Clad in the translucent peignoir, Angelica Horn left her suite silently,
padding from the living areas to the elevator, which she took directly to
the sub-basement level. It was lunchtime and the passages were not
crowded. The few guards she encountered offered only clandestine,
appreciative looks as she passed; it would not do, after all, to be caught
ogling the boss's daughter no matter what she was wearing ... or not
wearing. Especially if that boss was a man like John Bradford Horn.
Angelica seemed unaware of the reaction she was causing to the male sentries' hormone levels. She swept by without a glance, making her way to the steel security door at the very terminus of the corridor. "Open the door," she ordered the burly, uniformed redhead on duty, assuming a relaxed stance with her hands behind her back.
The man skimmed her nearly nude figure once, then determinedly raised his eyes until he was staring at a spot on the opposite wall, well over her head. "Dr. Zarkov is working in there, Ma'am," he explained after clearing his throat. "She asked not to be disturbed."
Angelica's turquoise eyes hardened, her delicate jaw sticking out obstinately. This was a woman who was used to being obeyed without question. "And I'm telling you to disturb her! Since when does one of my father's men put her orders ahead of mine?"
The man's ruddy face puckered for a moment while he considered the implied threat. People who opposed Horn in any way tended to disappear ... unpleasantly. The concept that this same tenet applied to his daughter's orders was not so far-fetched. He gulped loudly and came to attention, the AK-47 he carried slung across one shoulder clanking against the metal door. "Yes, Ma'am!" he replied, turning on his heel.
The soundproofed door slid open on oiled tracks, the hush of the corridor being rent instantly by an ululating scream from within -- the sound of a man in agony. Angelica tipped her head consideringly, then slipped inside, keying the door closed behind her. She padded closer as the scream wavered and then died away leaving only the barely audible murmuring of a woman to break the eerie stillness.
It was not a large chamber John Horn's daughter entered, but the dimness suggested more space than there was. Along one wall was inset a bank of equipment identifiable as computer monitors, a projector and a very good sound system, the speakers being secreted at various points throughout the room. The opposing mirrored wall was being used as a screen for the projector; portrayed on it was a handsome, blond man with chiseled features and a benign expression foreign to his natural mien. He stood, hands spread as though in benediction.
The only furniture in the room was an odd looking hospital gurney tilted partially erect in its center. On this make-shift rack Michael Coldsmith- Briggs III semi-reclined, wrists and ankles secured with straps to hold him in place. His white jacket, vest and shoes were gone although he still wore the shirt, trousers and socks he'd arrived with, now sweat stained and blood spotted. He still had his glasses; the one blue eye visible behind the thick lens was open, fixed on the image of Horn, wide with pain and fear.
"... but it will not hurt forever." Zarkov's reassuring tones floated softly, as gentle as a nursing mother's. She leaned over him, white lab coat draping his chest; on her far side the indispensable Lydia was filling a hypodermic from a tiny vial.
"Watch the face closely," Zarkov crooned, stroking Michael's face with long fingers. "It is the face of your benefactor -- you owe him your very existence and every loyalty."
"No," Archangel moaned, turning his head as far as he could. "Enemy."
Zarkov chuckled. "But soon to be your god even as he was your friend's. Stringfellow grew to love John Bradford Horn, adore him as he'd only adored his family in the past."
"Y-you hurt him." The agent turned a baleful gaze toward the dark-haired woman, teeth clenched over another scream. "What did you do to him?"
Anastasia Zarkov leaned close again until her lips were only inches from his ear. "The same thing I am about to do to you, Michael. Lydia?"
The oriental woman had just placed the hypodermic in her outstretched hand when Angelica slapped her palm down on the master console, bringing up the lights. Immediately, the image of her father dimmed, the almost subliminal recording of his voice shutting down altogether. Both Lydia and Zarkov whirled in place to glower at the beautiful intruder.
"What are you doing?" Zarkov barked, all traces of the mellifluous tones she'd used with Michael gone. "His barriers are down and we are prepared for the first injection! This is a very critical stage!"
Angelica Horn regarded the Russian psychologist as though she were some new species of insect. "Set him free," she commanded evenly, indicating Michael with a jerk of her head. "Now, so that this nightmare can be over."
