"String, wait!" Saint John Hawke made a snatch for his brother's sleeve,
but Stringfellow was already moving with a burst of energy neither of them
suspected he still had. The younger pilot broke into an awkward, hobbling
run and disappeared almost immediately around a shallow bend in the
corridor. The protest was wasted on deaf -- and now absent -- ears. Saint
John sighed and made to follow, hesitating at the sound of several gunshots
that were channeled down the funnel of the corridor from above. "Sounds
like that was right overhead," he muttered, running a mental map of the
area they'd just traversed. If their intentions were to filter downward,
enemy troops could reach the staircase at any moment.
The shots came again, louder this time, and Saint John turned to look backwards, doing another rapid calculation of distances and ETA's. The results formed ... then vanished when he found himself face-to-face with the jeans-clad figure who materialized from a small side-corridor quite suddenly, looking quite as surprised to see Saint John as the reverse. He was a big man, roughly Saint John's own six foot one, but much broader, built more like a wrestler than the trim soldier Hawke was. Dark, piggish eyes glittered from a bed of ebony-colored gristle, the round features lined by years of depravity. They gaped at each other for a full two seconds, then Saint John broke the paralysis in which he found himself; the Ingram had centered on the black man's forehead before the other's handgun could find its target.
"I wouldn't," Saint John warned, even as the other froze. "Drop it, Bishop."
Thick lips pulled back from yellow teeth in a snarl, but Bishop Morris obeyed the command reinforced as it was by the subtle tightening of Hawke's finger on the trigger. The automatic hit the floor with a loud clatter beside one muddy high-top, then he lifted both hands away from his body, holding them open to show they were empty. "I heard you were finally home from the wars, Hawke. I was hoping we'd meet up."
Saint John laughed sourly, the old remembered dislike for this man welling again as strong as ever even after nearly twenty years. "I bet you were," he returned acidly. "Auld lang syne, eh?"
The returned sneer carried every bit as much antipathy. "Yeah, I really missed you." He glanced over Saint John's shoulder, probably seeking reinforcements, but they were alone -- Hawke could sense that much now that the sporadic gunfire above had hit a lull. Seeing nothing, Morris stared insolently at the other pilot, from short bronze hair to broad shoulders to combat boots, finally settling on the patch on the silver flight suit, that of a roaring, winged wolf. "So, they got you flying that black honey Horn wants so bad," he remarked, small eyes filled with the interest Airwolf always engendered in a pilot. "Thought that one belonged to your brother."
"You never were very good at thinking," Saint John remarked in a hard voice. "Passing out dope -- that's what Colonel Curtis kept you around for and not much more."
Morris waggled one hand, making sure to do so without making it seem threatening; a MAC-11 is a very good deterrent in that arena. "If you'd'a been smart you could have gotten in on the deal like your brother did. He used to work for me after my transfer."
If he'd expected this to confuse Saint John, he was mistaken. The feeble attempt at causing a rift actually relaxed the younger pilot slightly, gray eyes sparkling with contempt. "Won't wash, Bishop. I know String told you to shove off a long time before you even had a chance to make the offer."
"A Boy Scout," the black man retorted, "like you an' the rest of Vidor's Golden Boys. Thought you were too good for the rest of us."
"The rest of you drug dealers?" Hawke supplied, thin lip lifting on one side. He remembered 'the rest of us' well -- a band of mercenaries culled from the ranks, baser appetites pandered to in exchange for the corruption of the innocent.
Morris seemed unoffended by the appellation. "I made me a bushel of money with Curtis, but after this caper I'm going to retire a rich man."
"You're going to retire to San Quentin," the other volleyed, cradling his MAC-11 a little closer. "I'm sure all your money will buy enough cigarettes to keep you alive for a while." He gestured at the mercenary's dirty jeans and sweaty black sports shirt. "I see you can afford Brooks Brothers these days."
Morris' laugh was cruel, his face so filled with sadistic pleasure that Hawke could only stare with a kind of fascinated repugnance, the way one might at something particularly loathsome. "Yeah! Brooks Brothers. That's real good, Boy Scout! Why don't I tell you what that pretty little spy was wearing when we met up at the airport?" Morris smacked his lips, making the sound an obscenity. "Pammy, wasn't that her name? Yep, she was a spirited little thing -- just how I liked 'em in 'Nam."
"You liked them dead in 'Nam," the blond spat, disgusted. "The local girls tried to avoid you as much as possible."
"The local girls would do anything for C-rations. I learned that quick enough." The black man's chin jutted pugnaciously, sadistic amusement entering his expression. "Like Dan-yi. Remember her? She used ta be one of yours, I think."
Truth be told, Saint John didn't remember Dan-yi although the name rang vague bells. He'd first gone to Viet Nam almost twenty years before, and during that time -- especially after he and Maggie broke up -- there had been many women in various capacities. But that had been a long time ago. Maggie. Her pretty face flashed before him and was gone, evoking a shade of the old affections he'd felt for the woman. String had said she was married with a child now; at least she'd had the good sense to steer clear of scum like Morris, even if she had fallen for Mace Taggert's dubious charms.
Growing acutely conscious of the passage of time, he said aloud, "Viet Nam was a long time ago, Morris. Today is what's important. Why don't we go meet some people." He gestured down the hall behind him. "This way. Easy does it, now."
Morris obeyed, moving forward until they were abreast in the hallway. He then stopped, turning to face Saint John across the length of the gun; prudently, Hawke stepped backward a pace. "Keep going," he ordered in a hard voice."
Never lacking for courage, Morris ignored the warning although he still kept his hands away from his body. "You an' me," he invited, making two fists. "We got a personal score to settle."
"All you have is a bullet in the gut if you don't get moving," Saint John returned scornfully at the obvious gambit; he felt far more comfortable with the assault weapon right where it was.
A crafty look entered Morris' eyes, and Hawke tensed, already knowing what the soldier-for-hire was about to say -- it was the last psychological weapon in his arsenal. "I wouldn't be too trusting of your little brother," Morris remarked, deliberately provocative. "Not after Zarkov got through with him." He leaned fractionally closer, enough to give the impression of confidentiality, not enough to earn the promised bullet. "Maybe I could tell you all about that part. Want to hear how loud he screamed when Zarkov was applying the juice to him?" He took one step closer, stopping again when Hawke's knuckles tightened around the trigger. "He screamed and begged and slobbered all over me to help him out."
