The outskirts of Van Nuys, California, had grown steadily over the past
decade, sprouting housing developments and strip malls with a regularity
that alarmed the old-time residents, of which there were many. This
particular neighborhood, however, had managed to retain its air of privacy
despite the extensive construction. It was tree lined and bordered, the
sturdy, mid-range houses having been built in the 1950's during post-war
affluence, with community pride serving to prevent neglect from creeping
in.
The well-kept, three-bedroom colonial home was no exception. The white painted exterior was trimmed in blue, the lawn neat but unornamented by a garden no one had time to keep up. The second story boasted a sturdy sun deck just off the master bedroom, built nearly twenty years ago and so well constructed as to have needed little save a fresh wood stain to keep it looking like new.
The house was situated near the end of a dead-end road next to a field, and generally reflected the sobriety of its fellows -- a fact which suited the predominantly older, staid populace of this section perfectly. Tonight, however, was an exception. Chinese lanterns were strung along the periphery of both yards, the smoke of insect-attracting candles lending the already sweet smelling air an exotic scent. Music was playing continuously, a fair mix of jazz and soft contemporary designed to add a cheerful ambiance without interrupting the animated conversation of the party-goers.
Even though it was nearly eleven o'clock, the night was so warm that many of the guests opted to remain outdoors, either wandering the grounds or sprawled in lawn chairs by the picnic table to enjoy the refreshing breeze. Others were scattered throughout the house's first floor, their conversation generally leaning to the more spirited. There was plenty of room to spread out -- a large, panelled family room comprised the south side of the building; it had been added some years back and was fitted with a television, stereo, overstuffed sofa and chair, with a small but serviceable bar lining one wall. Kitchen and bathroom were all accessible through the little hall bisecting the house. This opened into a more formal living room near the front door; decorated in country blue, the spotless provincial style sofa and untracked carpet betrayed the lack of use as a rule.
Today, though, the rule was being broken. Jo Santini, dressed becomingly in what women generally referred to as 'the little black dress,' sat on one side of the upholstered sofa, shapely legs crossed at the knee. A plate of lunchmeat sat on the end table beside her, a half-empty ginger ale forgotten in her right hand. "... the only decorating change I made, I might add," she was telling the attractive brunette at her side. She gestured around the room with the soda can, indicating with a grand sweep the riot of flowering vines that bedecked the window. "Now you tell me, Toni, do you think there's too many plants in here?"
Antonia 'Toni' Donatelli, invited expressly at Dominic's request, followed her gesture with bright brown eyes. She tipped her head consideringly, the light reflecting on the silver streaking her dark hair. "I don't think you can have too many plants," she decided, twisting her red painted lips into a moue. "An apartment is so sterile without them, don't you think?"
Jo nodded enthusiastically, her bobbed hair bouncing on her shoulders. "That's what I told Uncle Dom. Honestly, you'd think he lived in a time warp. And String is just as bad. Do you know I mentioned Madonna and he thought I was talking about DaVinci or Michelangelo or something?"
Toni chuckled, her throaty laugh a pleasant melody in the room. At its sound one of the neighbors clustered around the window discussing something about zoning permits, turned to smile in her direction; his wife, a portly matron in her sixties, gave him a poke and he returned to the conversation. "Sounds like that self-styled hermit to me," Toni commented, waving amiably at the matron, who sniffed. "He's cute but a bit behind the times." She looked down, scowling ferociously at a minuscule red spot on her lavender silk pants. "That better not be catsup. This outfit is brand new."
"Cute, eh?" Jo eyed the brunette with consideration, ignoring the part about the catsup. "String?"
Donatelli rubbed her thumb on the red spot; it vanished immediately. "Whew. Only a piece of thread." That accomplished, she turned her scowl on the younger woman. "Don't you even think of trying to match me up with the hermit. For one thing, I'm at least five years older than he is. For another, I darn near kicked his butt the first time we met." She winked, giving Jo a friendly nudge with her elbow. "Besides, I've got my eye on another member of this little family. One with an Italian name, if you catch my drift."
The blonde hair bounced again, Jo's easy smile wide. "I thought Uncle Dom was awfully pleased when you agreed to come tonight. You two have something going yet?"
"'Yet' is the operative word," the other replied. "We might if he can stop disappearing long enough for us to have a first date."