To the rear Michael could only blink groggily at the slender form in the translucent peignoir, Lydia impassively staring from the side. Zarkov regarded the younger woman measuringly for a moment, brown eyes widening with comprehension. She forced a smile and stepped forward, both hands outstretched.
"Angelica, darling," she began in those honeyed tones she'd used on Archangel. "We must--" The words choked off when Angelica produced a serviceable little .32 caliber pistol she'd been concealing behind her back.
"I said," the blonde repeated calmly, leveling the gun, "set him free." At a gesture from Zarkov, Lydia began to hurriedly unbuckle the bonds holding Michael in place, her almond eyes narrowed.
"You don't know what you're doing," Zarkov began again, visibly unnerved by the peculiar look in the other woman's turquoise eyes. "Your father will be displeased with you."
"Will he?" This dire possibility seemed not to distress the younger woman at all. She watched interestedly while the oriental assistant finished untying a groggy Briggs' ankles. "You're Archangel, right? String's friend?"
He managed to raise his head with difficulty, as though it weighed a thousand pounds, his single blue eye regarding her distrustfully. The serene expression told the agent its own story, however, and he nodded, then had to drop his head back against the rest for a moment, visibly fighting for consciousness. "Yeah," he croaked, gulping in a breath. "I'm String's friend. Is he ... all right? Do you know where he is?"
Her wide eyes darkened, her lower lip trembling. "No. He yelled at Mr. Santini then left. He went after the helicopter. Everyone is always after that stupid helicopter."
Some of the dazed look faded from Briggs' face at the name of his second friend, long thought dead. He struggled to stand, supporting himself with a shaky grip on the customized gurney. Once vertical, he tested his left leg gingerly; it held him -- barely. "So that really is Dominic Santini your father is holding prisoner?" he asked with some degree of pleasure. "He didn't die in that tube?"
Angelica shook her head, the silk nightclothes rustling with each movement. "Daddy only killed him as a joke to make String hurt. He's in that cell down the hall. Daddy said he might be able to use him later if Anastasia messed up."
"It is you who 'messed up,' the Russian gritted, drawing herself up to her full height. "John shall certainly hear of this."
Michael rubbed his wrists, gaze skimming the room. "I doubt Miss Horn cares at this point, Doctor."
"Oh, but she shall." Her words were so baleful that both Michael and Angelica glanced at her, but it was, surprisingly, the silent Lydia who made the next move. Ignored during the dialogue, she'd managed to edge her way around the upright cot in the room's center until she was standing at catercorners with Angelica Horn. At this single moment of distraction, she made her move, leaping across the intervening space with all the grace of a jungle cat. Fast as she was, however, Angelica was faster; she retargeted with a deft swivel, her finger tightening on the trigger. The shot was loud in the narrow chamber, the bullet taking Lydia high on the breast. The lithe form dropped to the polished floor in a heap even as the wide almond eyes began to glaze.
Zarkov, stunned momentarily by her assistant's death, opened her mouth to scream, but Michael was already in motion. He covered the distance to her side in a fraction, his right fist beginning a long, upward arc. It terminated at the exact center of her face, blood spewing from her broken nose and mouth. She joined Lydia on the floor, unconscious before she hit.
"For Stringfellow Hawke," Michael growled, then touched his own swollen nose and added wryly, "and me." The awareness that the proceedings were being recorded and possibly observed prevented any further hesitation. He snagged Angelica by the wrist and tugged her to a point where she would be visible from the door, then stationed himself against the near wall and gestured for her to key it open. She obeyed, leaving it half ajar, then stood quietly and waited for the guard's response. It was not long in coming.
"Miss Horn?" The man's gruff tones were tentative, respectful of her status. "Are you all right, Miss?" Angelica did not move, and the man stepped inside, assault rifle held at ready. "I sa--" That was as far as he got before the extended knuckle of Michael's middle finger slammed into the soft hollow of his throat. A second blow was unnecessary -- the dying man fell without uttering a sound.
"I don't know why you're doing this," Briggs grunted, bending painfully to scoop up the fallen assault rifle, "but I'm grateful." He glanced up, gulping audibly at the tranquility in those turquoise eyes -- not the Ophelia-like vacuousness of a divorcing from reality but rather the utter peace of one who is resigned to it. "Do you know where Santini is?" he asked, reeling weakly back against the half-opened door, shock and exhaustion taking its toll.
