The sound of the shot was loud in the confined space, the thud of
Angelica's body hitting the floor actually gruesome. Shock reigned supreme
for long seconds, then Amy began to scream, hiding in the corner behind the
radio and covering her face. Michael, the next to recover, crossed the
room in a single pounce, snatching the rifle from Horn's limp fingers. The
industrialist didn't notice; he sank to his knees by his daughter's body,
lifting it gently. Her head hung backwards, the bloody hole in her temple
partially concealed by the matting of blonde hair. Her eyes were open,
still calm, her face retaining the peace it had found in her final few
minutes of life. Horn closed her lids with the tips of his fingers, too
stunned to even register the power shift.
"She was the only thing I've ever loved," he said to the room at large, touching the long platinum hair that fanned across his thigh. "The only thing in the world."
"You were playing God with other peoples' children," Dominic said with a hard, unrelenting edge to his voice. "You took Newman's daughter, you took my son. You paid with your own."
Horn whipped toward him at that, light eyes dry and filling with cold hate. "Your son," he spat viciously. "He's hardly your son any more, is he? Your assassin, perhaps, thanks to Anastasia. And him." He pointed a shaking hand in Michael's direction, and Santini lifted his head higher until he could see the agent.
"What does he mean?" he demanded, achieving a sitting position only with difficulty. "Come here, honey." That last was to Amy, who was cowering in the corner. The child unballed herself and crept to his side, letting him put an arm around her.
"Is she dead?" the girl asked, pointing a shaking hand at the motionless Angelica Horn.
"She's dead." Dom gave her a hug, turning them both so that she was looking at Briggs rather than the corpse. "Try to put it out of your mind. You can stare at your Uncle Michael instead, okay?"
That won a wan smile; despite her tender years, the girl was obviously not adverse to that particular suggestion. "'kay. Uncle Dom?" She hesitated, peeking up at him from beneath the veil of her curls. "Did that man hurt your face?"
Dominic froze for a moment, his fingers going to the puckered scars leading from his neck up onto his jaw. "Yes, honey. Does it scare you?"
She shook her head, squirming closer. "I like you anyway."
The girl seemed calmer than expected and quite content to lean against him although her large eyes were fixed adoringly on Michael. Dom patted her once, the innocent candor causing him to blink rapidly for several seconds to clear his eyes before he turned his penetrating scrutiny back on the standing Archangel. "I asked you what he meant about String," he repeated in a harsh voice.
When Michael maintained a guilty silence, Horn set his daughter's body on the floor, and stood, handsome face twisted with malicious knowledge. "Here's a riddle for you, Santini, one that rivals even that of the Sphinx'. What could possibly make a man attack his own father -- or as close as he's ever going to get -- even after that reasonable facsimile has been miraculously resurrected from the dead?" He didn't wait for a response but plunged on through gritted teeth, "Answer: the belief that that 'father' was no more than a chimera -- a base illusion created to deceive the unwary. But is that belief original?" Horn waved both hands, his own grief making him oblivious to the 7.62mm assault rifle aimed in his direction, or the finger that twitched yearningly on the trigger. "Hardly. It would have to be put into his mind by someone else -- someone he trusted. Someone who was willing to let you die to prevent his having to give up an insignificant piece of inanimate hardware."
"So String couldn't trade Airwolf for me even if he wanted to," Dom interpreted in a low voice.
Michael's chin jutted forward, his air still full of guilt but also defiant, expecting censure and flying before it at once. "I did what I thought was right, Dominic; there were lives at stake." When Santini did not answer at once, he shifted his gaze to a point over the older man's left shoulder, no longer meeting his eyes, the pain in his own too evident to ignore. "I knew Hawke would believe me if I told him you were an impostor. He ... trusted me enough for that."
Dom regarded him steadily for a long time, while Horn glowered at them both, breathing hard. "Obviously, the art of manipulation isn't limited to the enemy," the businessman grated, twisting his knife home. "Can't rely on anyone, can you, Santini."
If Horn was expecting the pilot to retaliate once the facts were made known -- as Michael obviously was -- he was doomed to disillusionment. Santini's craggy face creased even further in a scowl though not one of rancor. "I think I understand," he said at long last. "You took the decision out of String's hands altogether, didn't you?"
Briggs twitched one shoulder, his mustache bristling obstinately. "I'd do it again, too," he said in a calmer voice. "I'm sorry, Dominic, but I had to prevent Airwolf from falling into enemy hands even if it meant your life. Or Stringfellow's. Or mine." When there was another silence even longer than the first, Briggs shot him a sharp look. "What?" he asked dryly. "No recriminations? None of the Italian curses you never seem to run out of? No cracks about my heart of whitewashed marble?"