That did strike home, for Saint John would long remember his brother's collapse back at the Lair. He tensed, gray eyes becoming steel while he briefly considered ending the confrontation then and there ... and permanently. His only manifest response, however, was a tiny shrug. "You have it all wrong, Bishop," he told the black man in a reasonable timbre. "It's String who has the short fuse, not me." He smiled coldly, little more than a twitch of his lips. "Me, I'm the calm one, the patient one -- the one who doesn't mind waiting to see you sentenced to life in prison for murder. Or is there a death penalty in Nevada? Yeah, I think there might be."
Morris gulped, cruel gaze filling with malice. "Taking the kid out felt almost as good as icing that old man, Santini."
No more than a flicker crossed Saint John's face at the taunt. "If there isn't a death penalty in this state," he remarked consideringly, "I'm sure the Company can arrange one for me as a personal favor."
Although the words were light, there was no mistaking the deadly seriousness in his tone. Saint John felt the hatred welling in his gut, a fountain of loathing that had surfaced many long years before and geysered with the injury done his brother. He did want to pay back the smirking mercenary for what he'd done to String, to a woman named Pamela, and the anonymous soldiers who had perished at this man's hands over the years. But Hawke knew that allowing a fight to turn personal was often tantamount to putting a bullet in your own head -- lose your control and lose your life. He was far too experienced to let that happen. He was also once more keenly aware, however, that revenge could be completed with a minimum of risk by simply ... squeezing the trigger....
Morris seemed to realize this too, and stiffened, pig-like eyes sliding down to rest on the Ingram. There was another tense pause then Morris nodded acknowledgment although the glower he offered was full of promise. Saint John waited until the black man had begun his turn, then snapped into rapid motion, lowering the gun long enough to step forward and arc his left fist in a fierce backhanded swing that caught the big black man square in the face. Morris' head snapped back, the force of the blow slamming him backwards and all but sending him to his knees. He leaned heavily against the wall, blood trickling from a split lip, the re-aimed Ingram preventing him from taking that clearly telegraphed leap at Saint John's throat.
They stared at each other for long seconds while Hawke fought down the urge to repeat the act. He smiled again, even more frostily than before but feeling better nonetheless. "Guess I was wrong. Looks like String isn't the only one with a short fuse."
Morris spat, a broken tooth hitting the floor by Saint John's right boot. "This ain't over by a long shot, Hawke -- not for you or the kid."
"It'll be over right now," the blond returned imperturbably, "if you don't get going."
There could be no question but this was the absolute truth. Once again Bishop Morris moved in the question indicated, offering only a single malicious glare to back up his oath. They had progressed no more than a few yards when the sound of a gunshot interrupted the brief hush that had fallen, its direction the one in which Stringfellow had disappeared only moments before.
"String!" Saint John exclaimed involuntarily, fear for his brother welling to crowd out thoughts of revenge and anger. For a single split second, Bishop Morris ceased to exist, Saint John's only reality being the dangers his brother could be encountering. They had worked as a team too often to ever doubt the other's abilities, but Saint John knew that now String was badly injured and in no condition to hold his own in a fight. He caught his breath and browbeat his attention back to his captive ... only a fraction of a second too late.
Distraction in battle is often statistically grouped in with bullet wounds -- usually as cause and effect -- on the list headed Most Frequent Causes of Fatalities, and of this Saint John became truly if only briefly aware, for that fraction of a second was all a trained warrior like Bishop Morris needed. The big mercenary shifted his weight onto his left leg, bringing his right around in an ungraceful but effective spinning back kick that sent the compact MAC-11 flying several yards. He followed this up by lunging onto that foot and landing a straight punch into Saint John's gut.
Hawke's expelled his breath in an explosive gasp, the corridor dimming as though a red veil had been dropped over his head. Operating on sheer instinct, he threw himself to the side, sensing a powerhouse right cross whistle past his head, and landing a sharp jab of his own. Morris was forced back a step, give Hawke the opportunity to draw in a shallow breath to clear his vision. He succeeded barely in time, for the big black man was already in motion with a flurry of vicious jabs any one of which would have ended the fight then and there. Faster by far, Saint John danced out of the way, ducking one and using his position to kick out, the toe of his heavy boot landing solidly in the bigger man's crotch. Morris grunted and doubled over, venting a stream of grunted oaths that should have caused the air to sizzle.
Intending to end the fight without further ado, Saint John closed the distance between them, one large fist cocked for a final, crushing blow to the other's pugnacious jaw. Morris, obviously less incapacitated than he'd put on, rallied to his own attack. Relatively matched in size, strength and experience, the two traded blows for nearly two minutes, each managing to land several solid body punches before breaking away.
Saint John, breathing hard, studied his opponent calculatedly, assessing the damage he'd done to the burly body. Although bruises barely showed against the man's dark skin, blood streamed from the squat nose and split lip, a lump already visible on the man's jaw. He was moving slower than before as well, less able to avoid Hawke's blows; whereas Hawke, a few years younger and of trimmer physique, retained his speed and agility. Got you now, scumball, he thought, closing in for the finale.
He'd've made it, too, but for the overhead explosion that shook the foundation of the house, one that Hawke recognized as the proper application of high explosives that Mike Rivers had mentioned back at the Lair. Epsilon Guard must be entering the house even as they spoke!
Morris must have realized this also, for, rather than responding to Saint John's renewed threat, he turned and dove past the swinging blond, sprinting the way he'd come. The elevator! Saint John realized, eyes widening with dismay. He too broke into a run, but was too late to prevent the black man from diving into the open elevator and slapping his hand on the Close button. Saint John reached him just as the doors shut, and frantically applied his strength, attempting to force the metal doors back open. There was no purchase for his fingers, and he was left impotently staring at the white metal frame. "No!" he growled punching the metal surface frustratedly. "This isn't going to happen, Bishop!"
His eye caught on the red EXIT sign to his right. The stairway! He loped toward them only to come up short when he heard the sound of boots above. "Friend or foe?" he mused fleetingly, remembering Jo's admonition that Horn's troops were being forced toward the lower levels. Unable to identify the unknown by their step, Hawke decided to pursue the better part of valor, and beat a hasty retreat in the direction his brother had taken, scooping up the Ingram as he passed. He hadn't forgotten the gunshot that had precipitated the skirmish in the first place.