She nodded and swept regally past him, oblivious to his physical condition. "I'll take you to him, then the two of you can go back to String." She paused mid-step to stare at him pensively. "I think String would be pleased if you escaped. He won't ever forgive me, but he might be pleased."
"I like to think he would," Michael acknowledged wryly, trailing her at a clumsy limp.
Bare and sock-clad feet slapping softly on the uncarpeted floor, she led him to a staircase several yards away, then up one level to a second corridor much like the first. Angelica paused, allowing Michael to scan the area, which he did by hitching his one eye around the corner cautiously, immediately retreating to the security of the stair like a turtle back into a shell.
"Guard on patrol," he whispered in her ear, fingers wrapped tightly around the AK-47 he'd liberated. "I'll have to take him out before he can raise an alarm. Maybe a diversion?" He inspected her scantily clad figure consideringly, from the long blonde hair to translucent nightclothes. "Think you can lure him in this direction?"
She didn't answer, simply pressed the small gun against her thigh and slipped past him into the hallway, her walk the sure step of a woman who knows she is beautiful and has no need to doubt her assets. "Tyrone," she called softly, summoning the broad-shouldered black man who was on the reverse circuit of his tour.
The black man spun alertly, rifle gripped in both hands. He relaxed upon seeing the daughter of his employer, tensing again this time with appreciation upon seeing the way she was dressed. Tyrone cleared his throat. "Miss Horn," he said with less respect than had her previous victim. "Can I help you?"
Angelica smiled. "Yes. Come here ... just for a moment. I need help."
The man slung the rifle over his shoulder and approached, his heavy boots drowning out her lighter step. When he was within feet of her, Angelica retreated into the stairwell beyond his view. "Miss Horn, I can't leave--" he began.
Michael waited patiently, biding his time until the man had actually seen him before making his move. The dark eyes widened in disbelief, and Michael smiled. "Surprise!" he called softly, bringing the barrel of the Kalashnikov-made rifle across like a club. Tyrone grunted at the impact, the follow-up smash to his head ensuring that he would not be giving any alarms for some time to come.
The maneuver was effective but not without cost. Briggs staggered backward, only the nearby wall preventing him from taking a tumble down the stairs. He shut his eye, breathing noisily for long moments, one arm wrapped around his ribs and his face contorted. Angelica, moving only to flip a strand of blonde hair over her shoulder, watched him impassively until he was again able to straighten.
"Can we go find Mr. Santini now?" she asked, unaware or uncaring of the precarious state of his health.
This took a few seconds to sink in. Zarkov's 'preparation' for the injection had not been gentle; the pain she had administered to break down Briggs' mental defenses had not inflicted further physical injury over the beating he'd already received, but had sapped whatever meager energy reserves he'd had. Michael blinked at her several times then nodded firmly, sheer determination putting him back in motion. "Yes. And we haven't much time."
Secreting the body in the stairwell, Michael appropriated a handgun from the man's leather holster and extra ammunition, then followed the woman down the corridor, sweeping the walls and ceiling for surveillance equipment. He was forced to time his passage carefully to get past a camera; beyond that, there was nothing visible.
They were halfway toward a steep right bend when Angelica stopped by one of the sliding panels, a puzzled look on her face. "Do you want to take the girl, too?"
"Girl?" Michael parroted stupidly. "What girl?"
"Amy Newman."
"Donald Newman's daughter?!" She nodded and Michael stroked his mustache, smoothing it over the quirk of his lips. "Well, that answers a lot of questions. I was looking for a leak, but I didn't think it was going to turn out to be that highly placed." Angelica didn't reply, and Michael nodded. "Yes, I do want to take Amy Newman with me."
The woman splayed her fingers on the inevitable inset control and activated a sequence, Michael this time watching her closely, his lips mouthing the numbers as she pressed them. "Your security codes?" he asked, being thoroughly ignored for his trouble.
Within seconds that door had slid open and a curly-haired little girl stumbled to it, peeking out anxiously. "C-c'n I come out now?" she quavered, eying Michael with trepidation and Angelica with childish awe.
Michael pasted on a smile, his innate charm kicking into gear spontaneously. "Come with me, sweetheart," he encouraged, shooing her out with an open hand. "My name is Michael and I'm going to take you home."