The two giggled then looked up when Mike Rivers and his date wandered into the room. They bypassed the trio by the window, crossing directly to the women on the sofa. "We heard you two laughing all the way in the hall," Mike teased, sliding the fingers of the hand not being possessively gripped by his date into the pocket of his pleated green slacks. "I figured I'd better make sure it wasn't at me."
"You," Jo retorted with great dignity, "are paranoid. ... You're also right!" She dismissed his exclamation of mock affront, and waved a hand in Toni's direction. "Toni Donatelli, meet Mike Rivers and Wendy Kilroy."
Mike disengaged his hand from his date's to take Toni's, giving it a little kiss. "Entirely my pleasure," he said charmingly.
Wendy, a tall, pouty redhead in her early twenties, managed to sip her fourth glass of tequila and roll her heavily made-up eyes at the same time. "'Meet 'cha," she muttered, adjusting her strapless maroon sundress to exhibit another inch of her considerable cleavage.
Jo and Toni exchanged an amused look at the display; Mike, catching the look, grinned boyishly. "I don't give marks for deportment," he said cryptically, causing the seated women to giggle again and Wendy to look puzzled. Loud laughter erupted then from the he kitchen; Mike released Toni's hand with obvious reluctance and turned in that direction. "That cop friend of Dom's -- Lieutenant Grodin, isn't it? He sure sounds like he's having a good time. Couple more bourbons and he'll be dancing on the bar for tips."
"His wife is already mad at him," Wendy commented, swallowing the last few drops in her glass. "She said if he didn't slow down, he was sleeping on the couch tonight with their cocker spaniel."
Mike shook his head. "A partying cop. Who would have thought it?"
"Not me." Jo put the ginger ale on the end table next to the empty plate, and wiggled her foot, allowing her sandal to dangle from one toe. "Especially since that's the same cop that arrested Uncle Dom for murder last year when Aunt Lyla was killed down on San Remo Island. Shame about Sally Ann. Anyway, Uncle Dom said Grodin kind'a helped them out on a few cases, like that one with Cousin Holly, and they got to be friends."
Wendy, who was regarding her empty glass with mournful, slightly blurring eyes, looked up at that. "What kind of 'cases' would an airline get?" she asked curiously. "Don't you guys just give flying lessons and stuff?"
When both Mike and Jo hesitated, it was Toni who unwittingly broke the awkwardness this innocuous question caused. "Not just lessons," she explained with real admiration. "Santini Air specializes in stunt flying for movies and television shows! Did you see The Red Baron's Bust?"
"I don't watch television," the redhead returned haughtily, sliding her arm through Mike's. "We have better things to do with our time than watch some guy's bust. Besides, I thought the Red Baron was a guy. What was he, a cross dresser or something?"
That brought an effective if brief halt to the conversation. Jo restarted it by craning her neck enough to see past the trio crowding the window. "Such a nice turnout to welcome Uncle Dom back," she remarked after clearing her throat. "Between the neighbors, friends and relatives that flew in, we must have had forty or fifty people here."
Rivers smiled tolerantly at Wendy, although it was Jo he addressed. "At least the crowd is starting to thin out. Most of the neighbors have gone home and about a dozen Santini's told me to tell you that they were heading for Cousin Mavis's house. They didn't know where Dominic was but they'll see him in the morning before they fly out."
Jo nodded knowledgeably. "That means Cousin Mavis Venturi bought another keg. Her side of the family goes through more beer...."
"Mike." Wendy pressed against Mike for attention, rubbing against his arm. "I need another drink."
"You know where they are, sweetheart." When Wendy just stared at him, Rivers sighed and forced a smile. "Of course, my dove. What is life without mead?"
"Don't want mead. I want more tequila."
The smile became a grimace. "Right. Ladies...."
Jo and Toni waved enthusiastically as they left, Mike casting a wry look over his shoulder. But he obediently let himself be led back into the den and past a cluster of familiars in animated conversation. The Department of National Security, a.k.a., the Firm, was well represented this night. Easily the most noticeable was Michael Coldsmith-Briggs III, resplendent in a three-piece suit so pristinely white it near dazzled anyone who looked upon it. Despite the mildly swollen broken nose and faint bruises on his face, he looked relaxed and at ease.
Two beautiful women, both trusted agents in Archangel's section, occupied positions on his either side. The petite, oriental Sun Li, in ivory colored sweater and skirt, and cafe-au-lait complected Marella in a white suit, both ranged their superior respectfully. Marella's date -- an ebony skinned more casually dressed male agent named Ali -- carried on conversation a few feet away with Santini Air's former part time mechanic, Everett Logan. Ev's pretty and very pregnant wife, Patti, listened to her husband with a shy smile.
