Chapter 3
Saint John Hawke stretched his big-boned frame contentedly, feeling the carpet scrunch under his thighs, and the leather upholstery of the chair at his back. The E-Z Boy Lounger he'd bought on Mike's recommendation was every bit as comfortable as the other pilot had claimed, but try as he might, Hawke couldn't seem to get used to sitting in it. He'd sat, eaten, and slept on bare ground for the past fifteen years of his life, and had adapted to living as his Laotian captors had. To him, sitting upright in a chair was no longer a natural posture for his retrained body, though he generally forced himself when in the company of others.
He slouched a little lower on his spine, generous mouth lifting sardonically on one side when a scantily clad actress on the television attacked an obviously fake dinosaur with a spear. Another one of Mike's recommendations that didn't quite live up to expectations. Prehistoric Cave Women From the Planet Hooter might be one of the younger pilot's favorite movies, but it would never win an Oscar, that's for sure. I might'a liked it when I was eighteen, he thought with some amusement, but not at nearly forty. Goes to prove how mature Mike's taste is, though.
He used one hand to massage the crick in his neck, then the small of his back, feeling a twinge of pity for Rivers, who had been sent to the Lair late that afternoon. The Air Force, to whom he was still legally if not practically assigned, was requesting an emergency reconnaissance mission for the next day, something that would require the pilot's personal preparation. At that moment Saint John was glad his own area of expertise did not extend in that direction; he would have hated having to spend the night in the mountain retreat pouring over satellite photos with a magnifying glass. Instead of sitting here watching great art. Ha.
In Mike's absence and particularly once Jason Locke had returned to his offices at DNS headquarters, Saint John, Jo and String had gotten a lot done this afternoon; the JetRanger was up to specs for the photo shoot Monday, and ready to take String back to their grandfather's cabin tomorrow ... this morning. A glance at the modified watch on his right wrist confirmed that it was now one-forty-five a.m. He yawned, muffling it in his palm, then rubbing his slightly red eyes, cursing his inability to sleep easily. He'd suffered insomnia more or less regularly since his return from the POW camps, refusing to resort to sleeping pills but preferring instead to ride out the long hours until his tired mind shut down of its own accord and granted him the blissful serenity he craved. He'd been willing to bet money that Prehistoric Cave Women From the Planet Hooter would have acted the soporific if anything would; obviously, it wasn't strong enough medicine for his brand of sleeplessness.
Too many changes happening to fast, he admitted tiredly, watching without interest when a tyrannosaurus rex tripped into a tar pit and was fallen upon by rock wielding Amazons. My rescue from Burma and String's injuries would have been stressful enough. Add to that finding out that Dominic wasn't killed in that helicopter blast like we thought, having to rescue him from one of String's old enemies ... one Airwolf mission after another.... He sighed, stretching again. Maybe a vacation will help me unwind a bit. I haven't had a real vacation since before Viet Nam, when Dom, String and I followed that airshow around the midwest for two weeks. Think I'll talk String into taking a little fishing trip with me. The kid said he knew some great spots for bass.
He was just ready to turn off the set and try warm milk instead when the cordless phone began to ring. "Who could that be this time of night?" he grumbled, pawing clumsily for the offending instrument that had somehow slid between the cushions of the lounger. He found it and clapped the receiver to his ear, grunting, "Yeah?" in a tone designed to convey extreme displeasure in as few words possible.
"Is this Mr. Saint John Hawke?"
The big blond opened his mouth to snap an affirmative, then stopped, a cold chill working its way up his spine. The voice was male, heavily accented -- Vietnamese? -- and faintly familiar though he couldn't immediately place it. "Who is this?" Hawke demanded, making no attempts at politeness.
"Listen very carefully, Mr. Hawke." The coldly formal voice paused, addressing someone unidentified. "You will say something into this phone." There was a long silence then a muffled thud that to Saint John's heightened senses could have been the sound of a blow being administered. The caller's repeated guttural threat of, "Speak, if you value your life!" was followed by another thud, more brutal than the first, and in the background Hawke could hear a loud objection in a gravelly voice that he identified immediately.
"Dom?" A lump of ice dropped into Hawke's stomach, his pulse beating like a sledgehammer in his temple. He pressed the phone hard against his ear, remembering suddenly that his brother and Dom were together. If that was a blow given for disobedience, it most probably was.... "String!" he yelled, holding his breath.
The accent returned, sounding, if possible, more irritatingly smug. "Ah so. You have heard enough to prove that we have your brother and your friend. If you wish to see them alive again you will do exactly as I say."
