Several seconds after detonation, thunder still reverberated from the
distant hills, its longevity confirmation of the magnitude of the explosion
that had spawned it. The dust cloud was thick and choking but already
starting to disperse under the influence of the brisk zephyrs that blew in
off the surrounding desert. Michael, first out the door and farthest from
the building when it went up, was also the first to stir, albeit
sluggishly. One hand instinctively felt for the half-darkened and
manifestly indestructible glasses that had been flung from his face by his
precipitous flight across the grounds. They were mercifully near his
questing fingers, covered with dirt but otherwise undamaged. He placed
them gently back onto the bridge of his less-intact nose, then scrabbled
for the dropped assault rifle, old training guiding his fingers to the
stock as if they were homed.
Thus armed, he rolled over onto his back and sat up, groaning aloud at the effort this put on his battered torso and abdomen. Having achieved this goal, he patted his stomach ruefully and spat dirt out of his mouth, peering into the thinning dust cloud in all directions. He was sitting on the far edge of the paved driveway that looped around the right hand side of the house past the barracks wing; the tidy garden started about twenty feet away with a line of ornamental boulders to border it. A glance confirmed the transformation of the elaborate mansion into a pile of rubble; the building seemed to have collapsed from the middle, the walls falling inward in what looked to be a controlled implosion. The destruction was so complete that they would be hard put to even locate the remaining bodies under the timbers and stone.
By his left hand a small figure stirred. Briggs reached out to pat a curly head soothingly. "Are you all right, Amy?"
Amy Newman snuffled then wiggled around to face him, brown eyes bright in her smudged face. "I'm okay. Are you hurt, Uncle Michael? You're not, are you?"
He smiled at her tone; this wasn't the first time he'd been the recipient of a childish crush. "Not at all. I--" Something rustled in the bushes off to their left then stopped; Michael stiffened and casually aimed the rifle in that direction although his expression would have betrayed nothing even if it could have been seen through the still billowing ground-level dirt. "Need you to do something for me," he told the child in a low voice. "See that rock right there?" He gestured to the five-foot puce colored boulder nearest them. "I want you to run as fast as you can and hide way down under that rock where you won't be seen."
Big brown eyes filled with tears, juvenile pluck ebbing now that she had a protector. "I want to stay with you," she whined, taking his hand.
He smiled, turning the charm that had won her over, up several notches. "I'll be right back. Now.... Go!" She went, scurrying across the short distance to huddle in a little hollow carved out of the base of the indicated boulder. Seeing her safely out of the line of fire and keeping his own weapon trained on the garden, Michael crabbed backwards toward his felled companions. He found Horn first; the industrialist lay face down several feet to the rear, face and expensive clothes caked with dirt; his eyes were closed although his breathing was regular.
Michael spared him barely a glance before continuing on several yards farther, where three men lay sprawled in a tangle amid a scattershot pattern of debris from the blast. One figure, identifiable by his size as Saint John Hawke, lay half on top of the other two in a vain attempt at shielding them. He was already stirring, a harsh cough wrenched from him as he rolled over and up.
"Who...?" he asked, staring at the grimy, blond-haired agent squatting next to him. "Archangel?"
"Not looking quite so cherubic at the moment," Briggs gibed, single eye still scanning the terrain; the dust was now clear enough to see shapes smaller than the massive boulders and vague brush. "We need to get out of the open. This area may not be secured."
The older Hawke wiped his face on the gray sleeve of his flightsuit and leaned over the two still-prone men, touching each on the shoulder. "Dom? String? You two okay?"
A low Italian curse greeted the hail. Dominic Santini flopped feebly then cursed again. "Yer layin' on my arm, String," he complained, giving the younger man a poke. "An' about half my chest."
"Sorry," came the mumbled reply. Stringfellow lifted his head wearily, as though it were too heavy for him, and risked a semi-deep breath, aborting the attempt with a little gasp. "We're still alive?"