The room Jo had targeted lay at the corridor's other extreme, on an angle to the second elevator provided for staff and residents. This chamber's panel/door was open -- a gaping invitation. But to what? Saint John approached cautiously, now able to discern voices from within but unable to recognize them as yet. Wait ... one of them sounded like String, but there was another speaking as well ... a stranger. Perhaps an armed stranger?
Machine pistol ready, Saint John paused several feet from the entrance, tensed ... and leapt backwards when a fair haired, slender figure in a silver flight suit like Saint John's own, barrelled out the door. "String?" he bellowed in response, barely preventing reflex from tightening his finger on the trigger.
The silver clad man spun towards him, bringing up his own automatic. The two glared at each other for a long moment, then the younger man's face cleared, a relieved smile on his cracked lips, tautness flowing from his battered body in a tide. "Where've you been?" Stringfellow breathed, lowering the Browning. "I thought--"
"You thought?" the older man grinned, feeling as much relief as String showed. "What happened? I heard a shot." He turned to scan the hallway behind them. No telling if Bishop was sending friends this way. When he turned back it was to stare rooted in shock at a much changed but long beloved figure that had held a place in Saint John Hawke's heart for the better part of his life. "D-Dominic?" he stuttered when he could speak at all. "Dominic, is that really you?"
By all appearances, Dominic Santini was even more astonished to see him. Brown eyes grew round, the jowled jaw dropping. Santini's gray head shook from side to side, tilted as though he couldn't believe the evidence of his eyes. "It can't be," he decided at last, nevertheless using his single crutch to wobble closer for a better look. "It isn't possible ... after all these years."
"It's true, Dom!" String positively glowed with happiness, his joy injecting new life into his injured body and exhausted eyes. "Saint John got back three months ago."
Santini spared the younger brother a single, confirming glance, then Saint John's legs were moving of their own accord, his arms closing around his foster father's shoulders in a fierce bearhug. "Thought you were gone, my friend," he managed hoarsely, the lump in his throat swelling to blur his vision with tears. "Long gone."
He felt Dom's arms close around him in turn, the crutch clattering unnoticed to the floor. "It's you that was lost, boy," Santini growled, his own tears wetting Hawke's shoulder. "God forgive me, I buried you fifteen years ago despite what String believed." He pulled back, using one hand -- badly scarred and missing fingers, the blond noticed -- to wipe his own eyes, the other to touch Saint John's face, running it down the long jaw and pausing at the new bruises already swelling there. "Been through a few recent wars, I see," was the old pilot's only comment.
"Bishop Morris. I lost him." Somehow Saint John couldn't work up much regret over the fact right this minute. The time to settle with Morris would come; now was only the pleasure of seeing Dominic Santini again.
Santini grunted, patting one of the hands Saint John kept wrapped around his upper arms. Over his shoulder he growled, "Why didn't you tell me Saint John was back?"
This was directed not to Stringfellow, but to the disheveled, white garbed man, who was prodding a second blond into the hall by jabbing him in the back with an assault rifle. "I had a few other things on my mind, if you'll recall," Michael Coldsmith-Briggs returned mildly, freeing one hand to adjust his half-blackened glasses higher on his puffy nose. "Good to see you, Hawke."
Saint John nodded back, eyes flicking to the little girl trailing Michael by a step, then to the captive, who was standing quietly, animosity glowing behind his turquoise colored eyes. "Is that Horn?"
"John Bradford Horn," Archangel acknowledged, jabbing the man again. "Who has set a detonation device due to go off in ..." He glanced backward, consulting something out of Hawke's view. "... six minutes, thirty-nine seconds. We have to get out of here." He took a cautious step to the side and took a glaring Santini by one arm, then jerked his head meaningfully at Stringfellow.
Saint John followed his gesture in time to see the younger man abort an attempt at retrieving the crutch, his gasp of pain at bending cut off between clenched teeth. Saint John casually brushed past as if he wasn't there, picking up the crutch and fitting it under Santini's shoulder. "We'd better move. We might have to fight our way past what's left of Horn's troops." There was some satisfaction in seeing the industrialist stiffen at that, then there was no more time for taunts, for time truly was running out. Saint John and Stringfellow taking the point, the five men and one child made their way quickly across the hall, disdaining the elevator and choosing instead the staircase. Saint John paused to listen but heard no sign of life from the immediate vicinity; he hoped this meant Horn's men were corralled in the half of the building they'd just quitted.
They made their way up, Saint John loosing one hand from the Ingram to pull the little radio out of his pocket. "Jo," he hailed in a low voice. "Horn activated a bomb under the building; tell Epsilon Guard to pull back. Now!"
Her acknowledgement came immediately, then Saint John was repocketing the device and concentrating on his climb. There was a brief whisper of sound from above, that of footsteps retreating toward the front of the house. He nodded, and the rag-tag team started off again, making their hobbling way up the stairs, which terminated in what appeared to be a large recreational area; a pool table dominated the far end, comfortable chairs and a sofa arranged near a bar on the left. Through open double doors off to the right a barracks arrangement with tiered bunks could be glimpsed.
"I see an exit past the bar," String directed, nudging Saint John's arm with his elbow. "C'mon, this--" The words were cut off with the sharp, flat crack of a rifle mixing almost simultaneously with the dull thud of lead entering wood. Splinters erupted beside String's head, sending both men diving backward into the stairwell for cover.
"That you, Hawke?" a familiar bass voice called as almost a friendly taunt. "Come back to learn another lesson about disappearing into a crowd?"
"Friend of your, String?" Santini asked mock-blandly from behind.
"Horn's head of security -- mercenary named Rombauer." That was Michael, who was keeping one cautious hand on the industrialist's collar, the other holding the AK-47 against his spine. "He was the one who captured us at Ling-Ling's."
"Rombauer's the only one covering the exit," the younger Hawke reported, peeking around the protecting wall. "Two others outside the door returning fire into the field."
Saint John double checked the load in his rifle. We're going to get one opportunity, he told himself grimly, and if it doesn't come in the next minute or two, it won't come at all. "Cover?" he rapped aloud.