Saint John swallowed hard, bringing his own voice under control only with an effort. "What do you want? Who are you?"
"Who I am you will find out quite soon. What I want is for you to go to your door and open it."
"Open it?" The tall, bronze haired pilot skimmed the neat if spartan room once, one facet of his consciousness noting that everything was as pristine neat and clean as if it had been located in a hospital. A loathing of dirt and disorder was just one more legacy of living in the prison camps. Beyond that, his warrior's experience told him there would be nowhere to hide in the room should the situation call for it. The Danish style couch and E-Z Boy faced the inner wall; the expensive stereo and television sat in the entertainment center shelving at a right angle to the curtained windows. The front door was in a small alcove beyond the kitchenette, out of sight. Better handle this right the first time, he cautioned himself firmly.
"I said to open your front door, Mr. Hawke," the voice repeated calmly. "Do it within one minute, or I shall put a bullet through your brother's head."
There was no choice. The Airwolf pilot stated, "Okay. Don't do anything rash," and crossed to the door, taking the mobile phone with him. He opened it slowly, shoulder blades crawling with the expectation of receiving a shotgun blast in the face. What he saw was nothing quite as dramatic. A young man stood there, hands folded at his middle and making no effort to conceal the snub nosed automatic he held in one palm. Dressed casually in jeans and black turtleneck, the man looked like anyone off the street in Little Saigon -- or Tokyo, Hawke amended, suddenly placing the mysterious caller's accent. Not Vietnamese or Korean. Definitely Japan.
"How did you get in here?" Hawke blurted, thrown at a loss. "This is a security building."
The man only smiled coldly, offering a fractional little bow, more insult than courtesy. He pointed the gun casually in Hawke's direction and ushered him a few steps back inside the living room. "Nice place you have here," he said in perfect english, giving the apartment a cursory glance. "You are alone, yes? No woman?" The smile grew a shade wider when his dark brown eyes lit on the television screen. "Saw that movie. Know how it ends." He stared full at Hawke. "Everybody dies."
"Thanks for the review," the pilot muttered, attention more firmly fixed on the phone. Louder, "Okay, your man is in. Now what?"
"Now you go for a little ride," the caller responded. "Itsuko is to see that you have opportunity to contact no one. If you value the lives of your friend and your brother, you will do exactly as Itsuko commands." The line went dead.
Saint John slowly lowered the receiver, staring at it worriedly for a moment before the aforementioned chaperon plucked it from his fingers and tossed it away. "Okay, Itsuko," Saint John Hawke said flatly. "Where do we go from here?"
***
The man was short, perhaps five foot seven, and stocky of stature, with the straight, jet hair and almond shaped eyes of his oriental heritage. Considering the brown business suit and striped tie, a Gucci briefcase might have looked more appropriate in his hand than the expensive Ruger pistol he carried. It was gripped expertly, however, without a trace of diffidence, and steadily enough to prove that he would have no hesitance about using it. He stood stiffly in the center of the room staring out the large front window, while another man, younger and also of Asian extraction, kept armed vigil from behind.
On the paisley covered sofa that dominated the living room's inside wall, two prisoners sat side by side, watching them both. Each bore evidence of a hasty awakening: Dominic Santini's thinning gray hair stood up in spikes, and the right leg of his red-striped pajamas hung empty of the prosthetic foot he'd worn since the helicopter explosion some months before that had nearly claimed his life. He sat stiffly erect, one hand resting lightly on a somewhat battered but aware Stringfellow Hawke, whose hands were tightly bound behind him. The younger man's bare torso was marked by bruises, others darkening on his face; his eyes, however, were clear -- glittering sapphires filled with barely controlled rage.
Dominic leaned to the side until his lips were only inches from his friend's ear. "You sure you don't know who these jokers are?" he asked, stiffening when the second captor shuffled his feet. "That older one looks kind'a familiar."
Hawke shook his head fractionally, expression closed. "I've never seen them before. They're not here for us, anyway. You heard the phone call; we're just bait." His face grew, if possible, even harder, a hint of worry tightening a muscle in his jaw. "It's my brother they're after. Maybe from his intelligence work in 'Nam, even if their accent is all wrong."
"More likely it's something recent." The old man scratched his chin, fingers rasping on the heavy beard there. "Saint John's racked up a lot of missions for the Firm since he got back -- more than you have lately. He's bound to've made a couple of enemies."
"Maybe," the younger pilot acknowledged, squirming slightly in a futile attempt at finding a comfortable position for his bound arms. "Guess we'll find out."
