Bishop Morris' origin was the tough southside territories of Chicago, where
he learned at an early age that inflicting pain was infinitely preferable
to receiving it. This tenet had served him well in his generally abusive
neighborhood; Bishop, however, did it one better by learning to enjoy
inflicting pain, something which established his reputation with concrete
solidity. Not content with ruling the streets by terror via the gang he'd
founded at age fourteen, he extended his thirst for domination to the
lustful side of his nature, finding sex without violence bland, and
enjoying his greatest release in the mere act of brutality.
When he was nineteen he'd joined the United States Army to remove himself from the attentions of a police lieutenant intent on taking him down for a juvenile murder, ending up in Viet Nam after qualifying, much to the astonishment of everyone concerned including himself, as a helicopter pilot. Once overseas he'd discovered war to be the perfect medium for both his talents and his tastes. As a pilot he'd been able to indulge both basically at will, continuing as a mercenary at war's end and earning a great deal of money in the process.
Now under exclusive contract to the Machiavellian industrialist named John Bradford Horn, Bishop Morris was able to give fullest expansion to the practice of death he'd learned since infancy and, a less arrogant man might have admitted, learn a bit about combat and manipulative strategy in the bargain from a Master. Of course, a less arrogant man would not have been Bishop Morris.
Early morning found the mercenary driving his rented Lincoln Towncar through an iron gate and up a long drive bordered by manicured gardens, green despite the desert heat. A quarter mile farther on and he slowed to examine the exquisite stucco and tile work comprising the exterior of his employer's mansion. It looked far smaller than it's true size, having been built on multi-levels, two of which were underground.
A silent sentry took his keys at the door and ushered him inside, directing him to the study in which Hawke and Archangel had been entertained two days earlier. Small black eyes examined the lush interior avariciously, from the obviously expensive paintings on the wall to the precious metal inlays decorating the furniture. "Maybe I should'a worn a tux," he mumbled, wiping his hands on his sweaty black sportshirt. He dropped his gaze to the expensive cocoa carpet, to where his sneakers had tracked brown dirt from the door. He hastily scuffed at the tracks with his toe, spinning at the sound of a throaty chuckle from the door.
"Forget about the carpet, Mr. Morris." John Bradford Horn stood in the entryway, regarding the black mercenary with droll condescension. His own clothing, as usual, was impeccable; the white silk shirt shone like a pearl, his charcoal slacks creased to a knife's edge. "Once I'm gone this building will be burned to the ground."
"A little drastic, ain't that?" the other retorted, eying the expensive etching on one wall with blatant greed. "Man could live real comfortable in a place like this. Real comfortable." He pulled a cigar from his breast pocket, biting off the tip and spitting it carelessly on that same rug he'd just admired. "Waste."
Horn watched this display with revulsion, one lip curling. "The building is unimportant. Erasing all evidence of my presence here is not. He eyed Morris meaningfully. "I don't leave loose ends. Ever."
Although the black man's complexion didn't betray him, a sweat broke out on his broad features at the implication, running down his forehead into his beard. "If you talkin' 'bout the girl," he began hotly, his speech degenerating to the street slang he'd grown up with, "I did her myself. She ain't tellin' no one nothin'."
"Wrong." The word was uttered with so much animosity that even the battle hardened Morris retreated a step. Horn stalked the bigger man fearlessly, blue eyes very cold. "However she managed, Miss Pamela Billingsley did manage to relay one very vital piece of information." He paused, pronouncing through gritted teeth, "My name."
Morris stared at the industrialist, startled, then deliberately stuck his cigar between yellowed teeth and reached into his jeans for a light. "That ain't possible," he returned calmly, uncowed by the inherent menace in this elegant man. "I took care of Miss Pamela personally." Satisfaction lit his face, thick lips drawing back from the cigar. "If I wasn't in a hurry, we might have had some fun -- more fun, that is. As it was...." His smile broadened under his beard. "Let's just say it was good for me."
"Perhaps you should have concentrated less on 'fun' and more on accomplishing your purpose," Horn returned coldly, retreating in turn when Morris struck a match and puffed his cigar to life. "In case it hasn't penetrated your thick skull, the Department of National Security is now after us both. Billingsley was one of Archangel's people. They're already cognizant of your identity...."
"No go," the other interrupted, spewing a cloud of noxious smoke in Horn's direction. "I lost them with the woman. She's dead."