"Thanks."
Archangel smiled sourly, not accepting the statement at face value. "Thanks? For what? Setting you up like a sacrificial goat?"
The gray head shook once, dismissing the statement. "For thinking about String."
Archangel gaped uncomprehending until Horn shifted his feet restlessly. He gestured for the man to sit, an order that was summarily refused. "I don't think you'd shoot your only remaining hostage," the industrialist challenged.
Michael shrugged with pseudo-nonchalance. "Kill you? Maybe -- maybe not ... yet." His lips drew back, baring his white, even teeth. "Ever see a man without knee caps?" he asked conversationally, deliberately checking that the safety on the rifle was in the off position. They stared at each other, each man taking the other's measure, then Horn grunted and sat down next to his daughter's body. Michael appropriated her fallen gun and stuffed it into the waistband of his trousers, the action making him sway dangerously.
"I think you better sit down, too," Santini suggested, backing slightly with the child so he could lean against the radio stand.
"I think you've got a point." Michael righted the fallen chair and sank into it, rifle trained on Horn. From that position he could address the pilot without taking his eye off his captive. "Perhaps it's me who doesn't understand," he said warily, returning to the previous subject. "Are you saying you don't blame me for almost forcing Hawke to let you die to protect 'a piece of inanimate hardware'?"
The Italian cleared his throat, gruff voice less harsh than before. "I know the full reason why you did what you did. I agree with it."
"I told you the full reason," Briggs countered with a wary look.
Santini leaned his head back, tilting it so he could see the agent better. "Not completely why. It was to protect Airwolf -- but it was also to protect String." He waggled his right hand in the expansive gesture so familiar to all who knew him. "In your own way."
To his credit Archangel did not pretend to misunderstand now that it was laid out before them. The muscles in his jaw relaxed, an old compassion rising in his expression. "Maybe I think he's had to make enough of these type of decisions -- trading one life for the other, feeling responsible for the death of someone he loves. No one should have to carry around that much of the past."
Dominic nodded sadly, the two for once in perfect harmony. "I don't think the boy could handle any more ghosts, either. He's carrying too many now." He sighed and scratched his jaw, fingers rasping on the twenty-four hour growth of heavy Italian beard shading it. "Toughest kid I ever met -- maybe even tougher than Saint John ever was, an' that's saying something. But String is a lot more brittle. Hit him in the right place and you can crack him right down the middle."
"As with anyone," Michael stated more to himself than the other.
Santini sighed again. "Yeah, but String's been hit a little more often than most people. That time after he got through with him ..." He jerked a thumb in Horn's direction, his loathing affecting the industrialist not at all. "... he was sick for days and wouldn't let anyone near him. It was almost as bad as when that Russky doctor made him believe Saint John was back. He blocked himself off on that stupid mountain for weeks. Then that thing with Mace and Colonel Vidor...." He stopped to stare at the top of Amy's head, swallowing heavily before he could go on. "Kid's passed limits no one ever should have to reach, starting with trading Saint John in Viet Nam fifteen years ago."
Archangel hefted the rifle into a more comfortable position across his lap. "Right or wrong," he admitted reluctantly, slumping with fatigue, "I wasn't willing to let him live with another decision like that even above protecting Airwolf. Hawke won't understand and he'll never forgive me, but I don't regret what I've done."
Santini laughed; it was an odd laugh without humor but also without despair, as if he was seeing hope for the first time. "When I woke up yesterday I only had one goal in my mind -- one thing a useless old cripple like me had left to live for -- revenge on the man who killed String." He looked at Horn dispassionately for once, like a scientist examining a particularly interesting species of mold. "If I was looking for a payback, fate chose a better one than I ever could have."
"Revenge is a lousy motive for living anyway," Michael pointed out, pressing one hand against his abdomen, then wincing. "I hope that's not all I left Hawke."
Dom nodded sadly but with more purpose than he'd thus far shown. "That was all I had left. Now I want to see String again and know he's all right. I've a feeling the kid is going to need even a useless old cripple around for a while longer." He bit his lip. "How is he? He looked pretty beat up when I saw him."
Michael waved one hand, his own pain and weariness written plainly for all to see. "I don't know what they did to him after he was taken out of the cell, but except for some bad burns on his hands, he wasn't too bad off when I saw him. He's come through worse."
"Considering what he's gone through in the past, that's not exactly reassuring," the older man retorted worriedly. "If he got free of their control I sure hope he has enough sense to stay out of this trap."