"None close enough to do any good." String ducked back ahead of another attempt at removing his head from his shoulders long-distance, and adjusted his already crushing grip on the Browning. "Get ready, Saint John; he's going to have to expose himself when he goes for me. Wait for your chance."
Saint John Hawke knew his brother too well -- had worked with him far too long -- to misunderstand the proposed strategy. He snagged the young man's wrist above the scarlet spotted bandages, pulling him to a halt. "What makes you think it's going to be you that draws fire?" he demanded more harshly than he intended. "I'm a lot faster right now."
"You're going to make the shot," Stringfellow returned, pulling his wrist free.
"I've got the rank, Captain," Major Saint John Hawke retorted, experienced mind already calculating his route into the rec room. If he turned a long jump into a somersault.... His attention snapped around at the gentle touch on his arm, and he found himself peering into a pair of weary but determined blue eyes.
"Can't do it, Saint John." String shook his head, hefting the Browning tiredly as though it were nearly too heavy to hold. "We've only got one shot and I won't be able to make it. I ... can't see that well anymore."
The admission cost him -- Saint John could see that before he looked away. Although every instinct he had screamed at him to gainsay what was about to happen -- that String could never move fast enough to evade a bullet! -- still, there were only seconds left before six people died in an explosion of unknown proportions, one of them a little girl. This is that one opportunity you were looking for, he told himself sourly. No choice but to take it. He swallowed and forced a smile. "Make it a good one, kid," he said, bracing the MAC-11 with both hands. "Ready?"
String took a deep breath, crouched ... and sprang! -- following the exact route Saint John would have had their positions been reversed. Only a fraction later, Saint John too had exposed himself to the open room, gray eyes narrowed and alert for any sign of movement. A glimpse of olive drab coincided with the loud report from Horn's sentry, a tall, thin man with a pencil mustache; the chatter of Saint John's Ingram came less than a second later, his aim true. There was a muffled scream from the doorway, then a thud, the man named Rombauer crumpling where he stood, nine millimeters of lead lodged in his heart.
Saint John, however, had dismissed the dead man as soon as he'd fired, trusting years of experience to provide a successful shot. He spun on his heel, eyes seeking the prone figure of his brother on the floor, his reflexes carrying him forward in a little bound. "String?" he asked, hearing the rest following him into the rec room as a group.
The younger Hawke raised his head an inch at a time, then used Saint John's offered hand to pull himself to his feet. "Good shot," he approved, reeling dizzily with his first step. He would have fallen but for Saint John's hold, but there was no sign of blood. Immensely relieved, the older Hawke slid an arm under his brother's shoulders, half supporting, half dragging him along to the tantalizingly nearby door. There was no time left!
There was still sporadic firing from without; two of Horn's men were crouched back to the door, taking vain potshots at the retreating Epsilon Guard. Even as the Hawkes approached, Michael was in action; he jabbed Horn in the stomach with the barrel of the AK-47 he carried, doubling the man over and preventing him from either crying out a warning or interfering in any way. Then the blond agent stepped calmly out onto the stone porch and sprayed the area with lead; both enemy soldiers dropped; neither moved again.
Michael reached back and grabbed Amy around the waist, launching himself off the porch into a full run, her little legs bouncing along in the air behind him. Horn was right behind him, evidently his instincts for self- preservation superseded his anger. Aware of only seconds left on the timer, Saint John released String to snag Dominic's right arm, waiting only until String had grabbed hold of the older man's left, then those three too were in motion, Saint John directing them toward the multi-hued boulder decorating one side of the garden. They didn't make it -- the explosion was a compressed tsunami of air, a giant's hand scooping them high then slamming them petulantly back down toward the dry, very hard earth. Peripherally, Saint John could see the same thing happening to Horn, Michael and Amy ahead of them before the ground came up to meet him and took his breath away.
***
The fighting was winding to a close by the time Bishop Morris effected his escape from the underground warren John Bradford Horn had used as a base of operations for the last six months. He emerged from the estate's side door and dropped into a crouching run, instincts that had protected him during twenty years steady combat, kicking in now. Movement from the tree line drew his attention; not waiting for identification, he fired from the hip and was rewarded by a grunt and a thud. A shout from his left provoked another burst from the AK-47 he'd confiscated from one of the dead, this round more 'point and spray' than aimed. The shouter fell silent, and Morris moved on. Bodies lay scattered across the blood soaked earth, limbs akimbo in the various attitudes of death. He ignored them; death held no terrors for the hardened mercenary -- no feeling at all save the thrill he felt when it was he himself who bestowed it.
Since Epsilon Guard had managed to herd whatever was left of Horn's men into the mansion, Morris met with no opposition, and was only forced to duck for cover once when a soldier patrolling the perimeter passed by. He picked his way across the garden and over the wall, following a path only a dozen men were aware existed. After that it was clear for him to break into a full run, his goal a tiny wooden shed set in the center of the mine field.
"Got to hand it to old Horn," he muttered, tugging open the flimsy looking door and stepping into the dim interior, "he might'a misjudged the kid's conditioning, but he didn't spare the dinero on this operation, and that just might save my hide."
The shed was no more than four feet wide; little more was needed, however, since it housed no equipment. Stairs led down into the earth to a narrow, concrete tunnel only a dozen yards long, opening up into a shallow dish- shaped hollow in the earth eerily lit from above by the sun shining through camouflage netting. It gave the green and brown Huey Cobra helicopter concealed there a dappled effect, the illumination more than bright enough to highlight the fully loaded rocket launcher mounted on the chopper's right flank.
Morris ran one hand lovingly over the metal skin, thick features twisted. "You're my ticket out'a here, baby," he grunted, starting violently when the earth shook with thunder. "What the--?!" he gasped, having to grab the helicopter to avoid being thrown off his feet. "An explosion! Horn blew the place up, the crazy--"
But this was not the time to debate the condition of his former employer's supposed sanity. Even as the last reverberations of the blast were dying away, Morris took hold of a sturdy nylon rope dangling by the overhead rotor. A yank split the camouflage netting neatly in two; it fell to either side of the Cobra leaving a clear sky above.