Responding feminine-like to the charisma, her heart-shaped face brightened into a gap-toothed smile. "You'll take me to my daddy?"
"I'll get you home," Briggs promised. "Stay with me and hurry!" Catching the urgency in his voice, the child snagged the trailing end of his shirttail in one dirty fist and held on, running to keep up with his longer- legged stride. They didn't have far to go for Angelica Horn had walked on while they talked, stopping only yards down the hall before another security entrance, a copy of the first.
"He's in here," she murmured absently. "String's father." Again she utilized her codes and the door opened to ... nothing.
"Are you sure this is the right one?" Briggs asked, disengaging Amy's fingers and cautiously peeking in. He ducked back just ahead of the tell- tale swish of disturbed air, the harbinger of a bludgeon descending. He caught himself and the body that tumbled out, against the electronic jamb, barely preventing a spill as his bad knee gave out. He cursed and straightened hurriedly, slipping on the polished floor in his socks, then thrust the other man away without letting go his hold. "Dominic!" he bellowed, nearly knocking the child over as he backed up. "It's me!"
There was a silence, then a gray head rose to regard the trio with rampant disbelief. "Michael?" Santini's scarred face blanked first, then beamed, the heavy lines around brown eyes crinkling with happiness. "I wuz expecting Saint Peter again! Glad I only ended up with a run-of-the-mill Archangel!" He extended a hand that was instantly accepted. "What took you so long? I feel like I've been here years!"
"Three months," Angelica said matter-of-factly, plucking at a silk thread on her nightgown. "Didn't they tell you?"
That got Santini's attention. His head jerked in her direction, the welcome going out of his face. "What are you doing here?" he demanded harshly.
"She's rescuing us." Michael released the mangled hand, his gaze lingering on the scarred arm visible past the loose white shirt, and the gaunt body. "You're looking a little the worse for wear, Dominic."
The look he received was scathing. Santini reversed the crutch he'd tried to brain Michael with, placing the wide end under his armpit and redistributing his weight. "Burning jet fuel will do that. Not that you'd make the cover of Fortune 500." He squinted pointedly at the agent's swollen nose over the blood-dappled mustache.
Michael shrugged, already turning to continue his scan of the hallway. "Let's call it a bad hair day and leave it at that."
"Where's String?"
"Tell you later." Michael passed over the handgun he'd taken from the guard to Santini, who stuck it in his waistband. "We have to get going before the general alarm goes up." Again he made to move off, stopping when Santini encased his forearm in an unexpectedly powerful grip.
"I saw him." Dominic's voice was low, the brown eyes carrying a peculiar anguish reserved only for those he loved. "The boy was...."
Michael firmly freed his arm, using it to brace the rifle. "I know. They brainwashed him and sent him after Airwolf. It's going to be up to us to get out of here and stop them from using it against our men."
"Try not to worry too much about String," Santini retorted caustically. "It's not like he's worth a quarter of a trillion dollars of the Government's money."
"Why you--!" Briggs bristled, his single blue eye blazing furiously. He stopped, regaining control only with an effort, and turned determinedly away. Behind, Dom's expression underwent a change from scorn to surprise to dawning comprehension. But Archangel was right -- there was no time to waste. Already there was a dull Whoop! Whoop! of an alarm sounding somewhere in the building.
"That's from upstairs, where Father keeps his troops," Angelica said in a calm voice, crossing her arms across her breasts.
Amy whimpered, regaining her grip on Archangel's shirttail. "I'm scared, Michael. I want my daddy!"
"Donald Newman's daughter," Briggs told Santini as an aside, earning a sharp glance of understanding. "Our inside leak at the Firm."
"Explains a few things. Don't worry, Amy, Uncle Michael and Uncle Dom will get you home. I promise." The girl smiled up at him and Dom smiled back, then turned to Angelica Horn, who was waiting quietly as though for directions. He studied her for a moment, then hobbled closer. "We need to contact our friends," he said when they were facing each other. "Is there a radio or even a telephone nearby that will reach the outside world?"
Angelica had looked up at the clicking sound his crutch made on the floor, watching him cross the few yards to her with an enigmatic expression. Now she nodded wearily, beautiful features drawn and tired, the serenity still there in the purple shadowed eyes. "There's a radio command center just down the hall. Daddy ... I mean, my father uses it to keep in touch with his agents in the middle east and Europe."