In the process of being towed to the bar, Mike broke his stride long enough to remark over the conversation, "You know, standing there like that you guys look like a church choir."
"Appropriate, don't you agree?" Archangel replied, long inured to comments on his attire of choice. Mike grinned and was hauled off, he and Wendy joining Jason Locke, who was busily mixing himself a drink. The three immediately burst into a spirited argument over the relative merits of vodka over scotch as a stain remover, while Michael returned to the discussion he and his assistants were engaged in with the tall, conservatively dressed Saint John Hawke.
"So after all that happened," Saint John picked up again, broad-planed features tight with suppressed anger, "Newman gets off scot free?" He shook his head, jamming his fists stubbornly into the pockets of his pressed jeans. "That stinks, Archangel. That man is partly responsible for kidnapping Dom and torturing my brother. He should be made to pay for what he did."
Michael shifted his weight until he was leaning more heavily on the silver headed walking stick he was never without. Only a slight bulge around his left calf divulged the fact that he was once again forced to wear a leg brace; his knee had been redamaged during his captivity. He'd been assured however that additional therapy and time would re-heal it fully, and thus accepted the necessity with good grace. "Donald Newman betrayed his position and his country," he began in carefully neutral tones, "but the Committee decided unanimously that no purpose would be served by criminal prosecution."
"Except perhaps a public relations nightmare," Sun Li interjected, a glass of Perrier held delicately between middle and forefingers. "And termination was not an option since the nature of his crime was national rather than foreign."
"'Unanimously' means you, too," Hawke stated flatly to Briggs, "since you're one of them."
Marella regarded Hawke over the rim of her glass with rather more tolerance than she usually accorded his brother. There was none of the disdain with which she dealt with Stringfellow Hawke, but only the friendly reasonableness established with their first meeting. "Mr. Newman didn't exactly get off scot free," she corrected him, crossing one foot over the other. "He's been stripped of his position and Eyes Only clearance. He and his daughter are being relocated to the mid-west in a new identity for security reasons."
"Not much restitution for what he's done," the tall blond pilot snapped, unmollified by the sensible explanations. "He was in with the slimeball that kidnapped both Dom and String ... and you," he added by way of afterthought. He slapped himself on the chest, immediately returning his fist to his pocket. "I spent the last three months thinking Dom was dead. So did String. And all Newman gets is a clean slate."
"A clean slate and his kidnapped daughter back." Marella cocked her head. "Frankly, if it was my daughter that was kidnapped ... or my brother," she added pointedly, "I might have been at least tempted to react the same way Mr. Newman did. Wouldn't you?"
Although he didn't acknowledge the hit verbally, Saint John's expression flickered, the resentment slowly muting into acceptance if not forgiveness. "What about that woman ... Zarkov? I understand she was pulled out of the rubble still alive."
"Barely alive. The room she was in was farthest from the explosion, and fortunately for her the house collapsed in the middle rather than over that wing. She's suffering from multiple broken bones, but the doctors say she'll recover." Michael smiled down at Sun Li, too tall to see anything but a wave of long black hair from his angle. "Would you mind bringing me a glass of Liebfraumilch?" he requested politely. "I'm afraid my leg tends to protest if I use it too much."
She bowed with traditional Chinese courtesy and ambled off toward the bar, where Mike Rivers immediately offered his assistance much to Wendy's annoyance.
Michael smiled faintly at the sight, then dismissed it; Sun Li could easily handle an amorous pilot and his jealous girlfriend. "With the proper ... persuasion, Zarkov was able to tell us a great deal about Horn's operation." He clasped both hands across the walking stick, leaning closer. "She confirmed Donald's assertion that the explosion that nearly killed Dominic and your brother was commissioned by none other than Horn himself. What we didn't know was that he had influential friends in the Government who were instrumental in getting me transferred to Hong Kong." He shook his head, blond mustache twitching with irritation. "Who would have guessed a criminal could wield so much leverage in the Senate. The preliminary investigation alone has already unearthed a political can of worms."
"Why would Horn care about you?" Hawke asked, staring down his long nose at the other man. His slightly nasal tenor implied strongly that he was buying none of this without the careful weighing of each word. "You didn't know where Airwolf was."