But they were not to be enlightened for some time. The grandfather clock was chiming a quarter after two when Santini cleared his throat loudly enough to attract the besuited and still unmoving stranger's attention. "We been sitting here a good half-hour, pal. You want to tell us now what it is you want? Or are we supposed to wait around until we grow roots."
Flat brown eyes examined the two consideringly. "We must wait for Itsuko to return with the third member of the play. In the meantime perhaps it is only right that you know why it is you are to die."
Santini exchanged a look with Hawke, who received this unsurprising information stoically. "Die?" Dominic repeated with more outrage than fear. "So it's a dirty, straight-out murder, is it?"
"Not murder -- an execution." Offering the window a final glance, the stranger thumbed the hammer on the Ruger though did not cock it. "I am Omeko Yashiki. You have heard my name? No? So. My son, Ito ..." The guard bowed. "... and I served as samurai to Commander Takahashi Yahara." He paused as though expecting a reaction to the name; when there was none, disapproval flicked across his moon-shaped features. "The Commander was of the Special Attack Squadron, Imperial Japanese military forces. Westerners feared them as kamikaze."
"And he's still alive?" Dom asked naively. Hawke merely lifted one brow.
Disapproval shifted into a full frown. "Commander Yahara lost much face during the war when Navy Lieutenant Allen B. Hawke prevented him from destroying the aircraft carrier Saratoga as he had sworn to do. To be taken prisoner by the enemy is the ultimate shame for a kamikaze."
"Lieutenant Hawke?" Stringfellow sat up a little straighter against Dom's arm, blue eyes widening. "You mean my father?"
"The sins of the father are often visited upon the son," Yashiki quoted, looking at Hawke with new interest at the reminder. "In this case, both sons, but the eldest must pay first." He smiled, a cruel twist of full lips that sent a shiver up the prisoners' backs. "He will pay well."
Temper and fraternal instincts igniting simultaneously, Hawke lunged forward awkwardly despite Dominic's quick snatch for his arm, fine boned face twisted with anger. "If you touch my brother, I'll kill you!"
Had he been untied, he might have ended the nightmare at once. Such was not to be, however. Before Hawke had even made it completely to his feet, the silent guard was in position, sweeping his pistol in a wide, powerful arc. Stringfellow saw the blow coming and rolled away, but couldn't completely escape contact. The gunbarrel caught him brutally on the side of the face, snapping his head back and throwing him sideways into Dominic's lap. He let out a cry as he landed, momentarily stunned by the pain; then hatred returned full force, defiance bringing his head back up. "If you touch him--" he repeated, tensing for another try.
"Cut it out, String," the old man growled, throwing both arms around his friend and holding on only with difficulty. "You bucking for a Section 8, or something?"
The younger man spun furiously on his foster father, eyes blazing despite the swelling red-and-purple mark on his high cheekbone. "He's going to kill Saint John," he snapped, struggling to free himself from the man's tenacious grip.
"He's gonna kill you if you don't lay off!" Santini gave him a furious shake, his own temper beginning to fray. "Just hang on, kid, we ain't done for yet." He laughed humorlessly. "It's usually you telling me that! Take both our advice, kid, and wait for the chance."
Looking unconvinced, Hawke nevertheless subsided, shooting visual daggers at his captors. Through all this Yashiki did not so much as flick an eyelash. "You will learn respect," he said disinterestedly. He paused, then continued the previous discussion as though no interruption had occurred. "Thanks to Major Saint John Hawke, Commander Yahara died in combat before he was able to succeed in the one mission that would have expiated his failure -- the destruction of the nuclear reactor at Chimunga. That deficiency is about to be rectified by the one who thwarted that plan -- Major Hawke."
The reaction he received to that was all Yashiki could have hoped for. Dom, helping his dazed friend back against the sofa, turned to gape through his beard. "Blowing Chimunga will kill thousands of people!"
"You're nuts!" Stringfellow blurted at the same time, startled out of his hard-regained composure. "Saint John isn't going to help you."
That elicited a smirk from the black-clad Ito, and a knowing look from Yashiki, who waggled the gun menacingly at the pair on the sofa. "Not even if it means saving the life of his only brother?"
"Saint John wouldn't risk all those lives for any reason," Hawke shot back confidently, straining against his bonds. "Try to force him and you'll end up dead -- just like that crazy commander of yours."
Yashiki crossed the distance between them in two steps, the sound of the hard, backhanded slap he administered sounding like a gunshot. "You will speak of Yahara-san with respect, or I shall personally cut out your impudent tongue."