"Not fer long if you don't get off'a my arm," Santini snapped in a stronger voice. He waited until the younger man slid to the side, then allowed Saint John to pull him into a sitting position; small pieces of stone and wood fell from his back to mingle with those already covering the immediate area. "Well, that was a gas. Why don't we try for an A-bomb next time to make it really interesting?"
The sound of gunfire came from the direction of the rustling bushes, although not aimed in their direction. Michael stiffened and lifted up into a crouch, bringing his own rifle to his shoulder in a sniper's pose, while Saint John grabbed up the MAC-11 and approximated his action on Santini's far side. "This is interesting enough for me," the blond agent gritted. "Hawke ... Stringfellow, can you move?"
The brown head nodded, Stringfellow dragging himself to his knees as proof. He wobbled dizzily, barely able to hold himself upright, but gamely hooked an elbow through Santini's, and forced himself to his feet using Michael's shoulder for support. "I-I'll get Dom ... over there," he murmured through clenched teeth. "Cover us."
"Hey! I can--" Santini began, his words cut off when he was well and truly ignored. While Briggs and the older Hawke brother stalked cautiously toward the bushes, Santini was dragged like a sack of grain away from the open ground surrounding the ruins of the house and past Horn's immobile body. He helped as best he could but his atrophied muscles had long since reached the end of their tolerance, his weight the equivalent of an anchor to the younger man. By the time they'd reached the shelter of the rocks, String was panting for air that didn't seem to want to come, his forehead beaded with sweat; he collapsed to his knees, one arm wrapped around his ribs.
"Uncle Dom!" Amy called, not moving from her position in the little hollow.
Santini gave her a wave, his attention focused on the barely conscious pilot. "You okay, kid?" he asked quietly, gently cupping Hawke's parchment white cheek.
He got a vague nod in return, and the muttered, "Need to help Saint John." Blinking his dull eyes clear of dust-generated tears, Stringfellow began the long crawl back toward the clearing.
Santini made a failed snatch for his arm as he passed. "You need to sit-- Idiot!"
That last was called after the young man's retreating form, but Stringfellow didn't stop. He worked his way back to their former position from which point he could see both Michael and his brother slithering toward the bushes on their bellies. There would be no shooting, he knew, until the two were able to identify those on the other side. String hoped with all his soul it was Epsilon Guard moving in the area -- the darkness was fast closing in on him, consciousness fading in stages; the effect was curiously like entering a rapidly narrowing tunnel. His final reserves were long gone and only the fear of leaving Saint John and Michael without support kept him moving at all. Even that wouldn't last much longer.
Hawke retrieved the dropped Browning High Power from where it had been tossed by the explosion; it felt light in his experienced hand, a sure sign that ammunition was depleted. "Dom's gun is here somewhere," he muttered, remembering the glint of metal falling out of Santini's waistband a few moments earlier. "He should have some shots left."
A fast search of the immediate area turned up nothing although one startling fact did slowly penetrate the fog filling his brain: the body of John Bradford Horn was gone. "Dom," he breathed, eyes widening with terror. "I have to get to Dom!"
Abandoning stealth in favor of speed, Hawke climbed laboriously back to his feet and limped rapidly back to the rocks, passing a still huddled Amy without a second glance. He burst through the sheltering line of rock, pistol at the fore, determined that this time there would be no mercy -- at the slightest sign of threat, John Bradford Horn would die as he was meant to -- by Stringfellow Hawke's hand. He looked around frantically then stopped, feeling his heart freeze in his chest. "Let him go," he growled, fear making his voice tremble.
The urbanity that had cloaked Horn even more fully than his Versace suits had long been ripped from him; his handsome face was twisted with malevolence, fury suffusing his fair cheeks with red. He stood erect, back protected by a second rock; one arm held a sagging Dominic Santini in front of him as a shield, in the other hand Horn gripped Dominic's dropped pistol, the bore clapped firmly against the old man's temple. "It's not over for me yet, Hawke," he snarled, hate-filled but not yet out of control. "Drop your gun."