Michael adjusted his half-blackened glasses higher, wincing when they settled onto the puffy flesh. "The plastic surgery is scheduled for tomorrow," Marella reminded him, efficient as always.
He smiled at her but addressed Saint John's question. "According to Anastasia Zarkov, Horn's play for Airwolf was carefully orchestrated, each step dependent on the preceding one. The first stage was to leave Hawke ... I mean, Stringfellow, without official sanction or backup. He knew about the friction between Stringfellow and the Firm, and that I was the only one he would deal with in any capacity."
Saint John Hawke's gray eyes narrowed cynically although his tone remained carefully neutral. "Why he thought that is still a mystery."
Archangel blinked, caught unawares by the thinly veiled snub, but stopped Marella's bristling reply by rapidly going on with the narrative. "Once Horn found out the Firm had located you in Cambodia, he took further steps to isolate Stringfellow emotionally, hoping this would make him more vulnerable and ready to deal without question. Dominic was liquidated as dramatically as possible, then the clues were sent that would lead him -- in Airwolf -- into the carefully prepared ambush."
"Except it wasn't Hawke that walked into the trap," a feminine voice drawled from behind. "Horn and Angelica couldn't have known that the rescue pilots were gonna be Jo, Mike and Jason." Caitlin O'Shaunessey strolled into the circle, Ramon Gutierrez at her side. She smiled brightly, her strawberry colored hair haloing her face. "Sorry. Couldn't help overhearing that last part. Y'all know my partner, Ramon, don't you?"
Necessary introductions were made for Michael, Marella, and the returning Sun Li. Michael accepted his drink from the oriental woman with a grateful nod, taking a sip before continuing. "John Horn, yes; Angelica was, shall we say, less culpable this time. I understand you threw a spanner in the works, Hawke, by escaping your cage during the attack and killing Buchard."
"Buchard deserved what he got," Saint John returned unrepentantly. "So did Bishop." He caught the look Marella and Briggs exchanged, gray eyes narrowing even further in an expression so reminiscent of his brother as to visibly substantiate their familial ties. "What is it? Morris is dead, isn't he? Mike said he flamed out over some canyon."
Marella licked wine off her lips, losing a few shades of mauve lipstick in the process. "Company personnel have been all over the wreckage. We're certain Bishop Morris could not have survived a violent crash like that. Unfortunately, we're having a little trouble locating his body."
"Fell into the river, we think," Sun Li said, resuming her place by Archangel. "It will wash up downstream, we are sure. The current is very fast and could carry it a long way before then."
Gutierrez draped an arm around Caitlin's shoulders, the brightly colored material of the Hawaiian luau shirt he'd donned for the occasion rustling against the jade cotton of her knee-length dress. She elbowed him sharply in the ribs and he uttered an "Ooof," and retreated. "Ahh, he'll turn up," the Latino remarked, rubbing his midsection and wiggling his bushy eyebrows at her outrageously. "I saw police photos of what was left of his chopper, an' believe me, the only way he's going to be showing up here again is as one a'them spooks." He fluttered his arms, making a low wailing sound. "You guys don't run a haunted hangar, you got nothin' ta worry about."
Caitlin laughed fondly at her colleague of three months, green eyes twinkling merrily at his antics. "My partner the ghost. Wasn't that a bad TV show somewhere?"
"They are all bad TV shows," Gutierrez said, taking her hand and pressing it melodramatically against his heart. "We will go off and make our own TV shows. How about a hot romance?"
"It's gonna end up a murder mystery," the redhead retorted, snatching back her hand, "if you don't cut it out."
"On that note..." Michael nodded gallantly to the ladies. "... I really need to find the guest of honor and his uncommunicative associate. Do any of you know where they might be?"
"If you mean Hawke ... I mean, String...." Caitlin stopped, frowning at Saint John, who was regarding her with amusement. "I'm never gonna get used ta having two Hawkes around. Maybe we ought'a tag you two."
"Just remember that I'm the original," the bronze-haired pilot returned, easy-going nature restoring itself in short order. "It's String that's the brother-come-lately around here."
"He's probably not gonna like that much," the highway patrolwoman remarked wryly. "Anyway, if yer lookin' for him and Dom, they're huddled in the corner talkin' about lord knows what."
Michael handed Sun Li his glass and straightened. "Which corner?" Caitlin spread her arms in an I-don't-know gesture, and Michael lifted one brow. "Then how do you know that's where they are?"