Michael twisted slightly until he could watch the patiently waiting troops displayed on the monitors to his right. "Personally, I wouldn't mind seeing him right now ... with half a battalion as backup. Horn's men aren't going to risk blasting the door down with him inside, but they aren't going to let us walk out of here, either. Without a break, we could be sitting here for a long time."
***
"She was the only thing I've ever loved," he said to the room at large, touching the long platinum hair that fanned across his thigh. "The only thing in the world."
"You were playing God with other peoples' children," Dominic said with a hard, unrelenting edge to his voice. "You took Newman's daughter, you took my son. You paid with your own."
Horn whipped toward him at that, light eyes dry and filling with cold hate. "Your son," he spat viciously. "He's hardly your son any more, is he? Your assassin, perhaps, thanks to Anastasia. And him." He pointed a shaking hand in Michael's direction, and Santini lifted his head higher until he could see the agent.
"What does he mean?" he demanded, achieving a sitting position only with difficulty. "Come here, honey." That last was to Amy, who was cowering in the corner. The child unballed herself and crept to his side, letting him put an arm around her.
"Is she dead?" the girl asked, pointing a shaking hand at the motionless Angelica Horn.
"She's dead." Dom gave her a hug, turning them both so that she was looking at Briggs rather than the corpse. "Try to put it out of your mind. You can stare at your Uncle Michael instead, okay?"
That won a wan smile; despite her tender years, the girl was obviously not adverse to that particular suggestion. "'kay. Uncle Dom?" She hesitated, peeking up at him from beneath the veil of her curls. "Did that man hurt your face?"
Dominic froze for a moment, his fingers going to the puckered scars leading from his neck up onto his jaw. "Yes, honey. Does it scare you?"
She shook her head, squirming closer. "I like you anyway."
The girl seemed calmer than expected and quite content to lean against him although her large eyes were fixed adoringly on Michael. Dom patted her once, the innocent candor causing him to blink rapidly for several seconds to clear his eyes before he turned his penetrating scrutiny back on the standing Archangel. "I asked you what he meant about String," he repeated in a harsh voice.
When Michael maintained a guilty silence, Horn set his daughter's body on the floor, and stood, handsome face twisted with malicious knowledge. "Here's a riddle for you, Santini, one that rivals even that of the Sphinx'. What could possibly make a man attack his own father -- or as close as he's ever going to get -- even after that reasonable facsimile has been miraculously resurrected from the dead?" He didn't wait for a response but plunged on through gritted teeth, "Answer: the belief that that 'father' was no more than a chimera -- a base illusion created to deceive the unwary. But is that belief original?" Horn waved both hands, his own grief making him oblivious to the 7.62mm assault rifle aimed in his direction, or the finger that twitched yearningly on the trigger. "Hardly. It would have to be put into his mind by someone else -- someone he trusted. Someone who was willing to let you die to prevent his having to give up an insignificant piece of inanimate hardware."
"So String couldn't trade Airwolf for me even if he wanted to," Dom interpreted in a low voice.
Michael's chin jutted forward, his air still full of guilt but also defiant, expecting censure and flying before it at once. "I did what I thought was right, Dominic; there were lives at stake." When Santini did not answer at once, he shifted his gaze to a point over the older man's left shoulder, no longer meeting his eyes, the pain in his own too evident to ignore. "I knew Hawke would believe me if I told him you were an impostor. He ... trusted me enough for that."
Dom regarded him steadily for a long time, while Horn glowered at them both, breathing hard. "Obviously, the art of manipulation isn't limited to the enemy," the businessman grated, twisting his knife home. "Can't rely on anyone, can you, Santini."
If Horn was expecting the pilot to retaliate once the facts were made known -- as Michael obviously was -- he was doomed to disillusionment. Santini's craggy face creased even further in a scowl though not one of rancor. "I think I understand," he said at long last. "You took the decision out of String's hands altogether, didn't you?"
Briggs twitched one shoulder, his mustache bristling obstinately. "I'd do it again, too," he said in a calmer voice. "I'm sorry, Dominic, but I had to prevent Airwolf from falling into enemy hands even if it meant your life. Or Stringfellow's. Or mine." When there was another silence even longer than the first, Briggs shot him a sharp look. "What?" he asked dryly. "No recriminations? None of the Italian curses you never seem to run out of? No cracks about my heart of whitewashed marble?"
"Thanks."
Archangel smiled sourly, not accepting the statement at face value. "Thanks? For what? Setting you up like a sacrificial goat?"
The gray head shook once, dismissing the statement. "For thinking about String."