Insolent blue eyes glittered back at him, only the pointed automatic preventing the impending clash from taking place then and there. "You talk pretty big with that gun in your hand," the pilot returned coldly, flicking a strand of disordered gold-brown hair off his brow. "Are you half the man you claim to be without it?"
The gambit very nearly worked. Speculation flashed briefly, fingers tightening on the trigger. "I shall derive much pleasure from watching your most dishonorable death," Yashiki replied, backing off from the provocation only with an effort. "It will take a very long time, I promise- -" A car entering the driveway served the dual purpose of interrupting the threat and replacing the anger with anticipation.
"Saint John," Hawke breathed, swallowing hard.
"My vengeance," Yashiki snarled, tossing the Ruger to his partner. He reached into a hidden sheath strapped between his shoulder blades, extracting a mid-length, curved sword with a sharpened edge. He made three practice slices in the air, short, controlled, and betraying many years practice with the deadly weapon. "It is time."
"You'll never--"
Hawke got no further, for without warning Yashiki tangled the fingers of his free hand in Stringfellow's hair, using the grip to drag the younger man off the sofa and to his knees. Instead of releasing him, he pulled harder, bowing Hawke brutally backward against his own body. "If either of you move, you die instantly," he promised, pressing the katana against Hawke's exposed throat.
The tableau held through the sounds of two car doors opening and closing, then the scrunch of footsteps in the gravel drive. A moment later Saint John Hawke's large frame filled the doorway, gray eyes flash-scanning the room, Dom, and the black-clad guard who had moved closer to Santini's position and was covering him with the gun. "You all right, Dom?" he asked, gaze settling on his imperiled brother.
"Oh, yeah. Dandy." Santini shifted on the sofa, glancing at the quiet man who had accompanied his older foster son. "I see you brought a date. Don't think I approve of your taste."
There was no answer to that; rather, followed by Itsuko, the elder Hawke crossed the carpet to Yashiki and the bound Stringfellow. He was still several feet away when his escort skittled to the fore and abruptly planted a hard left jab to his midsection. "Not too close, dog," Itsuko warned, resuming his position out of range.
Saint John doubled over with a gasp of escaping air, wheezing several seconds before forcing himself erect, one hand pressed against his midriff. "Guess I should have figured I'd see you again," was all he said by way of comment.
The katana remained steady at Stringfellow's throat even as Yashiki gave the newcomer a courteous bow so at odds with his associate's strike. "The defeat of Commander Yahara did not end this matter. The death of my brother samurai and my master's honor must be avenged with your blood."
Saint John shrugged fractionally with the aplomb of a man who has faced death too often in the past to get excited about it now. "Here I am, whatever your name was. You wanted my head? You got it. Let them go and let's get this over with." There was an immediate if muffled protest from Stringfellow, cut off when the razor edge bit into his skin; blood trickled down the steel and he drew a sharp breath, cut off when Saint John took an alarmed step forward. "No! He's not the one you want -- I am."
The smug smile made the other look like a feasted cat for all the professional disdain he displayed. "My name is Omeko Yashiki, and you are quite correct, Major Hawke. It is you I want. You and the gunship that shot down Commander Yahara."
"What makes you think I have access to a gunship?" Saint John asked carefully, deliberately not looking in his brother's direction though his fists clenched.
The smile faded. "Let us not play unworthy games, Major," the stocky oriental snapped impatiently. "I have spent much money on information and know of the secret helicopter you pilot for the United States intelligence organization called the Department of National Security. I know that using it you will have more than enough firepower to complete Yahara-san's mission."
Saint John stared disbelievingly, big hands unconsciously tightening in the fabric of his jeans. "You want me to blow the nuclear plant at Chimunga? Are you nuts?"
The question was asked automatically, out of surprise, but Yashiki responded by yanking hard on the helpless Stringfellow, drawing more blood and a smothered gasp. "You will obey me," Omeko Yashiki gritted, round features tight with anger. "Agree or your brother dies now."
There was a tense pause while the two regarded each other over the top of Stringfellow's head; neither man moved, the effect being that of two members of a wolf pack sizing each other up. Dom's agonized, "Saint John," was a harsh whisper in the still room and immediately cut off.
Face hard, eyes hooded, every muscle as taut as steel cable, Saint John stared down his long nose at the self-styled modern samurai, gaze shifting from the oriental's face to his brother's, then trailing down to the blood- spotted knife. "Let him go," he said in a flat voice, "and I'll do as you say."