"'Cause that's where they end up every time we all go to a party ... or a bar ... or a club. It's like dealing with Siamese twins sometimes." With great familiarity, Caitlin lifted Michael's half-empty glass out of Sun Li's hands and took a sip, wrinkling her pert nose humorously. "White wine. I should have known."
The well-kept, three-bedroom colonial home was no exception. The white painted exterior was trimmed in blue, the lawn neat but unornamented by a garden no one had time to keep up. The second story boasted a sturdy sun deck just off the master bedroom, built nearly twenty years ago and so well constructed as to have needed little save a fresh wood stain to keep it looking like new.
The house was situated near the end of a dead-end road next to a field, and generally reflected the sobriety of its fellows -- a fact which suited the predominantly older, staid populace of this section perfectly. Tonight, however, was an exception. Chinese lanterns were strung along the periphery of both yards, the smoke of insect-attracting candles lending the already sweet smelling air an exotic scent. Music was playing continuously, a fair mix of jazz and soft contemporary designed to add a cheerful ambiance without interrupting the animated conversation of the party-goers.
Even though it was nearly eleven o'clock, the night was so warm that many of the guests opted to remain outdoors, either wandering the grounds or sprawled in lawn chairs by the picnic table to enjoy the refreshing breeze. Others were scattered throughout the house's first floor, their conversation generally leaning to the more spirited. There was plenty of room to spread out -- a large, panelled family room comprised the south side of the building; it had been added some years back and was fitted with a television, stereo, overstuffed sofa and chair, with a small but serviceable bar lining one wall. Kitchen and bathroom were all accessible through the little hall bisecting the house. This opened into a more formal living room near the front door; decorated in country blue, the spotless provincial style sofa and untracked carpet betrayed the lack of use as a rule.
Today, though, the rule was being broken. Jo Santini, dressed becomingly in what women generally referred to as 'the little black dress,' sat on one side of the upholstered sofa, shapely legs crossed at the knee. A plate of lunchmeat sat on the end table beside her, a half-empty ginger ale forgotten in her right hand. "... the only decorating change I made, I might add," she was telling the attractive brunette at her side. She gestured around the room with the soda can, indicating with a grand sweep the riot of flowering vines that bedecked the window. "Now you tell me, Toni, do you think there's too many plants in here?"
Antonia 'Toni' Donatelli, invited expressly at Dominic's request, followed her gesture with bright brown eyes. She tipped her head consideringly, the light reflecting on the silver streaking her dark hair. "I don't think you can have too many plants," she decided, twisting her red painted lips into a moue. "An apartment is so sterile without them, don't you think?"
Jo nodded enthusiastically, her bobbed hair bouncing on her shoulders. "That's what I told Uncle Dom. Honestly, you'd think he lived in a time warp. And String is just as bad. Do you know I mentioned Madonna and he thought I was talking about DaVinci or Michelangelo or something?"
Toni chuckled, her throaty laugh a pleasant melody in the room. At its sound one of the neighbors clustered around the window discussing something about zoning permits, turned to smile in her direction; his wife, a portly matron in her sixties, gave him a poke and he returned to the conversation. "Sounds like that self-styled hermit to me," Toni commented, waving amiably at the matron, who sniffed. "He's cute but a bit behind the times." She looked down, scowling ferociously at a minuscule red spot on her lavender silk pants. "That better not be catsup. This outfit is brand new."
"Cute, eh?" Jo eyed the brunette with consideration, ignoring the part about the catsup. "String?"
Donatelli rubbed her thumb on the red spot; it vanished immediately. "Whew. Only a piece of thread." That accomplished, she turned her scowl on the younger woman. "Don't you even think of trying to match me up with the hermit. For one thing, I'm at least five years older than he is. For another, I darn near kicked his butt the first time we met." She winked, giving Jo a friendly nudge with her elbow. "Besides, I've got my eye on another member of this little family. One with an Italian name, if you catch my drift."
The blonde hair bounced again, Jo's easy smile wide. "I thought Uncle Dom was awfully pleased when you agreed to come tonight. You two have something going yet?"
"'Yet' is the operative word," the other replied. "We might if he can stop disappearing long enough for us to have a first date."
The two giggled then looked up when Mike Rivers and his date wandered into the room. They bypassed the trio by the window, crossing directly to the women on the sofa. "We heard you two laughing all the way in the hall," Mike teased, sliding the fingers of the hand not being possessively gripped by his date into the pocket of his pleated green slacks. "I figured I'd better make sure it wasn't at me."