"Get out of here, String," Santini grunted, thrashing impotently in the other man's strong grip. "It's too late for me -- save yourself."
To Stringfellow Hawke, abandoning Dominic Santini again was not even an option. To drop the Browning meant that Horn would kill them both; this Hawke knew with every fiber of his being. But could he risk Dom's life by not obeying the clear threat? Experience having long taught him the futility of attempting to assuage a man like this, Hawke lifted the gun higher, bracing it with his other hand; he would get only one shot ... if he could make it. Horn's image was beginning to waver in and out alarmingly, the tunnel narrowing until his field of vision ranged at only a few inches on either side of the man. "Let him go, Horn," he ordered, dismayed to hear the weakness in his voice. "Or you're a dead man."
The industrialist studied him back through shrewd eyes. "Your hands are shaking," he pointed out with malicious glee. "What a shame it would be for a misfire to kill your friend."
Hawke drew in a sharp breath, feeling the sweat running down the side of his face. Horn was right -- his hands were shaking too badly to aim the pistol, and his vision was gone. Collapse was only minutes away at best. "I'll take you down if it's the last thing I do," he swore, swallowing hard and knowing the bluff didn't work when the man's handsome face broke into a wide grin.
"Watching your friend die is the last thing you'll do," he snarled, and tightened his finger on the trigger.
Hawke's cry came simultaneous with the thunderous blast, the knowledge that he was watching Santini die choking away his own life. "I'm sorry," he whimpered, some portion of his brain registering something wrong with the report -- the angle was off, the volume too loud. But those details could mean nothing to a man whose heart was breaking. He again forced the weapon to bear on the two blurry images in front of him, both of which were in the process of falling. His finger was tightening on his own trigger when a powerful hand closed over his forearm, forcing the gun down toward the earth.
"It's all right." Michael Briggs stood there eying him concernedly, the AK- 47 he carried dropping to his side after a rapid scan of the exposed terrain. "You're safe."
"Dom...."
"I'm okay, kid." The gruff tones ... they could only belong to one man. They came from several yards off, where Hawke could barely make out the motion of someone disentangling himself from another, inert, form. "Michael got him right between the eyes."
"Dom's alive?" Hawke stared stupidly back at the blond agent, the concept having trouble penetrating. "Is he...?" There was a pause that lasted a million years, then Michael's acknowledgement was the last thing he heard before the tunnel narrowed to a pinprick and took him away.
Reflexes slow but still operative, Briggs caught the collapsing man around the waist, almost but not quite losing his hold on the assault rifle in the process. He stood there for a moment, staring down at Hawke as though he didn't know what to do with him, then shook his head tiredly. "Guess he deserves the rest," he muttered at last, earning a grunt from a now sitting Santini. It was a struggle, but Michael managed to lower both himself and the other to the ground without straining his injured knee any more than it had been, too exhausted by now to make any attempt at freeing himself from the limp form or even to care that the younger man was practically in his lap. He remained sitting where he was, leaning forward to brace himself against Hawke, who had somehow ended up propped on his shoulder. The rifle he placed at his side, within easy reach should a quick snatch be necessary.
From a dozen feet away, Dominic watched this process with concern. Finally managing to escape Horn's death grip, he scooted a few feet from the ghastly body. The industrialist's eyes were open, fixed in ultimate surprise on the unclouded sky, a neat, nearly bloodless hole drilled precisely between them. Dom glanced at him briefly, long enough to make sure the man was dead, then dismissed him without any reaction save a satisfied nod. "Is String okay?" he demanded, returning his attention to his companions.
Completely spent in both mind and body, Michael allowed himself to droop forward until his forehead rested against Hawke's hair; without the younger man's counterbalancing weight he would surely have fallen over himself. "Yeah," he mumbled, flopping the arm still draped loosely around Hawke's waist by way of elaboration. "Terrific."
His scarred face puckering, Dominic eyed them both doubtfully. Michael, dirty, unshaven and disheveled, was barely recognizable as the dapper government agent they usually dealt with; String half-lay against him, head back and tilted to the side against Michael's chest, limbs sprawled without grace. "I think I want to see for myself," Santini decided with some alarm.