Saint John Hawke stretched his big-boned frame contentedly, feeling the carpet scrunch under his thighs, and the leather upholstery of the chair at his back. The E-Z Boy Lounger he'd bought on Mike's recommendation was every bit as comfortable as the other pilot had claimed, but try as he might, Hawke couldn't seem to get used to sitting in it. He'd sat, eaten, and slept on bare ground for the past fifteen years of his life, and had adapted to living as his Laotian captors had. To him, sitting upright in a chair was no longer a natural posture for his retrained body, though he generally forced himself when in the company of others.
He slouched a little lower on his spine, generous mouth lifting sardonically on one side when a scantily clad actress on the television attacked an obviously fake dinosaur with a spear. Another one of Mike's recommendations that didn't quite live up to expectations. Prehistoric Cave Women From the Planet Hooter might be one of the younger pilot's favorite movies, but it would never win an Oscar, that's for sure. I might'a liked it when I was eighteen, he thought with some amusement, but not at nearly forty. Goes to prove how mature Mike's taste is, though.
He used one hand to massage the crick in his neck, then the small of his back, feeling a twinge of pity for Rivers, who had been sent to the Lair late that afternoon. The Air Force, to whom he was still legally if not practically assigned, was requesting an emergency reconnaissance mission for the next day, something that would require the pilot's personal preparation. At that moment Saint John was glad his own area of expertise did not extend in that direction; he would have hated having to spend the night in the mountain retreat pouring over satellite photos with a magnifying glass. Instead of sitting here watching great art. Ha.
In Mike's absence and particularly once Jason Locke had returned to his offices at DNS headquarters, Saint John, Jo and String had gotten a lot done this afternoon; the JetRanger was up to specs for the photo shoot Monday, and ready to take String back to their grandfather's cabin tomorrow ... this morning. A glance at the modified watch on his right wrist confirmed that it was now one-forty-five a.m. He yawned, muffling it in his palm, then rubbing his slightly red eyes, cursing his inability to sleep easily. He'd suffered insomnia more or less regularly since his return from the POW camps, refusing to resort to sleeping pills but preferring instead to ride out the long hours until his tired mind shut down of its own accord and granted him the blissful serenity he craved. He'd been willing to bet money that Prehistoric Cave Women From the Planet Hooter would have acted the soporific if anything would; obviously, it wasn't strong enough medicine for his brand of sleeplessness.
Too many changes happening to fast, he admitted tiredly, watching without interest when a tyrannosaurus rex tripped into a tar pit and was fallen upon by rock wielding Amazons. My rescue from Burma and String's injuries would have been stressful enough. Add to that finding out that Dominic wasn't killed in that helicopter blast like we thought, having to rescue him from one of String's old enemies ... one Airwolf mission after another.... He sighed, stretching again. Maybe a vacation will help me unwind a bit. I haven't had a real vacation since before Viet Nam, when Dom, String and I followed that airshow around the midwest for two weeks. Think I'll talk String into taking a little fishing trip with me. The kid said he knew some great spots for bass.
He was just ready to turn off the set and try warm milk instead when the cordless phone began to ring. "Who could that be this time of night?" he grumbled, pawing clumsily for the offending instrument that had somehow slid between the cushions of the lounger. He found it and clapped the receiver to his ear, grunting, "Yeah?" in a tone designed to convey extreme displeasure in as few words possible.
"Is this Mr. Saint John Hawke?"
The big blond opened his mouth to snap an affirmative, then stopped, a cold chill working its way up his spine. The voice was male, heavily accented -- Vietnamese? -- and faintly familiar though he couldn't immediately place it. "Who is this?" Hawke demanded, making no attempts at politeness.
"Listen very carefully, Mr. Hawke." The coldly formal voice paused, addressing someone unidentified. "You will say something into this phone." There was a long silence then a muffled thud that to Saint John's heightened senses could have been the sound of a blow being administered. The caller's repeated guttural threat of, "Speak, if you value your life!" was followed by another thud, more brutal than the first, and in the background Hawke could hear a loud objection in a gravelly voice that he identified immediately.
"Dom?" A lump of ice dropped into Hawke's stomach, his pulse beating like a sledgehammer in his temple. He pressed the phone hard against his ear, remembering suddenly that his brother and Dom were together. If that was a blow given for disobedience, it most probably was.... "String!" he yelled, holding his breath.
The accent returned, sounding, if possible, more irritatingly smug. "Ah so. You have heard enough to prove that we have your brother and your friend. If you wish to see them alive again you will do exactly as I say."