Dom ushered her ahead with an awkward little bow. "Lead on, Miss Horn. We're entirely in your hands."
***
Angelica seemed unaware of the reaction she was causing to the male sentries' hormone levels. She swept by without a glance, making her way to the steel security door at the very terminus of the corridor. "Open the door," she ordered the burly, uniformed redhead on duty, assuming a relaxed stance with her hands behind her back.
The man skimmed her nearly nude figure once, then determinedly raised his eyes until he was staring at a spot on the opposite wall, well over her head. "Dr. Zarkov is working in there, Ma'am," he explained after clearing his throat. "She asked not to be disturbed."
Angelica's turquoise eyes hardened, her delicate jaw sticking out obstinately. This was a woman who was used to being obeyed without question. "And I'm telling you to disturb her! Since when does one of my father's men put her orders ahead of mine?"
The man's ruddy face puckered for a moment while he considered the implied threat. People who opposed Horn in any way tended to disappear ... unpleasantly. The concept that this same tenet applied to his daughter's orders was not so far-fetched. He gulped loudly and came to attention, the AK-47 he carried slung across one shoulder clanking against the metal door. "Yes, Ma'am!" he replied, turning on his heel.
The soundproofed door slid open on oiled tracks, the hush of the corridor being rent instantly by an ululating scream from within -- the sound of a man in agony. Angelica tipped her head consideringly, then slipped inside, keying the door closed behind her. She padded closer as the scream wavered and then died away leaving only the barely audible murmuring of a woman to break the eerie stillness.
It was not a large chamber John Horn's daughter entered, but the dimness suggested more space than there was. Along one wall was inset a bank of equipment identifiable as computer monitors, a projector and a very good sound system, the speakers being secreted at various points throughout the room. The opposing mirrored wall was being used as a screen for the projector; portrayed on it was a handsome, blond man with chiseled features and a benign expression foreign to his natural mien. He stood, hands spread as though in benediction.
The only furniture in the room was an odd looking hospital gurney tilted partially erect in its center. On this make-shift rack Michael Coldsmith- Briggs III semi-reclined, wrists and ankles secured with straps to hold him in place. His white jacket, vest and shoes were gone although he still wore the shirt, trousers and socks he'd arrived with, now sweat stained and blood spotted. He still had his glasses; the one blue eye visible behind the thick lens was open, fixed on the image of Horn, wide with pain and fear.
"... but it will not hurt forever." Zarkov's reassuring tones floated softly, as gentle as a nursing mother's. She leaned over him, white lab coat draping his chest; on her far side the indispensable Lydia was filling a hypodermic from a tiny vial.
"Watch the face closely," Zarkov crooned, stroking Michael's face with long fingers. "It is the face of your benefactor -- you owe him your very existence and every loyalty."
"No," Archangel moaned, turning his head as far as he could. "Enemy."
Zarkov chuckled. "But soon to be your god even as he was your friend's. Stringfellow grew to love John Bradford Horn, adore him as he'd only adored his family in the past."
"Y-you hurt him." The agent turned a baleful gaze toward the dark-haired woman, teeth clenched over another scream. "What did you do to him?"
Anastasia Zarkov leaned close again until her lips were only inches from his ear. "The same thing I am about to do to you, Michael. Lydia?"
The oriental woman had just placed the hypodermic in her outstretched hand when Angelica slapped her palm down on the master console, bringing up the lights. Immediately, the image of her father dimmed, the almost subliminal recording of his voice shutting down altogether. Both Lydia and Zarkov whirled in place to glower at the beautiful intruder.
"What are you doing?" Zarkov barked, all traces of the mellifluous tones she'd used with Michael gone. "His barriers are down and we are prepared for the first injection! This is a very critical stage!"
Angelica Horn regarded the Russian psychologist as though she were some new species of insect. "Set him free," she commanded evenly, indicating Michael with a jerk of her head. "Now, so that this nightmare can be over."
To the rear Michael could only blink groggily at the slender form in the translucent peignoir, Lydia impassively staring from the side. Zarkov regarded the younger woman measuringly for a moment, brown eyes widening with comprehension. She forced a smile and stepped forward, both hands outstretched.