"Fine," came the nearly inaudible reply. "But you're going to have to come over here, because I'm not even going to try to move either of us."
Santini snorted but started forward. His aged, badly damaged body refused to obey him without a struggle, and it took nearly two minutes for the older pilot to crawl the dozen feet to his companions' side. Wheezing loudly, he drew himself into a sitting position facing Briggs, and took Hawke's slack jaw in one hand, tipping it up to reveal his face. "Kid's really out for the count," he said, carefully not disturbing Archangel's tenuous equilibrium. "How are you feeling, Michael?"
The agent sighed deeply. "'Bout like I look."
"That's too bad." The quip went unnoticed, and Dominic's budding smile faded. He touched the blond agent on the arm. "You saved my life, pal. Thanks."
Briggs turned his head just enough to peek at Santini out of his one eye. "Tell it to Hawke when he wakes up," he replied, tapping the pilot on the chest. "It just may keep him from ripping me apart for putting you in danger at all."
Santini smiled, indomitable humor returning somewhat now that the danger was over. "Kid wouldn't do that to you. He kind'a likes you ... for some reason."
The mock surly tones didn't elicit the response they'd been intended to. Briggs sighed again and shut his eye. "That's past tense now," he mumbled to himself. Movement roused him to one last effort at awareness, and he opened his eye again, even as Santini smiled wider, his greeting for the large-framed, silver uniformed man who hunkered down between them.
"I heard a shot from over here. What happened?" Saint John eyed the trio critically, relaxing slightly upon finding no sign of fresh blood.
Dom pounded him on the back, overjoyed all over again at this living reminder that his foster son was back after fifteen years! "Michael just took out the trash," he replied, jerking a thumb over his shoulder at Horn's body. "Good to see you, boy, good to see you!"
Saint John smiled back, offering a quick, one-armed hug. "You, too, Dom." He released the old man to wrap his fingers around his brother's wrist, seeking the pulse. "Benzedrine finally gave out, eh?" he commented, next checking the younger man's widely dilated pupils.
"I suppose so. And the three of us are going to have a talk about that," Santini stated flatly, his voice full of old remembered promises of stern lectures and swatted backsides.
Fighting the urge to grin anyway, Saint John busied himself with reaching into his pocket for the small radio. "Airwolf, this is Hawke. Jo, are you there?"
"Jo?" Dominic sat up very straight, his jaw dropping. "Joanna? My niece? What is she doing in my bird?"
"Bringing it back here, I hope," the older Hawke returned in his mild tone. They both looked up as the familiar wail of powerful turbines filled the sky; Michael did not move -- from all indications, he looked to be asleep, still leaning against String. Even as they watched, a black dot appeared out of the sun; it grew larger, resolving into the deadly black death machine the United States Government had dubbed Airwolf. It swooped low over the ruins of the building, then circled their position once. Saint John raised a hand in greeting, and the helicopter settled to earth on the tarmac some yards away. Two figures emerged, the smaller one doffing the black helmet and descending like a blonde whirlwind on the waiting group.
"Uncle Dom!" Jo called, breaking her stride long enough to kiss Saint John's cheek. She then flew at Santini, threw both arms around him and hugged him tight, her happiness erasing the worry lines that had appeared around her eyes and mouth of late. "Uncle Dom, I'm so glad to see you! Have you been here the whole time? Did they treat you well? Are you all right?"
He held up a hand to stop the eager rush, his own brown eyes shining. "Questions later, Jo, including what you're doing flying around in my Lady. And who he is." He scowled at Mike Rivers, who waggled his fingers amiably back. He looked around expectantly. "Is Cait with you?"
As if on cue, a tan CHiPs helicopter appeared over the horizon. Jo pointed at it with one finger. "That should be her now. She'll be as glad to see you as we are!"