Saint John swallowed hard, bringing his own voice under control only with an effort. "What do you want? Who are you?"
"Who I am you will find out quite soon. What I want is for you to go to your door and open it."
"Open it?" The tall, bronze haired pilot skimmed the neat if spartan room once, one facet of his consciousness noting that everything was as pristine neat and clean as if it had been located in a hospital. A loathing of dirt and disorder was just one more legacy of living in the prison camps. Beyond that, his warrior's experience told him there would be nowhere to hide in the room should the situation call for it. The Danish style couch and E-Z Boy faced the inner wall; the expensive stereo and television sat in the entertainment center shelving at a right angle to the curtained windows. The front door was in a small alcove beyond the kitchenette, out of sight. Better handle this right the first time, he cautioned himself firmly.
"I said to open your front door, Mr. Hawke," the voice repeated calmly. "Do it within one minute, or I shall put a bullet through your brother's head."
There was no choice. The Airwolf pilot stated, "Okay. Don't do anything rash," and crossed to the door, taking the mobile phone with him. He opened it slowly, shoulder blades crawling with the expectation of receiving a shotgun blast in the face. What he saw was nothing quite as dramatic. A young man stood there, hands folded at his middle and making no effort to conceal the snub nosed automatic he held in one palm. Dressed casually in jeans and black turtleneck, the man looked like anyone off the street in Little Saigon -- or Tokyo, Hawke amended, suddenly placing the mysterious caller's accent. Not Vietnamese or Korean. Definitely Japan.
"How did you get in here?" Hawke blurted, thrown at a loss. "This is a security building."
The man only smiled coldly, offering a fractional little bow, more insult than courtesy. He pointed the gun casually in Hawke's direction and ushered him a few steps back inside the living room. "Nice place you have here," he said in perfect english, giving the apartment a cursory glance. "You are alone, yes? No woman?" The smile grew a shade wider when his dark brown eyes lit on the television screen. "Saw that movie. Know how it ends." He stared full at Hawke. "Everybody dies."
"Thanks for the review," the pilot muttered, attention more firmly fixed on the phone. Louder, "Okay, your man is in. Now what?"
"Now you go for a little ride," the caller responded. "Itsuko is to see that you have opportunity to contact no one. If you value the lives of your friend and your brother, you will do exactly as Itsuko commands." The line went dead.
Saint John slowly lowered the receiver, staring at it worriedly for a moment before the aforementioned chaperon plucked it from his fingers and tossed it away. "Okay, Itsuko," Saint John Hawke said flatly. "Where do we go from here?"
***
The man was short, perhaps five foot seven, and stocky of stature, with the straight, jet hair and almond shaped eyes of his oriental heritage. Considering the brown business suit and striped tie, a Gucci briefcase might have looked more appropriate in his hand than the expensive Ruger pistol he carried. It was gripped expertly, however, without a trace of diffidence, and steadily enough to prove that he would have no hesitance about using it. He stood stiffly in the center of the room staring out the large front window, while another man, younger and also of Asian extraction, kept armed vigil from behind.
On the paisley covered sofa that dominated the living room's inside wall, two prisoners sat side by side, watching them both. Each bore evidence of a hasty awakening: Dominic Santini's thinning gray hair stood up in spikes, and the right leg of his red-striped pajamas hung empty of the prosthetic foot he'd worn since the helicopter explosion some months before that had nearly claimed his life. He sat stiffly erect, one hand resting lightly on a somewhat battered but aware Stringfellow Hawke, whose hands were tightly bound behind him. The younger man's bare torso was marked by bruises, others darkening on his face; his eyes, however, were clear -- glittering sapphires filled with barely controlled rage.
Dominic leaned to the side until his lips were only inches from his friend's ear. "You sure you don't know who these jokers are?" he asked, stiffening when the second captor shuffled his feet. "That older one looks kind'a familiar."
Hawke shook his head fractionally, expression closed. "I've never seen them before. They're not here for us, anyway. You heard the phone call; we're just bait." His face grew, if possible, even harder, a hint of worry tightening a muscle in his jaw. "It's my brother they're after. Maybe from his intelligence work in 'Nam, even if their accent is all wrong."
"More likely it's something recent." The old man scratched his chin, fingers rasping on the heavy beard there. "Saint John's racked up a lot of missions for the Firm since he got back -- more than you have lately. He's bound to've made a couple of enemies."
"Maybe," the younger pilot acknowledged, squirming slightly in a futile attempt at finding a comfortable position for his bound arms. "Guess we'll find out."