There was no time for the preflight sequence no experienced -- or sane -- pilot would skip by choice. Morris leaped into the command seat and began engine start-up procedure; within seconds the powerful rotors began to move, once, twice ... picking up speed even as the engine temperature and oil pressure rose in keeping with the rpm. "Just like 'Nam," Morris grinned, pulling back on the controls and clearing the sides of the shallow hole by inches only. He breasted the wall surrounding Horn's estate, flying low to avoid detection. "Looks like ol' Bishop Morris is gonna make it!"
***
The shots came again, louder this time, and Saint John turned to look backwards, doing another rapid calculation of distances and ETA's. The results formed ... then vanished when he found himself face-to-face with the jeans-clad figure who materialized from a small side-corridor quite suddenly, looking quite as surprised to see Saint John as the reverse. He was a big man, roughly Saint John's own six foot one, but much broader, built more like a wrestler than the trim soldier Hawke was. Dark, piggish eyes glittered from a bed of ebony-colored gristle, the round features lined by years of depravity. They gaped at each other for a full two seconds, then Saint John broke the paralysis in which he found himself; the Ingram had centered on the black man's forehead before the other's handgun could find its target.
"I wouldn't," Saint John warned, even as the other froze. "Drop it, Bishop."
Thick lips pulled back from yellow teeth in a snarl, but Bishop Morris obeyed the command reinforced as it was by the subtle tightening of Hawke's finger on the trigger. The automatic hit the floor with a loud clatter beside one muddy high-top, then he lifted both hands away from his body, holding them open to show they were empty. "I heard you were finally home from the wars, Hawke. I was hoping we'd meet up."
Saint John laughed sourly, the old remembered dislike for this man welling again as strong as ever even after nearly twenty years. "I bet you were," he returned acidly. "Auld lang syne, eh?"
The returned sneer carried every bit as much antipathy. "Yeah, I really missed you." He glanced over Saint John's shoulder, probably seeking reinforcements, but they were alone -- Hawke could sense that much now that the sporadic gunfire above had hit a lull. Seeing nothing, Morris stared insolently at the other pilot, from short bronze hair to broad shoulders to combat boots, finally settling on the patch on the silver flight suit, that of a roaring, winged wolf. "So, they got you flying that black honey Horn wants so bad," he remarked, small eyes filled with the interest Airwolf always engendered in a pilot. "Thought that one belonged to your brother."
"You never were very good at thinking," Saint John remarked in a hard voice. "Passing out dope -- that's what Colonel Curtis kept you around for and not much more."
Morris waggled one hand, making sure to do so without making it seem threatening; a MAC-11 is a very good deterrent in that arena. "If you'd'a been smart you could have gotten in on the deal like your brother did. He used to work for me after my transfer."
If he'd expected this to confuse Saint John, he was mistaken. The feeble attempt at causing a rift actually relaxed the younger pilot slightly, gray eyes sparkling with contempt. "Won't wash, Bishop. I know String told you to shove off a long time before you even had a chance to make the offer."
"A Boy Scout," the black man retorted, "like you an' the rest of Vidor's Golden Boys. Thought you were too good for the rest of us."
"The rest of you drug dealers?" Hawke supplied, thin lip lifting on one side. He remembered 'the rest of us' well -- a band of mercenaries culled from the ranks, baser appetites pandered to in exchange for the corruption of the innocent.
Morris seemed unoffended by the appellation. "I made me a bushel of money with Curtis, but after this caper I'm going to retire a rich man."
"You're going to retire to San Quentin," the other volleyed, cradling his MAC-11 a little closer. "I'm sure all your money will buy enough cigarettes to keep you alive for a while." He gestured at the mercenary's dirty jeans and sweaty black sports shirt. "I see you can afford Brooks Brothers these days."
Morris' laugh was cruel, his face so filled with sadistic pleasure that Hawke could only stare with a kind of fascinated repugnance, the way one might at something particularly loathsome. "Yeah! Brooks Brothers. That's real good, Boy Scout! Why don't I tell you what that pretty little spy was wearing when we met up at the airport?" Morris smacked his lips, making the sound an obscenity. "Pammy, wasn't that her name? Yep, she was a spirited little thing -- just how I liked 'em in 'Nam."
"You liked them dead in 'Nam," the blond spat, disgusted. "The local girls tried to avoid you as much as possible."
"The local girls would do anything for C-rations. I learned that quick enough." The black man's chin jutted pugnaciously, sadistic amusement entering his expression. "Like Dan-yi. Remember her? She used ta be one of yours, I think."
Truth be told, Saint John didn't remember Dan-yi although the name rang vague bells. He'd first gone to Viet Nam almost twenty years before, and during that time -- especially after he and Maggie broke up -- there had been many women in various capacities. But that had been a long time ago. Maggie. Her pretty face flashed before him and was gone, evoking a shade of the old affections he'd felt for the woman. String had said she was married with a child now; at least she'd had the good sense to steer clear of scum like Morris, even if she had fallen for Mace Taggert's dubious charms.
Growing acutely conscious of the passage of time, he said aloud, "Viet Nam was a long time ago, Morris. Today is what's important. Why don't we go meet some people." He gestured down the hall behind him. "This way. Easy does it, now."
Morris obeyed, moving forward until they were abreast in the hallway. He then stopped, turning to face Saint John across the length of the gun; prudently, Hawke stepped backward a pace. "Keep going," he ordered in a hard voice."
Never lacking for courage, Morris ignored the warning although he still kept his hands away from his body. "You an' me," he invited, making two fists. "We got a personal score to settle."
"All you have is a bullet in the gut if you don't get moving," Saint John returned scornfully at the obvious gambit; he felt far more comfortable with the assault weapon right where it was.
A crafty look entered Morris' eyes, and Hawke tensed, already knowing what the soldier-for-hire was about to say -- it was the last psychological weapon in his arsenal. "I wouldn't be too trusting of your little brother," Morris remarked, deliberately provocative. "Not after Zarkov got through with him." He leaned fractionally closer, enough to give the impression of confidentiality, not enough to earn the promised bullet. "Maybe I could tell you all about that part. Want to hear how loud he screamed when Zarkov was applying the juice to him?" He took one step closer, stopping again when Hawke's knuckles tightened around the trigger. "He screamed and begged and slobbered all over me to help him out."