Now standing, Saint John accepted Mike's handshake, then nodded at Airwolf. "You'd better contact Locke and have him arrange for a medivac out of here. These three need a hospital."
"So do some of Epsilon Guard," the younger man replied. "Stretchers are already on their way."
"Then there's nothing for us to do but wait," Saint John decided, seating himself contentedly between his brother and Dominic, who was holding Jo's hand. "And for once, waiting is something I don't even mind."
***
Thus armed, he rolled over onto his back and sat up, groaning aloud at the effort this put on his battered torso and abdomen. Having achieved this goal, he patted his stomach ruefully and spat dirt out of his mouth, peering into the thinning dust cloud in all directions. He was sitting on the far edge of the paved driveway that looped around the right hand side of the house past the barracks wing; the tidy garden started about twenty feet away with a line of ornamental boulders to border it. A glance confirmed the transformation of the elaborate mansion into a pile of rubble; the building seemed to have collapsed from the middle, the walls falling inward in what looked to be a controlled implosion. The destruction was so complete that they would be hard put to even locate the remaining bodies under the timbers and stone.
By his left hand a small figure stirred. Briggs reached out to pat a curly head soothingly. "Are you all right, Amy?"
Amy Newman snuffled then wiggled around to face him, brown eyes bright in her smudged face. "I'm okay. Are you hurt, Uncle Michael? You're not, are you?"
He smiled at her tone; this wasn't the first time he'd been the recipient of a childish crush. "Not at all. I--" Something rustled in the bushes off to their left then stopped; Michael stiffened and casually aimed the rifle in that direction although his expression would have betrayed nothing even if it could have been seen through the still billowing ground-level dirt. "Need you to do something for me," he told the child in a low voice. "See that rock right there?" He gestured to the five-foot puce colored boulder nearest them. "I want you to run as fast as you can and hide way down under that rock where you won't be seen."
Big brown eyes filled with tears, juvenile pluck ebbing now that she had a protector. "I want to stay with you," she whined, taking his hand.
He smiled, turning the charm that had won her over, up several notches. "I'll be right back. Now.... Go!" She went, scurrying across the short distance to huddle in a little hollow carved out of the base of the indicated boulder. Seeing her safely out of the line of fire and keeping his own weapon trained on the garden, Michael crabbed backwards toward his felled companions. He found Horn first; the industrialist lay face down several feet to the rear, face and expensive clothes caked with dirt; his eyes were closed although his breathing was regular.
Michael spared him barely a glance before continuing on several yards farther, where three men lay sprawled in a tangle amid a scattershot pattern of debris from the blast. One figure, identifiable by his size as Saint John Hawke, lay half on top of the other two in a vain attempt at shielding them. He was already stirring, a harsh cough wrenched from him as he rolled over and up.
"Who...?" he asked, staring at the grimy, blond-haired agent squatting next to him. "Archangel?"
"Not looking quite so cherubic at the moment," Briggs gibed, single eye still scanning the terrain; the dust was now clear enough to see shapes smaller than the massive boulders and vague brush. "We need to get out of the open. This area may not be secured."
The older Hawke wiped his face on the gray sleeve of his flightsuit and leaned over the two still-prone men, touching each on the shoulder. "Dom? String? You two okay?"
A low Italian curse greeted the hail. Dominic Santini flopped feebly then cursed again. "Yer layin' on my arm, String," he complained, giving the younger man a poke. "An' about half my chest."
"Sorry," came the mumbled reply. Stringfellow lifted his head wearily, as though it were too heavy for him, and risked a semi-deep breath, aborting the attempt with a little gasp. "We're still alive?"
"Not fer long if you don't get off'a my arm," Santini snapped in a stronger voice. He waited until the younger man slid to the side, then allowed Saint John to pull him into a sitting position; small pieces of stone and wood fell from his back to mingle with those already covering the immediate area. "Well, that was a gas. Why don't we try for an A-bomb next time to make it really interesting?"