"Angelica, darling," she began in those honeyed tones she'd used on Archangel. "We must--" The words choked off when Angelica produced a serviceable little .32 caliber pistol she'd been concealing behind her back.
"I said," the blonde repeated calmly, leveling the gun, "set him free." At a gesture from Zarkov, Lydia began to hurriedly unbuckle the bonds holding Michael in place, her almond eyes narrowed.
"You don't know what you're doing," Zarkov began again, visibly unnerved by the peculiar look in the other woman's turquoise eyes. "Your father will be displeased with you."
"Will he?" This dire possibility seemed not to distress the younger woman at all. She watched interestedly while the oriental assistant finished untying a groggy Briggs' ankles. "You're Archangel, right? String's friend?"
He managed to raise his head with difficulty, as though it weighed a thousand pounds, his single blue eye regarding her distrustfully. The serene expression told the agent its own story, however, and he nodded, then had to drop his head back against the rest for a moment, visibly fighting for consciousness. "Yeah," he croaked, gulping in a breath. "I'm String's friend. Is he ... all right? Do you know where he is?"
Her wide eyes darkened, her lower lip trembling. "No. He yelled at Mr. Santini then left. He went after the helicopter. Everyone is always after that stupid helicopter."
Some of the dazed look faded from Briggs' face at the name of his second friend, long thought dead. He struggled to stand, supporting himself with a shaky grip on the customized gurney. Once vertical, he tested his left leg gingerly; it held him -- barely. "So that really is Dominic Santini your father is holding prisoner?" he asked with some degree of pleasure. "He didn't die in that tube?"
Angelica shook her head, the silk nightclothes rustling with each movement. "Daddy only killed him as a joke to make String hurt. He's in that cell down the hall. Daddy said he might be able to use him later if Anastasia messed up."
"It is you who 'messed up,' the Russian gritted, drawing herself up to her full height. "John shall certainly hear of this."
Michael rubbed his wrists, gaze skimming the room. "I doubt Miss Horn cares at this point, Doctor."
"Oh, but she shall." Her words were so baleful that both Michael and Angelica glanced at her, but it was, surprisingly, the silent Lydia who made the next move. Ignored during the dialogue, she'd managed to edge her way around the upright cot in the room's center until she was standing at catercorners with Angelica Horn. At this single moment of distraction, she made her move, leaping across the intervening space with all the grace of a jungle cat. Fast as she was, however, Angelica was faster; she retargeted with a deft swivel, her finger tightening on the trigger. The shot was loud in the narrow chamber, the bullet taking Lydia high on the breast. The lithe form dropped to the polished floor in a heap even as the wide almond eyes began to glaze.
Zarkov, stunned momentarily by her assistant's death, opened her mouth to scream, but Michael was already in motion. He covered the distance to her side in a fraction, his right fist beginning a long, upward arc. It terminated at the exact center of her face, blood spewing from her broken nose and mouth. She joined Lydia on the floor, unconscious before she hit.
"For Stringfellow Hawke," Michael growled, then touched his own swollen nose and added wryly, "and me." The awareness that the proceedings were being recorded and possibly observed prevented any further hesitation. He snagged Angelica by the wrist and tugged her to a point where she would be visible from the door, then stationed himself against the near wall and gestured for her to key it open. She obeyed, leaving it half ajar, then stood quietly and waited for the guard's response. It was not long in coming.
"Miss Horn?" The man's gruff tones were tentative, respectful of her status. "Are you all right, Miss?" Angelica did not move, and the man stepped inside, assault rifle held at ready. "I sa--" That was as far as he got before the extended knuckle of Michael's middle finger slammed into the soft hollow of his throat. A second blow was unnecessary -- the dying man fell without uttering a sound.
"I don't know why you're doing this," Briggs grunted, bending painfully to scoop up the fallen assault rifle, "but I'm grateful." He glanced up, gulping audibly at the tranquility in those turquoise eyes -- not the Ophelia-like vacuousness of a divorcing from reality but rather the utter peace of one who is resigned to it. "Do you know where Santini is?" he asked, reeling weakly back against the half-opened door, shock and exhaustion taking its toll.
She nodded and swept regally past him, oblivious to his physical condition. "I'll take you to him, then the two of you can go back to String." She paused mid-step to stare at him pensively. "I think String would be pleased if you escaped. He won't ever forgive me, but he might be pleased."
