Chapter 4
Yashiki bowed again, lips curled. "So." He swept the blade away, releasing his hold on Stringfellow's hair and giving him a shove. Bereft of the support, the younger Hawke fell forward, unable to stop himself without use of his hands. Saint John was there in an instant, dropping to one knee and holding his brother by the upper arms.
"String?" he asked, allowing his worry to show through for the first time.
Sapphire eyes glittered furiously back at him. It took several tries, but finally Stringfellow managed to give raspy voice to the angry protest that was plain in his face. "What are you doing here?" he demanded, allowing the older man to balance him back on his heels. "Why didn't you take that guy ..." He cut his eyes toward the hovering Itsuko. "... out when you had the chance?"
Saint John studied him up and down, frowning at the bruises and paying particular attention to the cut on his throat, which, being superficial, had already stopped bleeding. "What did you expect me to do," he returned mildly. "Let them kill you?"
"So now these nutcases can kill us both," the younger man retorted in a stronger voice.
Indignation returning at the insult, Yashiki hefted the katana to waist level, his fingers again snagging in Stringfellow Hawke's hair. "Respect can be taught," he warned, bringing the blade into the pilots' range of view.
Slowly, deliberately, Saint John's bronze head lifted to fix Yashiki a stare. There was an arctic chill in his gray eyes, the rimefrost of promises too terrible to relate. "Get your hands off my brother," he ordered in a tone so quietly deadly that Yashiki obeyed automatically, taking a single step backward and hefting the sword in a defensive posture. Released, Stringfellow too turned, his own frozen gaze a mirror image of his brother's; to look into those very similar pairs of eyes was to peer into the stygian depths of an open grave.
This state lasted for several seconds with no one daring to so much as breathe. Then Saint John Hawke blinked and got casually to his feet, pulling his brother up with him. "Why not cut his hands free?" he suggested calmly, aura of menace converting to subliminal levels without waning an iota. "After all, you're the ones with the guns."
The silent Itsuko moved two feet to the side, turning to train his automatic more fully on them both. He said something in Japanese, and Yashiki nodded. "I agree. It is dangerous enough to leave one of you with a measure of freedom; two is potentially suicidal."
"We've been complimented, String," Saint John said with mock lightness. "We're dangerous."
"And what am I?" Santini demanded from the sofa. "A walk in the park?"
Yashiki ignored the old man. He backed up slowly, retrieving his gun from his son before sliding the sword back into the sheath under his suit jacket. "No more talk. We shall go directly to the black helicopter and from there to Chimunga. If there is any hint of betrayal, Major Hawke, your brother and friend die immediately, you soon after."
Obeying a one-word order, Ito pulled Santini up. "I don't got a foot," the pilot grunted, windmilling his arms to keep his balance on one leg. "Don't expect me to keep up or nothing." He glanced at a crutch leaning in the corner near the door, a sly look further creasing the craggy features unhidden by the wiry beard. "If you won't get me my replacement, how about that crutch over there?"
"That weapon, you mean," Yashiki returned with contempt, bringing the Ruger to bear on the center of the red and white pajamas. "If you cannot keep up, old man, you can be eliminated now."
Santini rolled his eyes dramatically. "All right. All right. Just tryin' to cooperate, that's all." He hopped forward, snagging Stringfellow Hawke's bare shoulder to steady himself. When the three stood together, Yashiki jerked his head at his son.
"Tie Major Hawke and the old man's hands as well," he ordered. "There must be no chance of failure this time."
Ito slid his gun into the waistband of his jeans and extracted more rope from his pocket, scowling when Stringfellow stepped between him and his intended. "Not gonna do you any good," the pilot growled, rounded chin high. "If you think we're going to help you blow up a nuclear plant, then you are as crazy as I thought." He stood there, legs apart and braced, unyielding defiance smoldering in his eyes, and for a long moment the only sound in the room was that of a low growl in the back of Yashiki's throat.
Though it felt as though eternity itself had lapsed, it was actually only seconds before the tall blond Saint John Hawke was in hasty motion. Despite his stoic facade, he was unable to hide the look of dismay that flashed across his face at this turn of events. He grabbed his brother's arm, roughly tugging him toward the door and nearly upsetting Dominic in the process. "We don't have a choice, String," the older Hawke cajoled through gritted teeth. "They're holding all the cards." Stringfellow staggered backward at the first yank then rebraced himself, eyes locked with Yashiki's; Saint John tugged again, adding with some desperation, "There's no reason to be stubborn about this."
"Ha! There's no reason for the sun to come up tomorrow either," Santini snorted, hopping forward a step when Ito prodded him in the back with the gun, "but that's never stopped it, either."