Archangel gaped uncomprehending until Horn shifted his feet restlessly. He gestured for the man to sit, an order that was summarily refused. "I don't think you'd shoot your only remaining hostage," the industrialist challenged.
Michael shrugged with pseudo-nonchalance. "Kill you? Maybe -- maybe not ... yet." His lips drew back, baring his white, even teeth. "Ever see a man without knee caps?" he asked conversationally, deliberately checking that the safety on the rifle was in the off position. They stared at each other, each man taking the other's measure, then Horn grunted and sat down next to his daughter's body. Michael appropriated her fallen gun and stuffed it into the waistband of his trousers, the action making him sway dangerously.
"I think you better sit down, too," Santini suggested, backing slightly with the child so he could lean against the radio stand.
"I think you've got a point." Michael righted the fallen chair and sank into it, rifle trained on Horn. From that position he could address the pilot without taking his eye off his captive. "Perhaps it's me who doesn't understand," he said warily, returning to the previous subject. "Are you saying you don't blame me for almost forcing Hawke to let you die to protect 'a piece of inanimate hardware'?"
The Italian cleared his throat, gruff voice less harsh than before. "I know the full reason why you did what you did. I agree with it."
"I told you the full reason," Briggs countered with a wary look.
Santini leaned his head back, tilting it so he could see the agent better. "Not completely why. It was to protect Airwolf -- but it was also to protect String." He waggled his right hand in the expansive gesture so familiar to all who knew him. "In your own way."
To his credit Archangel did not pretend to misunderstand now that it was laid out before them. The muscles in his jaw relaxed, an old compassion rising in his expression. "Maybe I think he's had to make enough of these type of decisions -- trading one life for the other, feeling responsible for the death of someone he loves. No one should have to carry around that much of the past."
Dominic nodded sadly, the two for once in perfect harmony. "I don't think the boy could handle any more ghosts, either. He's carrying too many now." He sighed and scratched his jaw, fingers rasping on the twenty-four hour growth of heavy Italian beard shading it. "Toughest kid I ever met -- maybe even tougher than Saint John ever was, an' that's saying something. But String is a lot more brittle. Hit him in the right place and you can crack him right down the middle."
"As with anyone," Michael stated more to himself than the other.
Santini sighed again. "Yeah, but String's been hit a little more often than most people. That time after he got through with him ..." He jerked a thumb in Horn's direction, his loathing affecting the industrialist not at all. "... he was sick for days and wouldn't let anyone near him. It was almost as bad as when that Russky doctor made him believe Saint John was back. He blocked himself off on that stupid mountain for weeks. Then that thing with Mace and Colonel Vidor...." He stopped to stare at the top of Amy's head, swallowing heavily before he could go on. "Kid's passed limits no one ever should have to reach, starting with trading Saint John in Viet Nam fifteen years ago."
Archangel hefted the rifle into a more comfortable position across his lap. "Right or wrong," he admitted reluctantly, slumping with fatigue, "I wasn't willing to let him live with another decision like that even above protecting Airwolf. Hawke won't understand and he'll never forgive me, but I don't regret what I've done."
Santini laughed; it was an odd laugh without humor but also without despair, as if he was seeing hope for the first time. "When I woke up yesterday I only had one goal in my mind -- one thing a useless old cripple like me had left to live for -- revenge on the man who killed String." He looked at Horn dispassionately for once, like a scientist examining a particularly interesting species of mold. "If I was looking for a payback, fate chose a better one than I ever could have."
"Revenge is a lousy motive for living anyway," Michael pointed out, pressing one hand against his abdomen, then wincing. "I hope that's not all I left Hawke."
Dom nodded sadly but with more purpose than he'd thus far shown. "That was all I had left. Now I want to see String again and know he's all right. I've a feeling the kid is going to need even a useless old cripple around for a while longer." He bit his lip. "How is he? He looked pretty beat up when I saw him."
Michael waved one hand, his own pain and weariness written plainly for all to see. "I don't know what they did to him after he was taken out of the cell, but except for some bad burns on his hands, he wasn't too bad off when I saw him. He's come through worse."
"Considering what he's gone through in the past, that's not exactly reassuring," the older man retorted worriedly. "If he got free of their control I sure hope he has enough sense to stay out of this trap."
Michael twisted slightly until he could watch the patiently waiting troops displayed on the monitors to his right. "Personally, I wouldn't mind seeing him right now ... with half a battalion as backup. Horn's men aren't going to risk blasting the door down with him inside, but they aren't going to let us walk out of here, either. Without a break, we could be sitting here for a long time."
***