broke off as O'Shaunessey and Gutierrez appeared in the entrance. "'Lo!"
"'Lo, yourself," Caitlin returned, whipping her sunglasses off her pert nose. "We wuz just flyin' by ..."
"... and decided to drop in," Mike finished, rotating the desk chair around to face them. Although his wavy blond locks were impeccably combed, his white sports shirt and brown slacks showed evidence of having been hastily tossed on. "If you're looking for an update, forget it. We haven't heard a word. Something that he ..." He jerked a thumb in the standing Saint John's direction. "... isn't taking too well, if you get my drift."
Caitlin scanned the elder Hawke brother narrowly. He was even less groomed than Mike this morning, his white t-shirt and jeans were wrinkled, his short bronze hair standing up in spikes. There were circles under the gray eyes as well that adequately bespoke a night of wakefully sitting by a phone. "I get 'cha," she drawled sympathetically. "Lost a little sleep myself. Where's Jo got to?"
When it became apparent that Hawke was not going to answer, Mike swung his feet up onto the desk, twisting his body to see around them. "Charter," he supplied, waggling his fingers in Caitlin's direction. "It was a short one and she was antsy, so she decided to take it. She'll be back in about an hour."
The phone chose that moment to ring, and four heads swivelled towards it. Mike, already at the desk, stretched a long arm around the parts, rough diagrams and tools that littered its surface, and picked up the receiver. "Santini Air," he rapped. He paused, then nodded. "Right. We'll see you soon." He hung up, lifting his head to scan the expectant faces around him. "That was Jason. He's on his way."
"He heard something?" Saint John asked hopefully, his breath increasing in tempo.
Mike shrugged and leaned forward to rest his chin in his supporting palms. "He wouldn't talk on the phone. Should be here in about fifteen minutes, though. He sounded like something was up."
Hawke checked the aviator's watch on his right wrist. "It's about time. It's after ten now."
Caitlin looked from one man to the other; when they only stared back at her, she prodded, "You haven't heard anything about String and Michael since last night?"
Hawke threw himself into the nearest visitor's chair and slid down until he was sitting on his spine. "Nothing. Jason was supposed to call the minute Pamela checked in, but until now we haven't heard a word."
"Undercover work can be tricky that way," Ramon remarked, stepping around Caitlin to perch on the cluttered desk. "I worked Vice a few years ago, and I know that sometimes you just can't get to a phone for normal check-in times."
Caitlin stowed her sunglasses into the breast pocket of her CHiPs uniform, and raised sympathetic green eyes. "Ramon and I questioned everyone we could at Ling-Ling's -- not that patrons of that sleazy joint make themselves readily available. Only person who saw anything and will admit to it is a dancer named Chastity -- a pretty improbable name from the looks of her."
"She saw who kidnapped String?" Hawke asked, gray eyes showing a single spark of hope; it died when Caitlin shook her head.
"Chastity remembered seeing a man in a white suit with an eye patch; that would be Michael. She said he tipped her a five and was flashy looking. She couldn't recall his companion too well; he sat back against the wall in a shadow."
"She did say that some homo at the bar made a pass at him," Ramon added helpfully.
"Ah don't think homo is a politically correct term for a cop to use," Caitlin chastised more from habit than immediate interest.
Mike quirked a brow humorously, obviously taken by the mental image of the hard-edged Stringfellow Hawke being propositioned by another man. "Wish I'd've seen that one," he smirked. "Talk about hot ammo!"
Saint John was too gone with worry to be amused. He ignored his facetious teammate, steady gaze boring into the woman like daggers. "Did she remember anything about that man? What he looked like? Was he a regular?"
Caitlin tightened her thin lips, her negative regretful. "The dancer thinks he followed them out the back door but that's about it. She was kind of out of it -- drugs or alcohol, I don't know which, and no one else noticed anything."
"Drugs and alcohol," Gutierrez said, dark eyes narrow with grim knowledge. He brushed his shaggy mustache with one finger, smoothing the strands over his upper lip. "I ran into a lot like her when I was working Vice. Her mind is pretty well gone by now. It's a miracle she could tell us as much as she did."
O'Shaunessey picked up again. "We got us another problem. My friend Jack in forensics went over the cars, the bar -- the whole durned area -- pretty thoroughly before the order squashing my request came down. Ramon and I were supposed to see him this morning on the Q.T." She paused. "Jack wasn't around; seems he's temporarily attached to another unit for a while, and is under a gag order not to talk to either Ramon or me."