But they were not to be enlightened for some time. The grandfather clock was chiming a quarter after two when Santini cleared his throat loudly enough to attract the besuited and still unmoving stranger's attention. "We been sitting here a good half-hour, pal. You want to tell us now what it is you want? Or are we supposed to wait around until we grow roots."
Flat brown eyes examined the two consideringly. "We must wait for Itsuko to return with the third member of the play. In the meantime perhaps it is only right that you know why it is you are to die."
Santini exchanged a look with Hawke, who received this unsurprising information stoically. "Die?" Dominic repeated with more outrage than fear. "So it's a dirty, straight-out murder, is it?"
"Not murder -- an execution." Offering the window a final glance, the stranger thumbed the hammer on the Ruger though did not cock it. "I am Omeko Yashiki. You have heard my name? No? So. My son, Ito ..." The guard bowed. "... and I served as samurai to Commander Takahashi Yahara." He paused as though expecting a reaction to the name; when there was none, disapproval flicked across his moon-shaped features. "The Commander was of the Special Attack Squadron, Imperial Japanese military forces. Westerners feared them as kamikaze."
"And he's still alive?" Dom asked naively. Hawke merely lifted one brow.
Disapproval shifted into a full frown. "Commander Yahara lost much face during the war when Navy Lieutenant Allen B. Hawke prevented him from destroying the aircraft carrier Saratoga as he had sworn to do. To be taken prisoner by the enemy is the ultimate shame for a kamikaze."
"Lieutenant Hawke?" Stringfellow sat up a little straighter against Dom's arm, blue eyes widening. "You mean my father?"
"The sins of the father are often visited upon the son," Yashiki quoted, looking at Hawke with new interest at the reminder. "In this case, both sons, but the eldest must pay first." He smiled, a cruel twist of full lips that sent a shiver up the prisoners' backs. "He will pay well."
Temper and fraternal instincts igniting simultaneously, Hawke lunged forward awkwardly despite Dominic's quick snatch for his arm, fine boned face twisted with anger. "If you touch my brother, I'll kill you!"
Had he been untied, he might have ended the nightmare at once. Such was not to be, however. Before Hawke had even made it completely to his feet, the silent guard was in position, sweeping his pistol in a wide, powerful arc. Stringfellow saw the blow coming and rolled away, but couldn't completely escape contact. The gunbarrel caught him brutally on the side of the face, snapping his head back and throwing him sideways into Dominic's lap. He let out a cry as he landed, momentarily stunned by the pain; then hatred returned full force, defiance bringing his head back up. "If you touch him--" he repeated, tensing for another try.
"Cut it out, String," the old man growled, throwing both arms around his friend and holding on only with difficulty. "You bucking for a Section 8, or something?"
The younger man spun furiously on his foster father, eyes blazing despite the swelling red-and-purple mark on his high cheekbone. "He's going to kill Saint John," he snapped, struggling to free himself from the man's tenacious grip.
"He's gonna kill you if you don't lay off!" Santini gave him a furious shake, his own temper beginning to fray. "Just hang on, kid, we ain't done for yet." He laughed humorlessly. "It's usually you telling me that! Take both our advice, kid, and wait for the chance."
Looking unconvinced, Hawke nevertheless subsided, shooting visual daggers at his captors. Through all this Yashiki did not so much as flick an eyelash. "You will learn respect," he said disinterestedly. He paused, then continued the previous discussion as though no interruption had occurred. "Thanks to Major Saint John Hawke, Commander Yahara died in combat before he was able to succeed in the one mission that would have expiated his failure -- the destruction of the nuclear reactor at Chimunga. That deficiency is about to be rectified by the one who thwarted that plan -- Major Hawke."
The reaction he received to that was all Yashiki could have hoped for. Dom, helping his dazed friend back against the sofa, turned to gape through his beard. "Blowing Chimunga will kill thousands of people!"
"You're nuts!" Stringfellow blurted at the same time, startled out of his hard-regained composure. "Saint John isn't going to help you."
That elicited a smirk from the black-clad Ito, and a knowing look from Yashiki, who waggled the gun menacingly at the pair on the sofa. "Not even if it means saving the life of his only brother?"
"Saint John wouldn't risk all those lives for any reason," Hawke shot back confidently, straining against his bonds. "Try to force him and you'll end up dead -- just like that crazy commander of yours."
Yashiki crossed the distance between them in two steps, the sound of the hard, backhanded slap he administered sounding like a gunshot. "You will speak of Yahara-san with respect, or I shall personally cut out your impudent tongue."