"You," Jo retorted with great dignity, "are paranoid. ... You're also right!" She dismissed his exclamation of mock affront, and waved a hand in Toni's direction. "Toni Donatelli, meet Mike Rivers and Wendy Kilroy."
Mike disengaged his hand from his date's to take Toni's, giving it a little kiss. "Entirely my pleasure," he said charmingly.
Wendy, a tall, pouty redhead in her early twenties, managed to sip her fourth glass of tequila and roll her heavily made-up eyes at the same time. "'Meet 'cha," she muttered, adjusting her strapless maroon sundress to exhibit another inch of her considerable cleavage.
Jo and Toni exchanged an amused look at the display; Mike, catching the look, grinned boyishly. "I don't give marks for deportment," he said cryptically, causing the seated women to giggle again and Wendy to look puzzled. Loud laughter erupted then from the he kitchen; Mike released Toni's hand with obvious reluctance and turned in that direction. "That cop friend of Dom's -- Lieutenant Grodin, isn't it? He sure sounds like he's having a good time. Couple more bourbons and he'll be dancing on the bar for tips."
"His wife is already mad at him," Wendy commented, swallowing the last few drops in her glass. "She said if he didn't slow down, he was sleeping on the couch tonight with their cocker spaniel."
Mike shook his head. "A partying cop. Who would have thought it?"
"Not me." Jo put the ginger ale on the end table next to the empty plate, and wiggled her foot, allowing her sandal to dangle from one toe. "Especially since that's the same cop that arrested Uncle Dom for murder last year when Aunt Lyla was killed down on San Remo Island. Shame about Sally Ann. Anyway, Uncle Dom said Grodin kind'a helped them out on a few cases, like that one with Cousin Holly, and they got to be friends."
Wendy, who was regarding her empty glass with mournful, slightly blurring eyes, looked up at that. "What kind of 'cases' would an airline get?" she asked curiously. "Don't you guys just give flying lessons and stuff?"
When both Mike and Jo hesitated, it was Toni who unwittingly broke the awkwardness this innocuous question caused. "Not just lessons," she explained with real admiration. "Santini Air specializes in stunt flying for movies and television shows! Did you see The Red Baron's Bust?"
"I don't watch television," the redhead returned haughtily, sliding her arm through Mike's. "We have better things to do with our time than watch some guy's bust. Besides, I thought the Red Baron was a guy. What was he, a cross dresser or something?"
That brought an effective if brief halt to the conversation. Jo restarted it by craning her neck enough to see past the trio crowding the window. "Such a nice turnout to welcome Uncle Dom back," she remarked after clearing her throat. "Between the neighbors, friends and relatives that flew in, we must have had forty or fifty people here."
Rivers smiled tolerantly at Wendy, although it was Jo he addressed. "At least the crowd is starting to thin out. Most of the neighbors have gone home and about a dozen Santini's told me to tell you that they were heading for Cousin Mavis's house. They didn't know where Dominic was but they'll see him in the morning before they fly out."
Jo nodded knowledgeably. "That means Cousin Mavis Venturi bought another keg. Her side of the family goes through more beer...."
"Mike." Wendy pressed against Mike for attention, rubbing against his arm. "I need another drink."
"You know where they are, sweetheart." When Wendy just stared at him, Rivers sighed and forced a smile. "Of course, my dove. What is life without mead?"
"Don't want mead. I want more tequila."
The smile became a grimace. "Right. Ladies...."
Jo and Toni waved enthusiastically as they left, Mike casting a wry look over his shoulder. But he obediently let himself be led back into the den and past a cluster of familiars in animated conversation. The Department of National Security, a.k.a., the Firm, was well represented this night. Easily the most noticeable was Michael Coldsmith-Briggs III, resplendent in a three-piece suit so pristinely white it near dazzled anyone who looked upon it. Despite the mildly swollen broken nose and faint bruises on his face, he looked relaxed and at ease.
Two beautiful women, both trusted agents in Archangel's section, occupied positions on his either side. The petite, oriental Sun Li, in ivory colored sweater and skirt, and cafe-au-lait complected Marella in a white suit, both ranged their superior respectfully. Marella's date -- an ebony skinned more casually dressed male agent named Ali -- carried on conversation a few feet away with Santini Air's former part time mechanic, Everett Logan. Ev's pretty and very pregnant wife, Patti, listened to her husband with a shy smile.