"I like to think he would," Michael acknowledged wryly, trailing her at a clumsy limp.
Bare and sock-clad feet slapping softly on the uncarpeted floor, she led him to a staircase several yards away, then up one level to a second corridor much like the first. Angelica paused, allowing Michael to scan the area, which he did by hitching his one eye around the corner cautiously, immediately retreating to the security of the stair like a turtle back into a shell.
"Guard on patrol," he whispered in her ear, fingers wrapped tightly around the AK-47 he'd liberated. "I'll have to take him out before he can raise an alarm. Maybe a diversion?" He inspected her scantily clad figure consideringly, from the long blonde hair to translucent nightclothes. "Think you can lure him in this direction?"
She didn't answer, simply pressed the small gun against her thigh and slipped past him into the hallway, her walk the sure step of a woman who knows she is beautiful and has no need to doubt her assets. "Tyrone," she called softly, summoning the broad-shouldered black man who was on the reverse circuit of his tour.
The black man spun alertly, rifle gripped in both hands. He relaxed upon seeing the daughter of his employer, tensing again this time with appreciation upon seeing the way she was dressed. Tyrone cleared his throat. "Miss Horn," he said with less respect than had her previous victim. "Can I help you?"
Angelica smiled. "Yes. Come here ... just for a moment. I need help."
The man slung the rifle over his shoulder and approached, his heavy boots drowning out her lighter step. When he was within feet of her, Angelica retreated into the stairwell beyond his view. "Miss Horn, I can't leave--" he began.
Michael waited patiently, biding his time until the man had actually seen him before making his move. The dark eyes widened in disbelief, and Michael smiled. "Surprise!" he called softly, bringing the barrel of the Kalashnikov-made rifle across like a club. Tyrone grunted at the impact, the follow-up smash to his head ensuring that he would not be giving any alarms for some time to come.
The maneuver was effective but not without cost. Briggs staggered backward, only the nearby wall preventing him from taking a tumble down the stairs. He shut his eye, breathing noisily for long moments, one arm wrapped around his ribs and his face contorted. Angelica, moving only to flip a strand of blonde hair over her shoulder, watched him impassively until he was again able to straighten.
"Can we go find Mr. Santini now?" she asked, unaware or uncaring of the precarious state of his health.
This took a few seconds to sink in. Zarkov's 'preparation' for the injection had not been gentle; the pain she had administered to break down Briggs' mental defenses had not inflicted further physical injury over the beating he'd already received, but had sapped whatever meager energy reserves he'd had. Michael blinked at her several times then nodded firmly, sheer determination putting him back in motion. "Yes. And we haven't much time."
Secreting the body in the stairwell, Michael appropriated a handgun from the man's leather holster and extra ammunition, then followed the woman down the corridor, sweeping the walls and ceiling for surveillance equipment. He was forced to time his passage carefully to get past a camera; beyond that, there was nothing visible.
They were halfway toward a steep right bend when Angelica stopped by one of the sliding panels, a puzzled look on her face. "Do you want to take the girl, too?"
"Girl?" Michael parroted stupidly. "What girl?"
"Amy Newman."
"Donald Newman's daughter?!" She nodded and Michael stroked his mustache, smoothing it over the quirk of his lips. "Well, that answers a lot of questions. I was looking for a leak, but I didn't think it was going to turn out to be that highly placed." Angelica didn't reply, and Michael nodded. "Yes, I do want to take Amy Newman with me."
The woman splayed her fingers on the inevitable inset control and activated a sequence, Michael this time watching her closely, his lips mouthing the numbers as she pressed them. "Your security codes?" he asked, being thoroughly ignored for his trouble.
Within seconds that door had slid open and a curly-haired little girl stumbled to it, peeking out anxiously. "C-c'n I come out now?" she quavered, eying Michael with trepidation and Angelica with childish awe.
Michael pasted on a smile, his innate charm kicking into gear spontaneously. "Come with me, sweetheart," he encouraged, shooing her out with an open hand. "My name is Michael and I'm going to take you home."
Responding feminine-like to the charisma, her heart-shaped face brightened into a gap-toothed smile. "You'll take me to my daddy?"