"She wasn't dead enough when you left her." Horn stopped, taking a slow, deep breath and releasing it. "What's passed is passed, and I have made allowances on every level for such ... occurrences. However, this does remove an element of flexibility from the timetable. We go after Airwolf today or we call it a draw, kill the prisoners and move on."
The big mercenary shrugged disinterestedly and began to wander the room, ignoring the shelves of books lining the walls and beelining for a platinum watch set carelessly on a side table. "Too bad Airwolf is booby trapped or we could off the kid now and just take the ship. Oh, well. As long as Stringfellow Hawke does go down eventually, I can wait on the pleasure."
Horn watched him narrowly. "You knew him in the Army."
"Yeah. I knew him in Viet Nam. Some, anyway." He picked up the expensive timepiece, turning it over and over in his meaty fist. "Couldn't stand him. He was one of Colonel Vidor's Golden Boys."
Horn raised a brow. "Colonel Vidor?"
"Marty Vidor. He was my commanding officer for about a month before I transferred into Colonel Curtis' new team. It was Vidor who recruited that Hawke kid to the front line work. Not that I'd've taken him -- kid looked like he was fourteen years old when he first came over."
"He wasn't that much older," Horn remarked. Leather creaked loudly as he threw himself into one corner of the sofa. "He was one of the youngest pilots in Viet Nam. And perhaps the best. That's why he was chosen for the Airwolf Project."
Morris' face tightened; he turned abruptly to stand over the lounging Horn, scratching roughly at the long scar along his jawline. "He wasn't any better than I was. He wouldn't'a even made it into Vidor's command if not for that hotshot big brother of his calling in a few debts."
The industrialist picked up a silver cigarette case from the end table. The aroma of fine tobacco rose when he opened it, to be lost in the dense atmosphere being put out by the cigar. "You mean Saint John Hawke?" he inquired mildly. "I understand he's nearly as good a pilot as Stringfellow."
Morris made a disgusted noise in his throat. "All that Boy Scout was packing was a rep. Him and another guy, Mace Taggert, used to work partners in combat, to up their number of AV's -- air victories. They worked together against me too, conspired to get me transferred out so the boy could join the unit."
"It worked to your advantage. According to my sources with the DEA, about that time they began to suspect you of major league drug trafficking in and out of the Golden Triangle." Horn held out his hand, waiting until Morris had reluctantly deposited the watch in it, then slipped it on his own wrist and tightened the band. "You recruited several of your colleagues back then, didn't you? Although, I feel it safe to presume the Hawkes were not among them."
Again Morris growled something and turned away. "Like I said, Boy Scouts. I might'a been able to use the kid, but Saint John kept him under his thumb." Once more he fingered the long scar under his chin, his heavy jowls folding down to conceal it from casual view. "I'm pretty sure Saint John was the one that set up the drug sting that almost took me out in Saigon. I shed a few tears when he went down in V.C. territory; I wanted to take him down myself and didn't get the chance."
Horn's smile was slow and lazy. "Then you don't know?"
"Know what?" the mercenary asked suspiciously.
"That Saint John Hawke is not dead. Is, in fact, doing quite well as one of Airwolf's pilots."
Astonishment blanked Bishop Morris' broad features for a moment, then a malicious light began to glow in his dark eyes. "So, I get my shot after all. Compared to what I'm going to do to my old Army buddy, what happened to sweet little Pamela is going to look like a love tap." The light brightened accompanied by a cruel grin. "Thought I'd only have fun with the kid, but with his big brother back, I get to double my pleasure, double my fun."
"So long," the other returned firmly, tapping ash into a ceramic dish, "as it neither interferes with the mission nor takes too long. Remember well, Mr. Morris, that as of sundown, my people and I shall be out of the country. If you're not with us, you become a loose end very like this house."
***
Bishop Morris followed John Horn down several corridors and two levels to the far wing of the house, then through a sliding door into a lab. It was a sterile looking environment as were most of the research areas here, white painted and tiled, the steel equipment reflecting the eery blue lights of monitors and overhead fluorescent glare.
In the middle of it all, Stringfellow Hawke lay on a narrow hospital gurney, his face as stark as the linens, his blue eyes open and cloudy. Two male orderlies dressed him in jeans and the dirty white sweater he'd arrived in, while the oriental lab technician, Lydia, finished tying fresh gauze around his hands. He lay motionless and unheeding while they worked on him, his vague attention focussed on the dark haired feminine figure that bent so close as to stir his hair with her breath.
"Be very quiet," Horn warned the black pilot as they entered. "Anastasia is reinforcing the conditioning for the final time. Any misconceptions must be weeded out before we release him to fetch Airwolf."