"Officers' reports?" Locke asked.
Ramon shook his head. "Gone. Even the computer records were wiped clean from outside the department."
Caitlin cast a look at her partner, who was staring grimly at the top of the desk. "Ramon and I already got orders to let the Feds handle anything new from here on. I sense stinky cover-up here."
Saint John absorbed all this ardently, as though therein lay some clue to his brother's whereabouts. He clenched and unclenched one big fist, stress making a muscle in his long jaw jump. "We shouldn't be sitting here; we should be out there looking."
"Looking where?" Gutierrez asked reasonably, still stroking his mustache. "Looking for what?" He raised his free hand, palm up. "Try to stay cool, man. We can't do anything without something more to go on."
"Wait? That's my brother out there," Saint John growled, slamming his fist into his thigh with what must have been bruising force. "String's in bad trouble -- I can feel it! He needs me." This last was offered in a mumble too low for the rest to hear. He blinked, straightened his shoulders and went on louder, "He never gave up on me. There's no way I'm going to give up on him."
"We aren't sayin' you should give up!" O'Shaunessey protested, touching his arm gently. "We're not giving up, either. Them boys are friends of mine, too, you know."
"Cait's right." Her partner lifted one shoulder fractionally. "I meant you shouldn't wear yourself out when there's nothing you can do yet. So," he resumed after a moment, making an obvious attempt at distracting conversation. "This Stringfellow is your younger brother, isn't he? You much older'n him?"
"Four-five years older than his baby brother," Mike interjected mischievously, falling in with the patrolman's design on breaking the uncomfortable tension. "His tag along. His shadow. His...."
Hawke, not unaware of their intentions, jerked upright, nervous energy carrying him in a circuit of the room. "You will insist on calling him that, won't you, Mike," he said, an involuntary smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.
Rivers crossed his ankles on the desk, interlacing his fingers behind his head. Although also visibly worried, his laugh was light hearted and carried a thread of friendly humor. "Blame yourself, pal. You were the one that squealed that you and that Taggert guy used to call him that in 'Nam."
"If I'd only known," the bigger blond groaned, lifting his face appealingly to the heavens. "Sooner or later you're going to forget and call him that to his face."
"He'll slam your butt all the way to Albuquerque," Cait chuckled, resting her hands lightly on her slim hips.
Rivers shrugged modestly. "Welllll, he'll probably try." He stopped and cleared his throat. "But, maybe we shouldn't mention it to him anyway. I ... uh ... wouldn't want to, like, cause a family squabble or anything."
"Especially the anything," Caitlin confided to Saint John, who had wandered in her direction. "I doubt String would believe his ears, anyway." She frowned, a stray thought shadowing her elfin features. "Wait a minute ... Taggert? Mace Taggert?"
Saint John cut his gaze in her direction, brightening at the name. "You know Mace? He, String and I were pretty tight in 'Nam. Mace was like another brother." When she only looked at him sadly, he licked his lips. "Mace...?"
"Dead." Caitlin dropped her eyes then forcibly raised them again to meet his. "String had to kill him 'bout a year ago. It was self-defense but he took it real hard."
"Mace. Dead." Hawke repeated the words as though he couldn't quite grasp their meaning. Denial sprang a negative to his lips immediately. "String couldn't hurt Mace any more than I could -- any more than Mace could hurt one of us. We were as close as...."
Caitlin touched his arm, immediately withdrawing, sensing the contact would not be welcome. "Mace Taggert was dealing in armaments. This time he had stolen a prototype gunship named HX-1 that was every bit as deadly as Airwolf. He was going to turn it over to another country for the money. He had to be stopped." She withdrew a step from the stunned, hurt gaze that pierced her. "Dom told me Taggert blamed Hawke for leaving you both over in Viet Nam all those years ago. He was gonna kill them both."
Had she deliberately chosen that phrase as the one thing that would banish the hurt disbelief from his face, she succeeded admirably. Saint John Hawke's jaw tightened, gray eyes becoming bits of glittering steel. "He had no right to lay that on String. With dozens of lives at stake, the kid had no choice."
"We may mix like gasoline and a match," Mike interjected carefully, "but I would never've pegged him for someone who would desert his unit. He didn't lose us on that last mission in Mexico, he wouldn't do it in a firefight in Viet Nam."