The sound of gunfire came from the direction of the rustling bushes, although not aimed in their direction. Michael stiffened and lifted up into a crouch, bringing his own rifle to his shoulder in a sniper's pose, while Saint John grabbed up the MAC-11 and approximated his action on Santini's far side. "This is interesting enough for me," the blond agent gritted. "Hawke ... Stringfellow, can you move?"
The brown head nodded, Stringfellow dragging himself to his knees as proof. He wobbled dizzily, barely able to hold himself upright, but gamely hooked an elbow through Santini's, and forced himself to his feet using Michael's shoulder for support. "I-I'll get Dom ... over there," he murmured through clenched teeth. "Cover us."
"Hey! I can--" Santini began, his words cut off when he was well and truly ignored. While Briggs and the older Hawke brother stalked cautiously toward the bushes, Santini was dragged like a sack of grain away from the open ground surrounding the ruins of the house and past Horn's immobile body. He helped as best he could but his atrophied muscles had long since reached the end of their tolerance, his weight the equivalent of an anchor to the younger man. By the time they'd reached the shelter of the rocks, String was panting for air that didn't seem to want to come, his forehead beaded with sweat; he collapsed to his knees, one arm wrapped around his ribs.
"Uncle Dom!" Amy called, not moving from her position in the little hollow.
Santini gave her a wave, his attention focused on the barely conscious pilot. "You okay, kid?" he asked quietly, gently cupping Hawke's parchment white cheek.
He got a vague nod in return, and the muttered, "Need to help Saint John." Blinking his dull eyes clear of dust-generated tears, Stringfellow began the long crawl back toward the clearing.
Santini made a failed snatch for his arm as he passed. "You need to sit-- Idiot!"
That last was called after the young man's retreating form, but Stringfellow didn't stop. He worked his way back to their former position from which point he could see both Michael and his brother slithering toward the bushes on their bellies. There would be no shooting, he knew, until the two were able to identify those on the other side. String hoped with all his soul it was Epsilon Guard moving in the area -- the darkness was fast closing in on him, consciousness fading in stages; the effect was curiously like entering a rapidly narrowing tunnel. His final reserves were long gone and only the fear of leaving Saint John and Michael without support kept him moving at all. Even that wouldn't last much longer.
Hawke retrieved the dropped Browning High Power from where it had been tossed by the explosion; it felt light in his experienced hand, a sure sign that ammunition was depleted. "Dom's gun is here somewhere," he muttered, remembering the glint of metal falling out of Santini's waistband a few moments earlier. "He should have some shots left."
A fast search of the immediate area turned up nothing although one startling fact did slowly penetrate the fog filling his brain: the body of John Bradford Horn was gone. "Dom," he breathed, eyes widening with terror. "I have to get to Dom!"
Abandoning stealth in favor of speed, Hawke climbed laboriously back to his feet and limped rapidly back to the rocks, passing a still huddled Amy without a second glance. He burst through the sheltering line of rock, pistol at the fore, determined that this time there would be no mercy -- at the slightest sign of threat, John Bradford Horn would die as he was meant to -- by Stringfellow Hawke's hand. He looked around frantically then stopped, feeling his heart freeze in his chest. "Let him go," he growled, fear making his voice tremble.
The urbanity that had cloaked Horn even more fully than his Versace suits had long been ripped from him; his handsome face was twisted with malevolence, fury suffusing his fair cheeks with red. He stood erect, back protected by a second rock; one arm held a sagging Dominic Santini in front of him as a shield, in the other hand Horn gripped Dominic's dropped pistol, the bore clapped firmly against the old man's temple. "It's not over for me yet, Hawke," he snarled, hate-filled but not yet out of control. "Drop your gun."
"Get out of here, String," Santini grunted, thrashing impotently in the other man's strong grip. "It's too late for me -- save yourself."
