Chapter 2
Quite suddenly, Stringfellow Hawke was awake. There was no transition, no half-conscious state to mark the boundary between asleep and not. Blue eyes flashed open, a surge of adrenalin tracing each nerve and bringing his body to the same state of awareness as his mind. Training kicking in, he controlled his initial impulses and lay perfectly still, senses outstretched and seeking the source of the disturbance -- if such it was -- that had interrupted the deep sleep he'd slipped into almost immediately upon laying down.
The possibility that this was a dream flickered and was gone. The dreams came often even now -- so long after Viet Nam, even longer from his parents' horrible deaths -- vivid memories of blood and death and loss, wrenching him back to wakefulness with a cry years-long training automatically smothered until it would not have betrayed a team in the field. But Hawke knew the difference between the dreams and the reality he inhabited. Sometimes the images were the same, but he always knew when the hurt was real. Like now.
He strained the extraordinarily acute hearing he'd inherited from his father, but the two-story home that Dominic Santini had bought in the post- war boom of the 1950's remained still save for a loud rumble originating in the master bedroom down the hall. It wasn't surprising that Dominic was sawing the proverbial wood; they had spent several hours preparing for Monday's photo shoot, interspersed with Santini's combined remonstrances at Stringfellow on the virtue of cooperation, and his denouncement of Jason Locke as a bureaucratic stuffed shirt. Hawke's brooding silence on either subject hadn't shortened the old man's lecture a fraction, and it had been quite late before they'd called it a night. Dom's snoring is honestly earned, anyway, entered Hawke's quicksilver mind as a passing thought.
At any other time he might have smiled faintly at that, but his foster father's snores were old and familiar; they would not have triggered the warning alarms that were even now rolling him to his feet without so much as a squeak of springs. Almost of its own volition his right hand slid under the bed's second pillow, extracting the nickel plated Colt automatic he hadn't felt comfortable sleeping without since his second week in Viet Nam.
He didn't bother tossing on either robe or slippers; clad only in cotton pajama bottoms, he crossed to the door and eased it open, taking several seconds in the process so as to ensure the hinges would not creak. He listened at the crack, still hearing only the sounds of slumber from the other room, but it didn't matter -- he knew beyond knowing that there was someone else in the house. He padded cat-like out into the hall, back pressed against the light blue wallpaper that decorated most of the upstairs. Still there was no sound, no clue beyond his own, taut muscles and singing nerves that there was anything amiss at all.
The staircase was wreathed in deep darkness, the floor below visible only as vague outlines in the light peeking through the curtained windows. Hawke crept to the staircase, deciding that his best bet would be to invoke the element of surprise. A rush would place him in the center of the living room and in attack position before anyone there had a chance to realize he was even awake. He took a deep breath, lithe muscles coiled ... and sprang! -- silently descending the carpeted steps two at a time. He'd reached the half-way point when trouble struck in the form of a steel tripwire catching his right ankle. He let out a yelp and dropped headfirst, losing his grip on the Colt almost immediately as he scrabbled for a handhold. He tumbled shoulder, hip ... twice over before his head struck the banister with blinding force. Hawke saw a bright flash of light, then the light faded to unrelenting black.
***
Quite suddenly, Stringfellow Hawke was awake. There was no transition, no half-conscious state to mark the boundary between asleep and not. Blue eyes flashed open, a surge of adrenalin tracing each nerve and bringing his body to the same state of awareness as his mind. Training kicking in, he controlled his initial impulses and lay perfectly still, senses outstretched and seeking the source of the disturbance -- if such it was -- that had interrupted the deep sleep he'd slipped into almost immediately upon laying down.
The possibility that this was a dream flickered and was gone. The dreams came often even now -- so long after Viet Nam, even longer from his parents' horrible deaths -- vivid memories of blood and death and loss, wrenching him back to wakefulness with a cry years-long training automatically smothered until it would not have betrayed a team in the field. But Hawke knew the difference between the dreams and the reality he inhabited. Sometimes the images were the same, but he always knew when the hurt was real. Like now.
He strained the extraordinarily acute hearing he'd inherited from his father, but the two-story home that Dominic Santini had bought in the post- war boom of the 1950's remained still save for a loud rumble originating in the master bedroom down the hall. It wasn't surprising that Dominic was sawing the proverbial wood; they had spent several hours preparing for Monday's photo shoot, interspersed with Santini's combined remonstrances at Stringfellow on the virtue of cooperation, and his denouncement of Jason Locke as a bureaucratic stuffed shirt. Hawke's brooding silence on either subject hadn't shortened the old man's lecture a fraction, and it had been quite late before they'd called it a night. Dom's snoring is honestly earned, anyway, entered Hawke's quicksilver mind as a passing thought.
At any other time he might have smiled faintly at that, but his foster father's snores were old and familiar; they would not have triggered the warning alarms that were even now rolling him to his feet without so much as a squeak of springs. Almost of its own volition his right hand slid under the bed's second pillow, extracting the nickel plated Colt automatic he hadn't felt comfortable sleeping without since his second week in Viet Nam.
He didn't bother tossing on either robe or slippers; clad only in cotton pajama bottoms, he crossed to the door and eased it open, taking several seconds in the process so as to ensure the hinges would not creak. He listened at the crack, still hearing only the sounds of slumber from the other room, but it didn't matter -- he knew beyond knowing that there was someone else in the house. He padded cat-like out into the hall, back pressed against the light blue wallpaper that decorated most of the upstairs. Still there was no sound, no clue beyond his own, taut muscles and singing nerves that there was anything amiss at all.
The staircase was wreathed in deep darkness, the floor below visible only as vague outlines in the light peeking through the curtained windows. Hawke crept to the staircase, deciding that his best bet would be to invoke the element of surprise. A rush would place him in the center of the living room and in attack position before anyone there had a chance to realize he was even awake. He took a deep breath, lithe muscles coiled ... and sprang! -- silently descending the carpeted steps two at a time. He'd reached the half-way point when trouble struck in the form of a steel tripwire catching his right ankle. He let out a yelp and dropped headfirst, losing his grip on the Colt almost immediately as he scrabbled for a handhold. He tumbled shoulder, hip ... twice over before his head struck the banister with blinding force. Hawke saw a bright flash of light, then the light faded to unrelenting black.
***