That did strike home, for Saint John would long remember his brother's collapse back at the Lair. He tensed, gray eyes becoming steel while he briefly considered ending the confrontation then and there ... and permanently. His only manifest response, however, was a tiny shrug. "You have it all wrong, Bishop," he told the black man in a reasonable timbre. "It's String who has the short fuse, not me." He smiled coldly, little more than a twitch of his lips. "Me, I'm the calm one, the patient one -- the one who doesn't mind waiting to see you sentenced to life in prison for murder. Or is there a death penalty in Nevada? Yeah, I think there might be."
Morris gulped, cruel gaze filling with malice. "Taking the kid out felt almost as good as icing that old man, Santini."
No more than a flicker crossed Saint John's face at the taunt. "If there isn't a death penalty in this state," he remarked consideringly, "I'm sure the Company can arrange one for me as a personal favor."
Although the words were light, there was no mistaking the deadly seriousness in his tone. Saint John felt the hatred welling in his gut, a fountain of loathing that had surfaced many long years before and geysered with the injury done his brother. He did want to pay back the smirking mercenary for what he'd done to String, to a woman named Pamela, and the anonymous soldiers who had perished at this man's hands over the years. But Hawke knew that allowing a fight to turn personal was often tantamount to putting a bullet in your own head -- lose your control and lose your life. He was far too experienced to let that happen. He was also once more keenly aware, however, that revenge could be completed with a minimum of risk by simply ... squeezing the trigger....
Morris seemed to realize this too, and stiffened, pig-like eyes sliding down to rest on the Ingram. There was another tense pause then Morris nodded acknowledgment although the glower he offered was full of promise. Saint John waited until the black man had begun his turn, then snapped into rapid motion, lowering the gun long enough to step forward and arc his left fist in a fierce backhanded swing that caught the big black man square in the face. Morris' head snapped back, the force of the blow slamming him backwards and all but sending him to his knees. He leaned heavily against the wall, blood trickling from a split lip, the re-aimed Ingram preventing him from taking that clearly telegraphed leap at Saint John's throat.
They stared at each other for long seconds while Hawke fought down the urge to repeat the act. He smiled again, even more frostily than before but feeling better nonetheless. "Guess I was wrong. Looks like String isn't the only one with a short fuse."
Morris spat, a broken tooth hitting the floor by Saint John's right boot. "This ain't over by a long shot, Hawke -- not for you or the kid."
"It'll be over right now," the blond returned imperturbably, "if you don't get going."
There could be no question but this was the absolute truth. Once again Bishop Morris moved in the question indicated, offering only a single malicious glare to back up his oath. They had progressed no more than a few yards when the sound of a gunshot interrupted the brief hush that had fallen, its direction the one in which Stringfellow had disappeared only moments before.
"String!" Saint John exclaimed involuntarily, fear for his brother welling to crowd out thoughts of revenge and anger. For a single split second, Bishop Morris ceased to exist, Saint John's only reality being the dangers his brother could be encountering. They had worked as a team too often to ever doubt the other's abilities, but Saint John knew that now String was badly injured and in no condition to hold his own in a fight. He caught his breath and browbeat his attention back to his captive ... only a fraction of a second too late.
Distraction in battle is often statistically grouped in with bullet wounds -- usually as cause and effect -- on the list headed Most Frequent Causes of Fatalities, and of this Saint John became truly if only briefly aware, for that fraction of a second was all a trained warrior like Bishop Morris needed. The big mercenary shifted his weight onto his left leg, bringing his right around in an ungraceful but effective spinning back kick that sent the compact MAC-11 flying several yards. He followed this up by lunging onto that foot and landing a straight punch into Saint John's gut.
Hawke's expelled his breath in an explosive gasp, the corridor dimming as though a red veil had been dropped over his head. Operating on sheer instinct, he threw himself to the side, sensing a powerhouse right cross whistle past his head, and landing a sharp jab of his own. Morris was forced back a step, give Hawke the opportunity to draw in a shallow breath to clear his vision. He succeeded barely in time, for the big black man was already in motion with a flurry of vicious jabs any one of which would have ended the fight then and there. Faster by far, Saint John danced out of the way, ducking one and using his position to kick out, the toe of his heavy boot landing solidly in the bigger man's crotch. Morris grunted and doubled over, venting a stream of grunted oaths that should have caused the air to sizzle.
Intending to end the fight without further ado, Saint John closed the distance between them, one large fist cocked for a final, crushing blow to the other's pugnacious jaw. Morris, obviously less incapacitated than he'd put on, rallied to his own attack. Relatively matched in size, strength and experience, the two traded blows for nearly two minutes, each managing to land several solid body punches before breaking away.
Saint John, breathing hard, studied his opponent calculatedly, assessing the damage he'd done to the burly body. Although bruises barely showed against the man's dark skin, blood streamed from the squat nose and split lip, a lump already visible on the man's jaw. He was moving slower than before as well, less able to avoid Hawke's blows; whereas Hawke, a few years younger and of trimmer physique, retained his speed and agility. Got you now, scumball, he thought, closing in for the finale.
He'd've made it, too, but for the overhead explosion that shook the foundation of the house, one that Hawke recognized as the proper application of high explosives that Mike Rivers had mentioned back at the Lair. Epsilon Guard must be entering the house even as they spoke!
Morris must have realized this also, for, rather than responding to Saint John's renewed threat, he turned and dove past the swinging blond, sprinting the way he'd come. The elevator! Saint John realized, eyes widening with dismay. He too broke into a run, but was too late to prevent the black man from diving into the open elevator and slapping his hand on the Close button. Saint John reached him just as the doors shut, and frantically applied his strength, attempting to force the metal doors back open. There was no purchase for his fingers, and he was left impotently staring at the white metal frame. "No!" he growled punching the metal surface frustratedly. "This isn't going to happen, Bishop!"
His eye caught on the red EXIT sign to his right. The stairway! He loped toward them only to come up short when he heard the sound of boots above. "Friend or foe?" he mused fleetingly, remembering Jo's admonition that Horn's troops were being forced toward the lower levels. Unable to identify the unknown by their step, Hawke decided to pursue the better part of valor, and beat a hasty retreat in the direction his brother had taken, scooping up the Ingram as he passed. He hadn't forgotten the gunshot that had precipitated the skirmish in the first place.