"... compromised and Airwolf will be lost," Zarkov was saying in that husky voice she could use so effectively. "Tell me you understand."
Hawke blinked at her, seemingly fascinated by the movement of her unpainted but still ruby lips. "Airwolf will be lost," he dutifully repeated from a throat long ago screamed raw.
"So you must move Airwolf to the new hiding place to protect her," Zarkov went on, stroking the damp brown hair gently. Hawke whimpered as though that had prefaced great pain in the past; she touched him again soothingly. "You remember where the new hiding place is, don't you? Where Airwolf will be safe?"
Breath hissed through Hawke's teeth, his blue eyes wide like those of a trapped animal, but he nodded jerkily once. "Tell me where," she ordered. His cracked lips parted, then closed. He shook his head and Zarkov sighed. "I understand, Stringfellow. You can't tell locations, can you? Then I shall tell you, my darling, and then the pain will stop. The main hangar at Larchmont Airfield, outside of Las Vegas. I'm right, am I not?" This time his nod was as much relief as anything, a great pressure released when the dark haired woman smiled. "Very good. Airwolf will be safe there. But you cannot do it alone, can you?"
"Dom...." The young man whimpered again, face twisting with grief.
Zarkov took his head in both hands, again forcing eye contact. "Dominic Santini is not here. You need a backup pilot. Who is it going to be?"
"C-can't be ... Saint John." The grief struck again, and this time tears gathered in the cloudy blue eyes, trailing down his temples and dampening the psychologist's hands. "Not really ... him, is it? Like before." His face hardened. "Like Dom."
"No, Stringfellow," she crooned. "He's not your brother but another impostor. Just like before, and just like Dom. Who else is there to help you?"
He sniffed, brow wrinkled in thought. "Army pilot ... from 'Nam. Morris. I can trust him. But...?"
She nipped that doubtful interrogative by giving him a little shake. "But nothing. You can trust Bishop Morris. He will be going with you. He is your only hope of protecting Airwolf. Say it."
Hawke reached up, touching one of the hands holding his face still, seeking any source of comfort in his pain filled world, even that offered by his torturer. "Morris only hope. Get the Lady to safety. Have to or Saint John...." He stopped, looking puzzled, and Zarkov hurriedly revised the remainder of the thought.
"Airwolf is the only important thing right now," she said, still using a firm voice. "Or everything is lost." Seeing the acknowledgment in his face, she released him and stepped back, holding out her hand; Lydia placed a hypodermic in it, already filled with an amber fluid. "This is a pain killer, Stringfellow," she said, showing him the needle. "I have mixed in a stimulant as well so that you will be able to function for a while." She pressed the needle into his arm and compressed the plunger; instantly, some of the tension left her victim's slender body, leaving him looking limp but more alert. "How do you feel?"
He nodded wearily, and she gestured Morris closer. Horn held back slightly, carefully keeping himself out of range so Hawke would not see the both of them together. "You remember Bishop Morris, don't you, Stringfellow?"
Morris stepped into Hawke's field of view, thick lips offering a less than sincere smile through his beard. "How ya doin', Golden Boy?" he asked in a hearty tone. "Haven't seen you since I was flying with Saint John in 'Nam."
"Saint John." Hawke's raspy voice caught over the name. He swallowed and turned appealing eyes on the large black man, visually tracing the long scar that marked the thick chin up to the ragged-edged ear. "I-I need help. Got to save ... can't get Saint John back without...."
Morris obligingly bent closer. "Without what, kid?"
Again Hawke balked at giving away the word. "Help me?" he begged, raising a hand. "For Saint John?"
Morris smiled wider. "'Course I'll help you, Golden Boy. Remember back in 'Nam? I always called you one of Vidor's Golden Boys. You and that-- I mean, you and Saint John." When Hawke's appealing gaze did not waver and Horn jabbed him in the back, Morris simply nodded. "I'll help you fly, Golden Boy. You lead, an' I'll follow."
Hawke relaxed fractionally and made a move to rise. The two orderlies obligingly took him one at each arm and pulled him to his feet. He would have fallen had they released their grip; as it was, so clouded was his thinking he barely noticed they were there.
"I want to test this before we send him out, Anastasia." Horn spoke quietly, not having abandoned his post by the door. "A final experiment before he's out of my control."
The woman ran a tired hand through her unbound hair, brushing a strand out of her eyes. "I must advise against it," she said wearily. "You could break the conditioning."