"I'll get you home," Briggs promised. "Stay with me and hurry!" Catching the urgency in his voice, the child snagged the trailing end of his shirttail in one dirty fist and held on, running to keep up with his longer- legged stride. They didn't have far to go for Angelica Horn had walked on while they talked, stopping only yards down the hall before another security entrance, a copy of the first.
"He's in here," she murmured absently. "String's father." Again she utilized her codes and the door opened to ... nothing.
"Are you sure this is the right one?" Briggs asked, disengaging Amy's fingers and cautiously peeking in. He ducked back just ahead of the tell- tale swish of disturbed air, the harbinger of a bludgeon descending. He caught himself and the body that tumbled out, against the electronic jamb, barely preventing a spill as his bad knee gave out. He cursed and straightened hurriedly, slipping on the polished floor in his socks, then thrust the other man away without letting go his hold. "Dominic!" he bellowed, nearly knocking the child over as he backed up. "It's me!"
There was a silence, then a gray head rose to regard the trio with rampant disbelief. "Michael?" Santini's scarred face blanked first, then beamed, the heavy lines around brown eyes crinkling with happiness. "I wuz expecting Saint Peter again! Glad I only ended up with a run-of-the-mill Archangel!" He extended a hand that was instantly accepted. "What took you so long? I feel like I've been here years!"
"Three months," Angelica said matter-of-factly, plucking at a silk thread on her nightgown. "Didn't they tell you?"
That got Santini's attention. His head jerked in her direction, the welcome going out of his face. "What are you doing here?" he demanded harshly.
"She's rescuing us." Michael released the mangled hand, his gaze lingering on the scarred arm visible past the loose white shirt, and the gaunt body. "You're looking a little the worse for wear, Dominic."
The look he received was scathing. Santini reversed the crutch he'd tried to brain Michael with, placing the wide end under his armpit and redistributing his weight. "Burning jet fuel will do that. Not that you'd make the cover of Fortune 500." He squinted pointedly at the agent's swollen nose over the blood-dappled mustache.
Michael shrugged, already turning to continue his scan of the hallway. "Let's call it a bad hair day and leave it at that."
"Where's String?"
"Tell you later." Michael passed over the handgun he'd taken from the guard to Santini, who stuck it in his waistband. "We have to get going before the general alarm goes up." Again he made to move off, stopping when Santini encased his forearm in an unexpectedly powerful grip.
"I saw him." Dominic's voice was low, the brown eyes carrying a peculiar anguish reserved only for those he loved. "The boy was...."
Michael firmly freed his arm, using it to brace the rifle. "I know. They brainwashed him and sent him after Airwolf. It's going to be up to us to get out of here and stop them from using it against our men."
"Try not to worry too much about String," Santini retorted caustically. "It's not like he's worth a quarter of a trillion dollars of the Government's money."
"Why you--!" Briggs bristled, his single blue eye blazing furiously. He stopped, regaining control only with an effort, and turned determinedly away. Behind, Dom's expression underwent a change from scorn to surprise to dawning comprehension. But Archangel was right -- there was no time to waste. Already there was a dull Whoop! Whoop! of an alarm sounding somewhere in the building.
"That's from upstairs, where Father keeps his troops," Angelica said in a calm voice, crossing her arms across her breasts.
Amy whimpered, regaining her grip on Archangel's shirttail. "I'm scared, Michael. I want my daddy!"
"Donald Newman's daughter," Briggs told Santini as an aside, earning a sharp glance of understanding. "Our inside leak at the Firm."
"Explains a few things. Don't worry, Amy, Uncle Michael and Uncle Dom will get you home. I promise." The girl smiled up at him and Dom smiled back, then turned to Angelica Horn, who was waiting quietly as though for directions. He studied her for a moment, then hobbled closer. "We need to contact our friends," he said when they were facing each other. "Is there a radio or even a telephone nearby that will reach the outside world?"
Angelica had looked up at the clicking sound his crutch made on the floor, watching him cross the few yards to her with an enigmatic expression. Now she nodded wearily, beautiful features drawn and tired, the serenity still there in the purple shadowed eyes. "There's a radio command center just down the hall. Daddy ... I mean, my father uses it to keep in touch with his agents in the middle east and Europe."
Dom ushered her ahead with an awkward little bow. "Lead on, Miss Horn. We're entirely in your hands."
***