Insolent blue eyes glittered back at him, only the pointed automatic preventing the impending clash from taking place then and there. "You talk pretty big with that gun in your hand," the pilot returned coldly, flicking a strand of disordered gold-brown hair off his brow. "Are you half the man you claim to be without it?"
The gambit very nearly worked. Speculation flashed briefly, fingers tightening on the trigger. "I shall derive much pleasure from watching your most dishonorable death," Yashiki replied, backing off from the provocation only with an effort. "It will take a very long time, I promise- -" A car entering the driveway served the dual purpose of interrupting the threat and replacing the anger with anticipation.
"Saint John," Hawke breathed, swallowing hard.
"My vengeance," Yashiki snarled, tossing the Ruger to his partner. He reached into a hidden sheath strapped between his shoulder blades, extracting a mid-length, curved sword with a sharpened edge. He made three practice slices in the air, short, controlled, and betraying many years practice with the deadly weapon. "It is time."
"You'll never--"
Hawke got no further, for without warning Yashiki tangled the fingers of his free hand in Stringfellow's hair, using the grip to drag the younger man off the sofa and to his knees. Instead of releasing him, he pulled harder, bowing Hawke brutally backward against his own body. "If either of you move, you die instantly," he promised, pressing the katana against Hawke's exposed throat.
The tableau held through the sounds of two car doors opening and closing, then the scrunch of footsteps in the gravel drive. A moment later Saint John Hawke's large frame filled the doorway, gray eyes flash-scanning the room, Dom, and the black-clad guard who had moved closer to Santini's position and was covering him with the gun. "You all right, Dom?" he asked, gaze settling on his imperiled brother.
"Oh, yeah. Dandy." Santini shifted on the sofa, glancing at the quiet man who had accompanied his older foster son. "I see you brought a date. Don't think I approve of your taste."
There was no answer to that; rather, followed by Itsuko, the elder Hawke crossed the carpet to Yashiki and the bound Stringfellow. He was still several feet away when his escort skittled to the fore and abruptly planted a hard left jab to his midsection. "Not too close, dog," Itsuko warned, resuming his position out of range.
Saint John doubled over with a gasp of escaping air, wheezing several seconds before forcing himself erect, one hand pressed against his midriff. "Guess I should have figured I'd see you again," was all he said by way of comment.
The katana remained steady at Stringfellow's throat even as Yashiki gave the newcomer a courteous bow so at odds with his associate's strike. "The defeat of Commander Yahara did not end this matter. The death of my brother samurai and my master's honor must be avenged with your blood."
Saint John shrugged fractionally with the aplomb of a man who has faced death too often in the past to get excited about it now. "Here I am, whatever your name was. You wanted my head? You got it. Let them go and let's get this over with." There was an immediate if muffled protest from Stringfellow, cut off when the razor edge bit into his skin; blood trickled down the steel and he drew a sharp breath, cut off when Saint John took an alarmed step forward. "No! He's not the one you want -- I am."
The smug smile made the other look like a feasted cat for all the professional disdain he displayed. "My name is Omeko Yashiki, and you are quite correct, Major Hawke. It is you I want. You and the gunship that shot down Commander Yahara."
"What makes you think I have access to a gunship?" Saint John asked carefully, deliberately not looking in his brother's direction though his fists clenched.
The smile faded. "Let us not play unworthy games, Major," the stocky oriental snapped impatiently. "I have spent much money on information and know of the secret helicopter you pilot for the United States intelligence organization called the Department of National Security. I know that using it you will have more than enough firepower to complete Yahara-san's mission."
Saint John stared disbelievingly, big hands unconsciously tightening in the fabric of his jeans. "You want me to blow the nuclear plant at Chimunga? Are you nuts?"
The question was asked automatically, out of surprise, but Yashiki responded by yanking hard on the helpless Stringfellow, drawing more blood and a smothered gasp. "You will obey me," Omeko Yashiki gritted, round features tight with anger. "Agree or your brother dies now."
There was a tense pause while the two regarded each other over the top of Stringfellow's head; neither man moved, the effect being that of two members of a wolf pack sizing each other up. Dom's agonized, "Saint John," was a harsh whisper in the still room and immediately cut off.
Face hard, eyes hooded, every muscle as taut as steel cable, Saint John stared down his long nose at the self-styled modern samurai, gaze shifting from the oriental's face to his brother's, then trailing down to the blood- spotted knife. "Let him go," he said in a flat voice, "and I'll do as you say."