Horn lifted his hand, closing it one finger at a time into a fist. "I feel this one necessary. If it breaks then your conditioning was not quite so solid as you imply. But if Hawke passes my test, I shall know he is truly and irrevocably mine."
***
When he was nineteen he'd joined the United States Army to remove himself from the attentions of a police lieutenant intent on taking him down for a juvenile murder, ending up in Viet Nam after qualifying, much to the astonishment of everyone concerned including himself, as a helicopter pilot. Once overseas he'd discovered war to be the perfect medium for both his talents and his tastes. As a pilot he'd been able to indulge both basically at will, continuing as a mercenary at war's end and earning a great deal of money in the process.
Now under exclusive contract to the Machiavellian industrialist named John Bradford Horn, Bishop Morris was able to give fullest expansion to the practice of death he'd learned since infancy and, a less arrogant man might have admitted, learn a bit about combat and manipulative strategy in the bargain from a Master. Of course, a less arrogant man would not have been Bishop Morris.
Early morning found the mercenary driving his rented Lincoln Towncar through an iron gate and up a long drive bordered by manicured gardens, green despite the desert heat. A quarter mile farther on and he slowed to examine the exquisite stucco and tile work comprising the exterior of his employer's mansion. It looked far smaller than it's true size, having been built on multi-levels, two of which were underground.
A silent sentry took his keys at the door and ushered him inside, directing him to the study in which Hawke and Archangel had been entertained two days earlier. Small black eyes examined the lush interior avariciously, from the obviously expensive paintings on the wall to the precious metal inlays decorating the furniture. "Maybe I should'a worn a tux," he mumbled, wiping his hands on his sweaty black sportshirt. He dropped his gaze to the expensive cocoa carpet, to where his sneakers had tracked brown dirt from the door. He hastily scuffed at the tracks with his toe, spinning at the sound of a throaty chuckle from the door.
"Forget about the carpet, Mr. Morris." John Bradford Horn stood in the entryway, regarding the black mercenary with droll condescension. His own clothing, as usual, was impeccable; the white silk shirt shone like a pearl, his charcoal slacks creased to a knife's edge. "Once I'm gone this building will be burned to the ground."
"A little drastic, ain't that?" the other retorted, eying the expensive etching on one wall with blatant greed. "Man could live real comfortable in a place like this. Real comfortable." He pulled a cigar from his breast pocket, biting off the tip and spitting it carelessly on that same rug he'd just admired. "Waste."
Horn watched this display with revulsion, one lip curling. "The building is unimportant. Erasing all evidence of my presence here is not. He eyed Morris meaningfully. "I don't leave loose ends. Ever."
Although the black man's complexion didn't betray him, a sweat broke out on his broad features at the implication, running down his forehead into his beard. "If you talkin' 'bout the girl," he began hotly, his speech degenerating to the street slang he'd grown up with, "I did her myself. She ain't tellin' no one nothin'."
"Wrong." The word was uttered with so much animosity that even the battle hardened Morris retreated a step. Horn stalked the bigger man fearlessly, blue eyes very cold. "However she managed, Miss Pamela Billingsley did manage to relay one very vital piece of information." He paused, pronouncing through gritted teeth, "My name."
Morris stared at the industrialist, startled, then deliberately stuck his cigar between yellowed teeth and reached into his jeans for a light. "That ain't possible," he returned calmly, uncowed by the inherent menace in this elegant man. "I took care of Miss Pamela personally." Satisfaction lit his face, thick lips drawing back from the cigar. "If I wasn't in a hurry, we might have had some fun -- more fun, that is. As it was...." His smile broadened under his beard. "Let's just say it was good for me."
"Perhaps you should have concentrated less on 'fun' and more on accomplishing your purpose," Horn returned coldly, retreating in turn when Morris struck a match and puffed his cigar to life. "In case it hasn't penetrated your thick skull, the Department of National Security is now after us both. Billingsley was one of Archangel's people. They're already cognizant of your identity...."
"No go," the other interrupted, spewing a cloud of noxious smoke in Horn's direction. "I lost them with the woman. She's dead."
"She wasn't dead enough when you left her." Horn stopped, taking a slow, deep breath and releasing it. "What's passed is passed, and I have made allowances on every level for such ... occurrences. However, this does remove an element of flexibility from the timetable. We go after Airwolf today or we call it a draw, kill the prisoners and move on."