To Stringfellow Hawke, abandoning Dominic Santini again was not even an option. To drop the Browning meant that Horn would kill them both; this Hawke knew with every fiber of his being. But could he risk Dom's life by not obeying the clear threat? Experience having long taught him the futility of attempting to assuage a man like this, Hawke lifted the gun higher, bracing it with his other hand; he would get only one shot ... if he could make it. Horn's image was beginning to waver in and out alarmingly, the tunnel narrowing until his field of vision ranged at only a few inches on either side of the man. "Let him go, Horn," he ordered, dismayed to hear the weakness in his voice. "Or you're a dead man."
The industrialist studied him back through shrewd eyes. "Your hands are shaking," he pointed out with malicious glee. "What a shame it would be for a misfire to kill your friend."
Hawke drew in a sharp breath, feeling the sweat running down the side of his face. Horn was right -- his hands were shaking too badly to aim the pistol, and his vision was gone. Collapse was only minutes away at best. "I'll take you down if it's the last thing I do," he swore, swallowing hard and knowing the bluff didn't work when the man's handsome face broke into a wide grin.
"Watching your friend die is the last thing you'll do," he snarled, and tightened his finger on the trigger.
Hawke's cry came simultaneous with the thunderous blast, the knowledge that he was watching Santini die choking away his own life. "I'm sorry," he whimpered, some portion of his brain registering something wrong with the report -- the angle was off, the volume too loud. But those details could mean nothing to a man whose heart was breaking. He again forced the weapon to bear on the two blurry images in front of him, both of which were in the process of falling. His finger was tightening on his own trigger when a powerful hand closed over his forearm, forcing the gun down toward the earth.
"It's all right." Michael Briggs stood there eying him concernedly, the AK- 47 he carried dropping to his side after a rapid scan of the exposed terrain. "You're safe."
"Dom...."
"I'm okay, kid." The gruff tones ... they could only belong to one man. They came from several yards off, where Hawke could barely make out the motion of someone disentangling himself from another, inert, form. "Michael got him right between the eyes."
"Dom's alive?" Hawke stared stupidly back at the blond agent, the concept having trouble penetrating. "Is he...?" There was a pause that lasted a million years, then Michael's acknowledgement was the last thing he heard before the tunnel narrowed to a pinprick and took him away.
Reflexes slow but still operative, Briggs caught the collapsing man around the waist, almost but not quite losing his hold on the assault rifle in the process. He stood there for a moment, staring down at Hawke as though he didn't know what to do with him, then shook his head tiredly. "Guess he deserves the rest," he muttered at last, earning a grunt from a now sitting Santini. It was a struggle, but Michael managed to lower both himself and the other to the ground without straining his injured knee any more than it had been, too exhausted by now to make any attempt at freeing himself from the limp form or even to care that the younger man was practically in his lap. He remained sitting where he was, leaning forward to brace himself against Hawke, who had somehow ended up propped on his shoulder. The rifle he placed at his side, within easy reach should a quick snatch be necessary.
From a dozen feet away, Dominic watched this process with concern. Finally managing to escape Horn's death grip, he scooted a few feet from the ghastly body. The industrialist's eyes were open, fixed in ultimate surprise on the unclouded sky, a neat, nearly bloodless hole drilled precisely between them. Dom glanced at him briefly, long enough to make sure the man was dead, then dismissed him without any reaction save a satisfied nod. "Is String okay?" he demanded, returning his attention to his companions.
Completely spent in both mind and body, Michael allowed himself to droop forward until his forehead rested against Hawke's hair; without the younger man's counterbalancing weight he would surely have fallen over himself. "Yeah," he mumbled, flopping the arm still draped loosely around Hawke's waist by way of elaboration. "Terrific."
His scarred face puckering, Dominic eyed them both doubtfully. Michael, dirty, unshaven and disheveled, was barely recognizable as the dapper government agent they usually dealt with; String half-lay against him, head back and tilted to the side against Michael's chest, limbs sprawled without grace. "I think I want to see for myself," Santini decided with some alarm.
"Fine," came the nearly inaudible reply. "But you're going to have to come over here, because I'm not even going to try to move either of us."