Saint John swung on him with a single flash of gratitude for the words in his brother's defense. "String never ran from anything in his life. He was forced into making a lousy decision -- the right decision. I ... I hate to think what he had to pay for it all these years." He swallowed hard and turned a fierce look on Caitlin. "He shouldn't have had to."
The woman raised a conciliatory hand. "Whoa, pard. You don't have to tell me that. Ah know the boy, remember?" She hesitated, slipping carefully into something she obviously feared being rebuffed from. "You might want to talk to Hawke ... String about it, though. He blamed himself for a long time after that."
"I will." And he would -- everyone there could see that.
Again seeking a change to a safer subject, Caitlin glanced at the parts- strewn desk with an experienced eye. "This here's the initiator circuit, ain't it? What happened, take a shell through the ADF pod?" She frowned. "I think you're rewiring that A-B module wrong. It should be charging this loop here instead of draining it."
"That's my girl," Gutierrez chuckled, winking at Mike.
"I was just about to say that myself," Rivers retorted huffily, carefully folding the diagrams and putting them in his pocket. "Give a guy a chance, huh?"
The sound of approaching footsteps forestalled a response. They were harbinger of the appearance of the tall, broad shouldered DNS agent who was acting as liaison with the Airwolf team. Jason Locke was dressed nattily once again in a navy blue suit, white shirt and red tie. His short black curls gleamed with oil under the artificial lights, his mustache, shorter and neater than Gutierrez', looked to have been recently trimmed.
"You have news?" Hawke demanded, pouncing on the man almost before he'd fully entered the door.
Jason didn't answer at first. He ignored Rivers' irreverent greeting, nodded amiably at the two highway patrolmen, and crossed to one of the naugahyde visitors' chairs scattered around the perimeter of the office. He hiked the knees of his trousers up to sit, then changed his mind and smoothed them again, turning to face the tall pilot on a level.
"Jason," Saint John gritted, gray eyes pleading. "Have you heard anything about my brother?"
Locke, never one for beating around the bush, shook his head curtly. "Only indirectly," he began without preamble. "At this point, it's not good news, either."
"You heard from Pamela," Caitlin guessed, moving to stand behind the desk where she could see the black man's face more clearly.
The agent hesitated. "We heard about Pamela," he corrected her grimly, "from the Los Angeles Police Department. They found her body in a field two miles from LAX. She'd been beaten to death."
"We didn't hear about that," Ramon said, puzzled. "I put in the inter- departmental information request myself. It came back marked File Empty."
"Did it?" Jason murmured. "That's interesting. I happened to have a paid contact within the LAPD who notified me. I wonder if I would have heard anything at all without her?"
Hawke stood frozen, his face draining. "Bishop Morris," he breathed, again clenching his fist. "Back in 'Nam he used to enjoy beating then raping the village women. It was how he got his kicks."
"But was it just sex or did he make her as an agent?" Caitlin asked, unconsciously resting one hand on Mike's shoulder. When he glanced quizzically up at her, she flushed and stepped back a pace. "Ah meant, identify her as an agent," she snapped, in no mood to be teased.
"I know what you meant," he returned somberly, also stricken by the death of the pretty agent.
Locke studied the pitted surface of the desk for a moment. "According to preliminary reports, she'd been systematically beaten but not sexually assaulted. There's no indication she made any effort to defend herself." He shook his head regretfully. "She couldn't have suspected anything. She was a good agent; if there had been an opportunity to take any one of them down with her, she would have done it."
Hawke's thin lips were a solid line across his face, his features so hard they might have been carved out of stone. "Then they were expecting her," he said through his teeth. "You have a leak somewhere, Jason."
"Or we do," Mike interjected, staring meaningfully at Ramon Gutierrez.
It took a moment for this to sink in. When it did, the patrolman leaped to his feet, brown eyes blazing. "Don't try to pin this on me," he snarled. "Until yesterday I never had nothing to do with your lousy spy organization."
"Ramon isn't your leak." Caitlin stepped from behind Mike, again touching his shoulder. "I've worked with the man for three months now and I'd know if he was a dirty cop." Rivers glanced speculatively up at her, and she repeated tartly, "I'd know it. And ah've worked with the Firm and Airwolf too long to be suspected now."
Before Rivers could respond to that, Locke held up a arresting hand. "She's right, Major. I ran a check on them both yesterday; they came up clean."
"Thank you for the endorsement," Gutierrez retorted sarcastically. "May I put that on my resumé?" His heavy brows remained bridged in a frown, but his muscles relaxed fractionally, the potentially explosive situation defused for the moment.