In the process of being towed to the bar, Mike broke his stride long enough to remark over the conversation, "You know, standing there like that you guys look like a church choir."
"Appropriate, don't you agree?" Archangel replied, long inured to comments on his attire of choice. Mike grinned and was hauled off, he and Wendy joining Jason Locke, who was busily mixing himself a drink. The three immediately burst into a spirited argument over the relative merits of vodka over scotch as a stain remover, while Michael returned to the discussion he and his assistants were engaged in with the tall, conservatively dressed Saint John Hawke.
"So after all that happened," Saint John picked up again, broad-planed features tight with suppressed anger, "Newman gets off scot free?" He shook his head, jamming his fists stubbornly into the pockets of his pressed jeans. "That stinks, Archangel. That man is partly responsible for kidnapping Dom and torturing my brother. He should be made to pay for what he did."
Michael shifted his weight until he was leaning more heavily on the silver headed walking stick he was never without. Only a slight bulge around his left calf divulged the fact that he was once again forced to wear a leg brace; his knee had been redamaged during his captivity. He'd been assured however that additional therapy and time would re-heal it fully, and thus accepted the necessity with good grace. "Donald Newman betrayed his position and his country," he began in carefully neutral tones, "but the Committee decided unanimously that no purpose would be served by criminal prosecution."
"Except perhaps a public relations nightmare," Sun Li interjected, a glass of Perrier held delicately between middle and forefingers. "And termination was not an option since the nature of his crime was national rather than foreign."
"'Unanimously' means you, too," Hawke stated flatly to Briggs, "since you're one of them."
Marella regarded Hawke over the rim of her glass with rather more tolerance than she usually accorded his brother. There was none of the disdain with which she dealt with Stringfellow Hawke, but only the friendly reasonableness established with their first meeting. "Mr. Newman didn't exactly get off scot free," she corrected him, crossing one foot over the other. "He's been stripped of his position and Eyes Only clearance. He and his daughter are being relocated to the mid-west in a new identity for security reasons."
"Not much restitution for what he's done," the tall blond pilot snapped, unmollified by the sensible explanations. "He was in with the slimeball that kidnapped both Dom and String ... and you," he added by way of afterthought. He slapped himself on the chest, immediately returning his fist to his pocket. "I spent the last three months thinking Dom was dead. So did String. And all Newman gets is a clean slate."
"A clean slate and his kidnapped daughter back." Marella cocked her head. "Frankly, if it was my daughter that was kidnapped ... or my brother," she added pointedly, "I might have been at least tempted to react the same way Mr. Newman did. Wouldn't you?"
Although he didn't acknowledge the hit verbally, Saint John's expression flickered, the resentment slowly muting into acceptance if not forgiveness. "What about that woman ... Zarkov? I understand she was pulled out of the rubble still alive."
"Barely alive. The room she was in was farthest from the explosion, and fortunately for her the house collapsed in the middle rather than over that wing. She's suffering from multiple broken bones, but the doctors say she'll recover." Michael smiled down at Sun Li, too tall to see anything but a wave of long black hair from his angle. "Would you mind bringing me a glass of Liebfraumilch?" he requested politely. "I'm afraid my leg tends to protest if I use it too much."
She bowed with traditional Chinese courtesy and ambled off toward the bar, where Mike Rivers immediately offered his assistance much to Wendy's annoyance.
Michael smiled faintly at the sight, then dismissed it; Sun Li could easily handle an amorous pilot and his jealous girlfriend. "With the proper ... persuasion, Zarkov was able to tell us a great deal about Horn's operation." He clasped both hands across the walking stick, leaning closer. "She confirmed Donald's assertion that the explosion that nearly killed Dominic and your brother was commissioned by none other than Horn himself. What we didn't know was that he had influential friends in the Government who were instrumental in getting me transferred to Hong Kong." He shook his head, blond mustache twitching with irritation. "Who would have guessed a criminal could wield so much leverage in the Senate. The preliminary investigation alone has already unearthed a political can of worms."
"Why would Horn care about you?" Hawke asked, staring down his long nose at the other man. His slightly nasal tenor implied strongly that he was buying none of this without the careful weighing of each word. "You didn't know where Airwolf was."
Michael adjusted his half-blackened glasses higher, wincing when they settled onto the puffy flesh. "The plastic surgery is scheduled for tomorrow," Marella reminded him, efficient as always.