The room Jo had targeted lay at the corridor's other extreme, on an angle to the second elevator provided for staff and residents. This chamber's panel/door was open -- a gaping invitation. But to what? Saint John approached cautiously, now able to discern voices from within but unable to recognize them as yet. Wait ... one of them sounded like String, but there was another speaking as well ... a stranger. Perhaps an armed stranger?
Machine pistol ready, Saint John paused several feet from the entrance, tensed ... and leapt backwards when a fair haired, slender figure in a silver flight suit like Saint John's own, barrelled out the door. "String?" he bellowed in response, barely preventing reflex from tightening his finger on the trigger.
The silver clad man spun towards him, bringing up his own automatic. The two glared at each other for a long moment, then the younger man's face cleared, a relieved smile on his cracked lips, tautness flowing from his battered body in a tide. "Where've you been?" Stringfellow breathed, lowering the Browning. "I thought--"
"You thought?" the older man grinned, feeling as much relief as String showed. "What happened? I heard a shot." He turned to scan the hallway behind them. No telling if Bishop was sending friends this way. When he turned back it was to stare rooted in shock at a much changed but long beloved figure that had held a place in Saint John Hawke's heart for the better part of his life. "D-Dominic?" he stuttered when he could speak at all. "Dominic, is that really you?"
By all appearances, Dominic Santini was even more astonished to see him. Brown eyes grew round, the jowled jaw dropping. Santini's gray head shook from side to side, tilted as though he couldn't believe the evidence of his eyes. "It can't be," he decided at last, nevertheless using his single crutch to wobble closer for a better look. "It isn't possible ... after all these years."
"It's true, Dom!" String positively glowed with happiness, his joy injecting new life into his injured body and exhausted eyes. "Saint John got back three months ago."
Santini spared the younger brother a single, confirming glance, then Saint John's legs were moving of their own accord, his arms closing around his foster father's shoulders in a fierce bearhug. "Thought you were gone, my friend," he managed hoarsely, the lump in his throat swelling to blur his vision with tears. "Long gone."
He felt Dom's arms close around him in turn, the crutch clattering unnoticed to the floor. "It's you that was lost, boy," Santini growled, his own tears wetting Hawke's shoulder. "God forgive me, I buried you fifteen years ago despite what String believed." He pulled back, using one hand -- badly scarred and missing fingers, the blond noticed -- to wipe his own eyes, the other to touch Saint John's face, running it down the long jaw and pausing at the new bruises already swelling there. "Been through a few recent wars, I see," was the old pilot's only comment.
"Bishop Morris. I lost him." Somehow Saint John couldn't work up much regret over the fact right this minute. The time to settle with Morris would come; now was only the pleasure of seeing Dominic Santini again.
Santini grunted, patting one of the hands Saint John kept wrapped around his upper arms. Over his shoulder he growled, "Why didn't you tell me Saint John was back?"
This was directed not to Stringfellow, but to the disheveled, white garbed man, who was prodding a second blond into the hall by jabbing him in the back with an assault rifle. "I had a few other things on my mind, if you'll recall," Michael Coldsmith-Briggs returned mildly, freeing one hand to adjust his half-blackened glasses higher on his puffy nose. "Good to see you, Hawke."
Saint John nodded back, eyes flicking to the little girl trailing Michael by a step, then to the captive, who was standing quietly, animosity glowing behind his turquoise colored eyes. "Is that Horn?"
"John Bradford Horn," Archangel acknowledged, jabbing the man again. "Who has set a detonation device due to go off in ..." He glanced backward, consulting something out of Hawke's view. "... six minutes, thirty-nine seconds. We have to get out of here." He took a cautious step to the side and took a glaring Santini by one arm, then jerked his head meaningfully at Stringfellow.
Saint John followed his gesture in time to see the younger man abort an attempt at retrieving the crutch, his gasp of pain at bending cut off between clenched teeth. Saint John casually brushed past as if he wasn't there, picking up the crutch and fitting it under Santini's shoulder. "We'd better move. We might have to fight our way past what's left of Horn's troops." There was some satisfaction in seeing the industrialist stiffen at that, then there was no more time for taunts, for time truly was running out. Saint John and Stringfellow taking the point, the five men and one child made their way quickly across the hall, disdaining the elevator and choosing instead the staircase. Saint John paused to listen but heard no sign of life from the immediate vicinity; he hoped this meant Horn's men were corralled in the half of the building they'd just quitted.
They made their way up, Saint John loosing one hand from the Ingram to pull the little radio out of his pocket. "Jo," he hailed in a low voice. "Horn activated a bomb under the building; tell Epsilon Guard to pull back. Now!"
Her acknowledgement came immediately, then Saint John was repocketing the device and concentrating on his climb. There was a brief whisper of sound from above, that of footsteps retreating toward the front of the house. He nodded, and the rag-tag team started off again, making their hobbling way up the stairs, which terminated in what appeared to be a large recreational area; a pool table dominated the far end, comfortable chairs and a sofa arranged near a bar on the left. Through open double doors off to the right a barracks arrangement with tiered bunks could be glimpsed.
"I see an exit past the bar," String directed, nudging Saint John's arm with his elbow. "C'mon, this--" The words were cut off with the sharp, flat crack of a rifle mixing almost simultaneously with the dull thud of lead entering wood. Splinters erupted beside String's head, sending both men diving backward into the stairwell for cover.
"That you, Hawke?" a familiar bass voice called as almost a friendly taunt. "Come back to learn another lesson about disappearing into a crowd?"
"Friend of your, String?" Santini asked mock-blandly from behind.
"Horn's head of security -- mercenary named Rombauer." That was Michael, who was keeping one cautious hand on the industrialist's collar, the other holding the AK-47 against his spine. "He was the one who captured us at Ling-Ling's."
"Rombauer's the only one covering the exit," the younger Hawke reported, peeking around the protecting wall. "Two others outside the door returning fire into the field."
Saint John double checked the load in his rifle. We're going to get one opportunity, he told himself grimly, and if it doesn't come in the next minute or two, it won't come at all. "Cover?" he rapped aloud.
"None close enough to do any good." String ducked back ahead of another attempt at removing his head from his shoulders long-distance, and adjusted his already crushing grip on the Browning. "Get ready, Saint John; he's going to have to expose himself when he goes for me. Wait for your chance."