"Maybe it's not a leak," Caitlin hazarded, speaking as much to herself as the room. "Maybe Pamela just made an error? Gave herself away?"
Locke shook his head although maintaining his erect stance. "Pamela Billingsley was one of the finest field operatives Archangel had. She wouldn't have made a mistake on an undercover assignment." He pursed his full lips, eyes hooded and still locked on Saint John's. "I'm afraid Hawke is right. We've got a leak in the Company."
"How many people knew her assignment?" Mike asked, shooting Gutierrez one last look before dismissing him.
This time Locke did sit. It looked like it was an effort to pry his gaze away from Hawke's searching one, but he succeeded, resting his dark eyes on the computer equipment standing against the far wall. "Too many people were involved. Several from Archangel's section, a couple from my own. I called in a team from the security department to give me an independent check on the personnel, but so far, whoever was involved has covered his tracks beautifully."
Saint John studied the floor intently. "Who actually arranged the meeting between String and Michael?" he asked, shoving his hands into his pockets. "Were you able to track at least that much down?"
Locke made a motion with his right hand, then folded both in his lap. "I questioned Archangel's communications officer, Sun Li, personally. She received a coded message from Stringfellow changing the site from his cabin to Ling-Ling's, and that's all she knows."
Saint John's head jerked up at that. "Who else would have access to my brother's codes?"
Locke stared steadily at him. "Someone with a higher clearance than Sun Li. I checked her log-in sheet -- she definitely received a communique with Hawke's confirmation codes changing the meeting location. What we can't prove is where the message originated; there's no record of it incoming on the switchboards, nor do we know who actually made contact with Stringfellow."
"Then we've got a dead end," Mike remarked, shooting Hawke an apologetic glance. "Sorry, buddy."
Jason shook his head firmly. "Not yet. This scheme is too complicated for there to be no loose ends to trace. My next priority will be to check all the computer records and find out who ordered the police department to drop the case, and who was capable of erasing the records of the investigation. It's tedious and will take time, but it should turn up something eventually."
Hawke swallowed heavily, his next statement made without much hope. "So until or unless it does, we're back to square one."
"Not completely." Locke waited until he had all their attention before speaking again, his clasped hands tightening. "Pamela was a brave woman. She managed to leave us one piece of information. It was scrawled on her own skin with something sharp, possibly while she was dying."
Gutierrez put the question into words spoken through a dry throat. "What information?"
"A single word: Horn. It could be some kind of project code name. We're checking the files for a possible connection with Michael, but...."
He broke off at an audible gasp from Caitlin. Her mouth gaped open, horror etching her elfin face deeply. "John Bradford Horn," she breathed, fingers flying to her lips. "Oh, mah--" Horror became a rage that contorted her pretty features. "Ah should've figured that desert rat was behind all this."
"John Bradford Horn ... the billionaire industrialist?" Mike exclaimed, surprise bringing his feet down off the desk. "Why would he want to kidnap two Government agents?"
Caitlin touched the gun holstered at her hip, her fingers caressing its hard stock as though she wanted nothing more than to use it. "Horn's already made two tries at getting Airwolf. First time he used that tramp daughter of his as bait. She tricked Hawke -- I mean, String -- into flying to her father's mansion. Then Horn used some kind'a drug on him -- brainwashed him into shooting Dom and giving him Airwolf." She shifted slightly until she was addressing the frowning Saint John. "The second time was a little more straightforward; he used plain ol' violence. Ended up killing some poor woman who didn't deserve what she got."
Gutierrez cocked his head curiously. "What's an Airwolf?" Everyone in the room turned to stare at him, obviously having forgotten he was there. "Just thought I'd ask," he added lamely, raising both hands in a placating gesture.
"Airwolf is a top secret weapon," Locke answered, telling the man as little as possible. "Something you're going to forget about the minute you walk out of this room." His face eased at the patrolman's nod. "Archangel's unit has APB's out on Bishop Morris; I'll have them issue another one for Horn. All we can do now is wait for something to break."
"It's dead certain Horn will be warned that we're looking for him," Mike pointed out with deceptive casualness. "He'll be prepared for us."
"It won't do him any good," Saint John returned grimly, and there was a frost in his gray eyes that bespoke a certainty more chilling than the threat. "If he's hurt String, there isn't enough preparation in the world to keep me from killing him with my own hands."
***