The big mercenary shrugged disinterestedly and began to wander the room, ignoring the shelves of books lining the walls and beelining for a platinum watch set carelessly on a side table. "Too bad Airwolf is booby trapped or we could off the kid now and just take the ship. Oh, well. As long as Stringfellow Hawke does go down eventually, I can wait on the pleasure."
Horn watched him narrowly. "You knew him in the Army."
"Yeah. I knew him in Viet Nam. Some, anyway." He picked up the expensive timepiece, turning it over and over in his meaty fist. "Couldn't stand him. He was one of Colonel Vidor's Golden Boys."
Horn raised a brow. "Colonel Vidor?"
"Marty Vidor. He was my commanding officer for about a month before I transferred into Colonel Curtis' new team. It was Vidor who recruited that Hawke kid to the front line work. Not that I'd've taken him -- kid looked like he was fourteen years old when he first came over."
"He wasn't that much older," Horn remarked. Leather creaked loudly as he threw himself into one corner of the sofa. "He was one of the youngest pilots in Viet Nam. And perhaps the best. That's why he was chosen for the Airwolf Project."
Morris' face tightened; he turned abruptly to stand over the lounging Horn, scratching roughly at the long scar along his jawline. "He wasn't any better than I was. He wouldn't'a even made it into Vidor's command if not for that hotshot big brother of his calling in a few debts."
The industrialist picked up a silver cigarette case from the end table. The aroma of fine tobacco rose when he opened it, to be lost in the dense atmosphere being put out by the cigar. "You mean Saint John Hawke?" he inquired mildly. "I understand he's nearly as good a pilot as Stringfellow."
Morris made a disgusted noise in his throat. "All that Boy Scout was packing was a rep. Him and another guy, Mace Taggert, used to work partners in combat, to up their number of AV's -- air victories. They worked together against me too, conspired to get me transferred out so the boy could join the unit."
"It worked to your advantage. According to my sources with the DEA, about that time they began to suspect you of major league drug trafficking in and out of the Golden Triangle." Horn held out his hand, waiting until Morris had reluctantly deposited the watch in it, then slipped it on his own wrist and tightened the band. "You recruited several of your colleagues back then, didn't you? Although, I feel it safe to presume the Hawkes were not among them."
Again Morris growled something and turned away. "Like I said, Boy Scouts. I might'a been able to use the kid, but Saint John kept him under his thumb." Once more he fingered the long scar under his chin, his heavy jowls folding down to conceal it from casual view. "I'm pretty sure Saint John was the one that set up the drug sting that almost took me out in Saigon. I shed a few tears when he went down in V.C. territory; I wanted to take him down myself and didn't get the chance."
Horn's smile was slow and lazy. "Then you don't know?"
"Know what?" the mercenary asked suspiciously.
"That Saint John Hawke is not dead. Is, in fact, doing quite well as one of Airwolf's pilots."
Astonishment blanked Bishop Morris' broad features for a moment, then a malicious light began to glow in his dark eyes. "So, I get my shot after all. Compared to what I'm going to do to my old Army buddy, what happened to sweet little Pamela is going to look like a love tap." The light brightened accompanied by a cruel grin. "Thought I'd only have fun with the kid, but with his big brother back, I get to double my pleasure, double my fun."
"So long," the other returned firmly, tapping ash into a ceramic dish, "as it neither interferes with the mission nor takes too long. Remember well, Mr. Morris, that as of sundown, my people and I shall be out of the country. If you're not with us, you become a loose end very like this house."
***
Bishop Morris followed John Horn down several corridors and two levels to the far wing of the house, then through a sliding door into a lab. It was a sterile looking environment as were most of the research areas here, white painted and tiled, the steel equipment reflecting the eery blue lights of monitors and overhead fluorescent glare.
In the middle of it all, Stringfellow Hawke lay on a narrow hospital gurney, his face as stark as the linens, his blue eyes open and cloudy. Two male orderlies dressed him in jeans and the dirty white sweater he'd arrived in, while the oriental lab technician, Lydia, finished tying fresh gauze around his hands. He lay motionless and unheeding while they worked on him, his vague attention focussed on the dark haired feminine figure that bent so close as to stir his hair with her breath.
"Be very quiet," Horn warned the black pilot as they entered. "Anastasia is reinforcing the conditioning for the final time. Any misconceptions must be weeded out before we release him to fetch Airwolf."
"... compromised and Airwolf will be lost," Zarkov was saying in that husky voice she could use so effectively. "Tell me you understand."