Santini snorted but started forward. His aged, badly damaged body refused to obey him without a struggle, and it took nearly two minutes for the older pilot to crawl the dozen feet to his companions' side. Wheezing loudly, he drew himself into a sitting position facing Briggs, and took Hawke's slack jaw in one hand, tipping it up to reveal his face. "Kid's really out for the count," he said, carefully not disturbing Archangel's tenuous equilibrium. "How are you feeling, Michael?"
The agent sighed deeply. "'Bout like I look."
"That's too bad." The quip went unnoticed, and Dominic's budding smile faded. He touched the blond agent on the arm. "You saved my life, pal. Thanks."
Briggs turned his head just enough to peek at Santini out of his one eye. "Tell it to Hawke when he wakes up," he replied, tapping the pilot on the chest. "It just may keep him from ripping me apart for putting you in danger at all."
Santini smiled, indomitable humor returning somewhat now that the danger was over. "Kid wouldn't do that to you. He kind'a likes you ... for some reason."
The mock surly tones didn't elicit the response they'd been intended to. Briggs sighed again and shut his eye. "That's past tense now," he mumbled to himself. Movement roused him to one last effort at awareness, and he opened his eye again, even as Santini smiled wider, his greeting for the large-framed, silver uniformed man who hunkered down between them.
"I heard a shot from over here. What happened?" Saint John eyed the trio critically, relaxing slightly upon finding no sign of fresh blood.
Dom pounded him on the back, overjoyed all over again at this living reminder that his foster son was back after fifteen years! "Michael just took out the trash," he replied, jerking a thumb over his shoulder at Horn's body. "Good to see you, boy, good to see you!"
Saint John smiled back, offering a quick, one-armed hug. "You, too, Dom." He released the old man to wrap his fingers around his brother's wrist, seeking the pulse. "Benzedrine finally gave out, eh?" he commented, next checking the younger man's widely dilated pupils.
"I suppose so. And the three of us are going to have a talk about that," Santini stated flatly, his voice full of old remembered promises of stern lectures and swatted backsides.
Fighting the urge to grin anyway, Saint John busied himself with reaching into his pocket for the small radio. "Airwolf, this is Hawke. Jo, are you there?"
"Jo?" Dominic sat up very straight, his jaw dropping. "Joanna? My niece? What is she doing in my bird?"
"Bringing it back here, I hope," the older Hawke returned in his mild tone. They both looked up as the familiar wail of powerful turbines filled the sky; Michael did not move -- from all indications, he looked to be asleep, still leaning against String. Even as they watched, a black dot appeared out of the sun; it grew larger, resolving into the deadly black death machine the United States Government had dubbed Airwolf. It swooped low over the ruins of the building, then circled their position once. Saint John raised a hand in greeting, and the helicopter settled to earth on the tarmac some yards away. Two figures emerged, the smaller one doffing the black helmet and descending like a blonde whirlwind on the waiting group.
"Uncle Dom!" Jo called, breaking her stride long enough to kiss Saint John's cheek. She then flew at Santini, threw both arms around him and hugged him tight, her happiness erasing the worry lines that had appeared around her eyes and mouth of late. "Uncle Dom, I'm so glad to see you! Have you been here the whole time? Did they treat you well? Are you all right?"
He held up a hand to stop the eager rush, his own brown eyes shining. "Questions later, Jo, including what you're doing flying around in my Lady. And who he is." He scowled at Mike Rivers, who waggled his fingers amiably back. He looked around expectantly. "Is Cait with you?"
As if on cue, a tan CHiPs helicopter appeared over the horizon. Jo pointed at it with one finger. "That should be her now. She'll be as glad to see you as we are!"
Now standing, Saint John accepted Mike's handshake, then nodded at Airwolf. "You'd better contact Locke and have him arrange for a medivac out of here. These three need a hospital."
"So do some of Epsilon Guard," the younger man replied. "Stretchers are already on their way."
"Then there's nothing for us to do but wait," Saint John decided, seating himself contentedly between his brother and Dominic, who was holding Jo's hand. "And for once, waiting is something I don't even mind."
***