He smiled at her but addressed Saint John's question. "According to Anastasia Zarkov, Horn's play for Airwolf was carefully orchestrated, each step dependent on the preceding one. The first stage was to leave Hawke ... I mean, Stringfellow, without official sanction or backup. He knew about the friction between Stringfellow and the Firm, and that I was the only one he would deal with in any capacity."
Saint John Hawke's gray eyes narrowed cynically although his tone remained carefully neutral. "Why he thought that is still a mystery."
Archangel blinked, caught unawares by the thinly veiled snub, but stopped Marella's bristling reply by rapidly going on with the narrative. "Once Horn found out the Firm had located you in Cambodia, he took further steps to isolate Stringfellow emotionally, hoping this would make him more vulnerable and ready to deal without question. Dominic was liquidated as dramatically as possible, then the clues were sent that would lead him -- in Airwolf -- into the carefully prepared ambush."
"Except it wasn't Hawke that walked into the trap," a feminine voice drawled from behind. "Horn and Angelica couldn't have known that the rescue pilots were gonna be Jo, Mike and Jason." Caitlin O'Shaunessey strolled into the circle, Ramon Gutierrez at her side. She smiled brightly, her strawberry colored hair haloing her face. "Sorry. Couldn't help overhearing that last part. Y'all know my partner, Ramon, don't you?"
Necessary introductions were made for Michael, Marella, and the returning Sun Li. Michael accepted his drink from the oriental woman with a grateful nod, taking a sip before continuing. "John Horn, yes; Angelica was, shall we say, less culpable this time. I understand you threw a spanner in the works, Hawke, by escaping your cage during the attack and killing Buchard."
"Buchard deserved what he got," Saint John returned unrepentantly. "So did Bishop." He caught the look Marella and Briggs exchanged, gray eyes narrowing even further in an expression so reminiscent of his brother as to visibly substantiate their familial ties. "What is it? Morris is dead, isn't he? Mike said he flamed out over some canyon."
Marella licked wine off her lips, losing a few shades of mauve lipstick in the process. "Company personnel have been all over the wreckage. We're certain Bishop Morris could not have survived a violent crash like that. Unfortunately, we're having a little trouble locating his body."
"Fell into the river, we think," Sun Li said, resuming her place by Archangel. "It will wash up downstream, we are sure. The current is very fast and could carry it a long way before then."
Gutierrez draped an arm around Caitlin's shoulders, the brightly colored material of the Hawaiian luau shirt he'd donned for the occasion rustling against the jade cotton of her knee-length dress. She elbowed him sharply in the ribs and he uttered an "Ooof," and retreated. "Ahh, he'll turn up," the Latino remarked, rubbing his midsection and wiggling his bushy eyebrows at her outrageously. "I saw police photos of what was left of his chopper, an' believe me, the only way he's going to be showing up here again is as one a'them spooks." He fluttered his arms, making a low wailing sound. "You guys don't run a haunted hangar, you got nothin' ta worry about."
Caitlin laughed fondly at her colleague of three months, green eyes twinkling merrily at his antics. "My partner the ghost. Wasn't that a bad TV show somewhere?"
"They are all bad TV shows," Gutierrez said, taking her hand and pressing it melodramatically against his heart. "We will go off and make our own TV shows. How about a hot romance?"
"It's gonna end up a murder mystery," the redhead retorted, snatching back her hand, "if you don't cut it out."
"On that note..." Michael nodded gallantly to the ladies. "... I really need to find the guest of honor and his uncommunicative associate. Do any of you know where they might be?"
"If you mean Hawke ... I mean, String...." Caitlin stopped, frowning at Saint John, who was regarding her with amusement. "I'm never gonna get used ta having two Hawkes around. Maybe we ought'a tag you two."
"Just remember that I'm the original," the bronze-haired pilot returned, easy-going nature restoring itself in short order. "It's String that's the brother-come-lately around here."
"He's probably not gonna like that much," the highway patrolwoman remarked wryly. "Anyway, if yer lookin' for him and Dom, they're huddled in the corner talkin' about lord knows what."
Michael handed Sun Li his glass and straightened. "Which corner?" Caitlin spread her arms in an I-don't-know gesture, and Michael lifted one brow. "Then how do you know that's where they are?"
"'Cause that's where they end up every time we all go to a party ... or a bar ... or a club. It's like dealing with Siamese twins sometimes." With great familiarity, Caitlin lifted Michael's half-empty glass out of Sun Li's hands and took a sip, wrinkling her pert nose humorously. "White wine. I should have known."