Hawke blinked at her, seemingly fascinated by the movement of her unpainted but still ruby lips. "Airwolf will be lost," he dutifully repeated from a throat long ago screamed raw.
"So you must move Airwolf to the new hiding place to protect her," Zarkov went on, stroking the damp brown hair gently. Hawke whimpered as though that had prefaced great pain in the past; she touched him again soothingly. "You remember where the new hiding place is, don't you? Where Airwolf will be safe?"
Breath hissed through Hawke's teeth, his blue eyes wide like those of a trapped animal, but he nodded jerkily once. "Tell me where," she ordered. His cracked lips parted, then closed. He shook his head and Zarkov sighed. "I understand, Stringfellow. You can't tell locations, can you? Then I shall tell you, my darling, and then the pain will stop. The main hangar at Larchmont Airfield, outside of Las Vegas. I'm right, am I not?" This time his nod was as much relief as anything, a great pressure released when the dark haired woman smiled. "Very good. Airwolf will be safe there. But you cannot do it alone, can you?"
"Dom...." The young man whimpered again, face twisting with grief.
Zarkov took his head in both hands, again forcing eye contact. "Dominic Santini is not here. You need a backup pilot. Who is it going to be?"
"C-can't be ... Saint John." The grief struck again, and this time tears gathered in the cloudy blue eyes, trailing down his temples and dampening the psychologist's hands. "Not really ... him, is it? Like before." His face hardened. "Like Dom."
"No, Stringfellow," she crooned. "He's not your brother but another impostor. Just like before, and just like Dom. Who else is there to help you?"
He sniffed, brow wrinkled in thought. "Army pilot ... from 'Nam. Morris. I can trust him. But...?"
She nipped that doubtful interrogative by giving him a little shake. "But nothing. You can trust Bishop Morris. He will be going with you. He is your only hope of protecting Airwolf. Say it."
Hawke reached up, touching one of the hands holding his face still, seeking any source of comfort in his pain filled world, even that offered by his torturer. "Morris only hope. Get the Lady to safety. Have to or Saint John...." He stopped, looking puzzled, and Zarkov hurriedly revised the remainder of the thought.
"Airwolf is the only important thing right now," she said, still using a firm voice. "Or everything is lost." Seeing the acknowledgment in his face, she released him and stepped back, holding out her hand; Lydia placed a hypodermic in it, already filled with an amber fluid. "This is a pain killer, Stringfellow," she said, showing him the needle. "I have mixed in a stimulant as well so that you will be able to function for a while." She pressed the needle into his arm and compressed the plunger; instantly, some of the tension left her victim's slender body, leaving him looking limp but more alert. "How do you feel?"
He nodded wearily, and she gestured Morris closer. Horn held back slightly, carefully keeping himself out of range so Hawke would not see the both of them together. "You remember Bishop Morris, don't you, Stringfellow?"
Morris stepped into Hawke's field of view, thick lips offering a less than sincere smile through his beard. "How ya doin', Golden Boy?" he asked in a hearty tone. "Haven't seen you since I was flying with Saint John in 'Nam."
"Saint John." Hawke's raspy voice caught over the name. He swallowed and turned appealing eyes on the large black man, visually tracing the long scar that marked the thick chin up to the ragged-edged ear. "I-I need help. Got to save ... can't get Saint John back without...."
Morris obligingly bent closer. "Without what, kid?"
Again Hawke balked at giving away the word. "Help me?" he begged, raising a hand. "For Saint John?"
Morris smiled wider. "'Course I'll help you, Golden Boy. Remember back in 'Nam? I always called you one of Vidor's Golden Boys. You and that-- I mean, you and Saint John." When Hawke's appealing gaze did not waver and Horn jabbed him in the back, Morris simply nodded. "I'll help you fly, Golden Boy. You lead, an' I'll follow."
Hawke relaxed fractionally and made a move to rise. The two orderlies obligingly took him one at each arm and pulled him to his feet. He would have fallen had they released their grip; as it was, so clouded was his thinking he barely noticed they were there.
"I want to test this before we send him out, Anastasia." Horn spoke quietly, not having abandoned his post by the door. "A final experiment before he's out of my control."
The woman ran a tired hand through her unbound hair, brushing a strand out of her eyes. "I must advise against it," she said wearily. "You could break the conditioning."
Horn lifted his hand, closing it one finger at a time into a fist. "I feel this one necessary. If it breaks then your conditioning was not quite so solid as you imply. But if Hawke passes my test, I shall know he is truly and irrevocably mine."
***