Saint John Hawke knew his brother too well -- had worked with him far too long -- to misunderstand the proposed strategy. He snagged the young man's wrist above the scarlet spotted bandages, pulling him to a halt. "What makes you think it's going to be you that draws fire?" he demanded more harshly than he intended. "I'm a lot faster right now."
"You're going to make the shot," Stringfellow returned, pulling his wrist free.
"I've got the rank, Captain," Major Saint John Hawke retorted, experienced mind already calculating his route into the rec room. If he turned a long jump into a somersault.... His attention snapped around at the gentle touch on his arm, and he found himself peering into a pair of weary but determined blue eyes.
"Can't do it, Saint John." String shook his head, hefting the Browning tiredly as though it were nearly too heavy to hold. "We've only got one shot and I won't be able to make it. I ... can't see that well anymore."
The admission cost him -- Saint John could see that before he looked away. Although every instinct he had screamed at him to gainsay what was about to happen -- that String could never move fast enough to evade a bullet! -- still, there were only seconds left before six people died in an explosion of unknown proportions, one of them a little girl. This is that one opportunity you were looking for, he told himself sourly. No choice but to take it. He swallowed and forced a smile. "Make it a good one, kid," he said, bracing the MAC-11 with both hands. "Ready?"
String took a deep breath, crouched ... and sprang! -- following the exact route Saint John would have had their positions been reversed. Only a fraction later, Saint John too had exposed himself to the open room, gray eyes narrowed and alert for any sign of movement. A glimpse of olive drab coincided with the loud report from Horn's sentry, a tall, thin man with a pencil mustache; the chatter of Saint John's Ingram came less than a second later, his aim true. There was a muffled scream from the doorway, then a thud, the man named Rombauer crumpling where he stood, nine millimeters of lead lodged in his heart.
Saint John, however, had dismissed the dead man as soon as he'd fired, trusting years of experience to provide a successful shot. He spun on his heel, eyes seeking the prone figure of his brother on the floor, his reflexes carrying him forward in a little bound. "String?" he asked, hearing the rest following him into the rec room as a group.
The younger Hawke raised his head an inch at a time, then used Saint John's offered hand to pull himself to his feet. "Good shot," he approved, reeling dizzily with his first step. He would have fallen but for Saint John's hold, but there was no sign of blood. Immensely relieved, the older Hawke slid an arm under his brother's shoulders, half supporting, half dragging him along to the tantalizingly nearby door. There was no time left!
There was still sporadic firing from without; two of Horn's men were crouched back to the door, taking vain potshots at the retreating Epsilon Guard. Even as the Hawkes approached, Michael was in action; he jabbed Horn in the stomach with the barrel of the AK-47 he carried, doubling the man over and preventing him from either crying out a warning or interfering in any way. Then the blond agent stepped calmly out onto the stone porch and sprayed the area with lead; both enemy soldiers dropped; neither moved again.
Michael reached back and grabbed Amy around the waist, launching himself off the porch into a full run, her little legs bouncing along in the air behind him. Horn was right behind him, evidently his instincts for self- preservation superseded his anger. Aware of only seconds left on the timer, Saint John released String to snag Dominic's right arm, waiting only until String had grabbed hold of the older man's left, then those three too were in motion, Saint John directing them toward the multi-hued boulder decorating one side of the garden. They didn't make it -- the explosion was a compressed tsunami of air, a giant's hand scooping them high then slamming them petulantly back down toward the dry, very hard earth. Peripherally, Saint John could see the same thing happening to Horn, Michael and Amy ahead of them before the ground came up to meet him and took his breath away.
***
The fighting was winding to a close by the time Bishop Morris effected his escape from the underground warren John Bradford Horn had used as a base of operations for the last six months. He emerged from the estate's side door and dropped into a crouching run, instincts that had protected him during twenty years steady combat, kicking in now. Movement from the tree line drew his attention; not waiting for identification, he fired from the hip and was rewarded by a grunt and a thud. A shout from his left provoked another burst from the AK-47 he'd confiscated from one of the dead, this round more 'point and spray' than aimed. The shouter fell silent, and Morris moved on. Bodies lay scattered across the blood soaked earth, limbs akimbo in the various attitudes of death. He ignored them; death held no terrors for the hardened mercenary -- no feeling at all save the thrill he felt when it was he himself who bestowed it.
Since Epsilon Guard had managed to herd whatever was left of Horn's men into the mansion, Morris met with no opposition, and was only forced to duck for cover once when a soldier patrolling the perimeter passed by. He picked his way across the garden and over the wall, following a path only a dozen men were aware existed. After that it was clear for him to break into a full run, his goal a tiny wooden shed set in the center of the mine field.
"Got to hand it to old Horn," he muttered, tugging open the flimsy looking door and stepping into the dim interior, "he might'a misjudged the kid's conditioning, but he didn't spare the dinero on this operation, and that just might save my hide."
The shed was no more than four feet wide; little more was needed, however, since it housed no equipment. Stairs led down into the earth to a narrow, concrete tunnel only a dozen yards long, opening up into a shallow dish- shaped hollow in the earth eerily lit from above by the sun shining through camouflage netting. It gave the green and brown Huey Cobra helicopter concealed there a dappled effect, the illumination more than bright enough to highlight the fully loaded rocket launcher mounted on the chopper's right flank.
Morris ran one hand lovingly over the metal skin, thick features twisted. "You're my ticket out'a here, baby," he grunted, starting violently when the earth shook with thunder. "What the--?!" he gasped, having to grab the helicopter to avoid being thrown off his feet. "An explosion! Horn blew the place up, the crazy--"
But this was not the time to debate the condition of his former employer's supposed sanity. Even as the last reverberations of the blast were dying away, Morris took hold of a sturdy nylon rope dangling by the overhead rotor. A yank split the camouflage netting neatly in two; it fell to either side of the Cobra leaving a clear sky above.
There was no time for the preflight sequence no experienced -- or sane -- pilot would skip by choice. Morris leaped into the command seat and began engine start-up procedure; within seconds the powerful rotors began to move, once, twice ... picking up speed even as the engine temperature and oil pressure rose in keeping with the rpm. "Just like 'Nam," Morris grinned, pulling back on the controls and clearing the sides of the shallow hole by inches only. He breasted the wall surrounding Horn's estate, flying low to avoid detection. "Looks like ol' Bishop Morris is gonna make it!"
***