Keeping his feet firmly planted, the younger Hawke twisted until he could see his brother's face. His own bore a mixture of rebellion and the certainty of his actions. "I'm not going to be used as a weapon against you. Not like this."
Saint John's returning look was enigmatic but carried that firm undercurrent of affection his stubborn younger brother had been able to evoke since they were children. "You're going to have to trust me on this, String. There's no other way."
"If you go through with this, neither one of you will ever be able to live with yourselves," Santini interjected bluntly, scowling at his foster sons. "And neither will I. I'm with String, if we're gonna go down, let'em do it now and get it over with."
Ito, standing behind Dom, glanced at the watch on his wrist, speaking for the first time. "We are behind schedule, Father. We must be at the plant before dawn."
"Hai!" Though it was Stringfellow and Dominic who presented a united opposition, it was Saint John Hawke to whom the samurai directed his attentions. Both as eldest son and through his victory in aerial combat, it was the tall pilot who had become the foremost enemy of the master Yahara and, by association, his devotees. As Stringfellow had so accurately described, the others were, in effect, no more than living weapons to be used against him. "Major Hawke. The lives of your friend and your brother rest in your hands. We go now, or they die now."
And there it was. No more time for decisions or delay. Saint John lifted both large hands palms open in a mollifying gesture, acceptance already on his lips; it was never uttered. Reading his brother's intentions and determined to preempt him, Stringfellow shifted his stance subtly, lithe muscles coiling. Without warning he poised himself on his left foot, lashing out in a perfectly executed crescent kick with his right to contact the nerve juncture in Yashiki's hip. Unbalanced by the sudden sharp pain, the oriental sagged, losing the gun. Using the opening, the young pilot pivoted on the same foot to delivering a second, more devastating forward kick to the center of the older man's face, then spinning on the advancing Itsuko. That proved to be his undoing, for Ito was already in motion; he shoved Dominic into Saint John, spilling them both to the side, then rammed the barrel of his gun hard into Stringfellow's lean middle, a short jab to one high cheekbone dropping the pilot to his knees, gasping for breath. Having neutralized one opponent, Ito stepped back to again cover Saint John, who had his arms full of Dominic, Itsuko closing in before either prisoner had a chance to join the fray. The whole incident had taken exactly four seconds.
An experienced fighter, Omeko was already straightening, clapping a hand to his shattered nose. "Your death on this day was predestined at birth," he snarled through the blood streaming across his mouth. Fury stripped away the thin veneer of urbanity he'd been maintaining until now, dead Yahara's mission suddenly taking a backseat to his own embarrassment. He scooped up the gun and backed away, bringing it to bear on the kneeling Stringfellow. "I need only one hostage to accomplish my purpose. The old man will serve."
"NO!" In an instant, Saint John's solid bulk was interposed between the weapon and his downed brother, blue-gray eyes wide and resolute. "Touch him and the deal's off," he snapped, putting one hand behind him and resting it protectively on String's bowed head.
"You're all real brave against a man with his hands tied behind him," Santini added cuttingly, bending to put an arm around his younger son's shoulders. "You all right, kid?"
Yashiki's full mouth twisted into a grimace. "This is not a matter of courage, though we will soon see how bravely you die." The sound of the 9mm Ruger being cocked was very loud in the suddenly silent room.
"Wait, Father!" Ito's protest came just in time to prevent all three prisoners from dying then and there. The gunman's skin was flushed, taking on an expectancy that was somehow more frightening than his father's outrage. He bowed, a few inches only, not lowering his own gun from its bullseye on Dominic's back. "It was agreed, Sir, that the honor of the first kill would be mine."
Yashiki hesitated, fingers twitching impatiently around the Ruger's grip, the desire to do the job himself distorting his thick features even further. Finally, he nodded curtly and stepped back a pace. "Hai. It was my word to you and to Yahara-san. Kill the boy; he will be an example for you, Major Hawke, of what will happen to the old man if you do not restore our master's honor as you agreed."
Smiling cruelly, Ito pushed Dom aside and leveled his gun at the younger Hawke's head. Saint John uttered a protest and sidled to his left, powerful muscles flexed for the frantic pounce that would have either won him possession of the gun ... or a bullet. Itsuko precluded either from coming to pass by sweeping with his left foot and catching Saint John midstep; the pilot's legs went out from under him before ever he could complete the attempt. He landed on his hip, rolled and made it back to his feet just as the sharp multiple 'CRACK!' of a weapon discharging filled the air. Simultaneous with this, Ito Yashiki seemed to do a spastic little jig as he was forced backwards a full five feet. He landed sprawled on the carpet like a discarded rag doll, brown eyes wide with surprise.
Time itself froze ... held ... while those remaining stared from the body to each other in puzzlement. It took several seconds before anyone realized that the blast had originated outside the front window, which had disintegrated into shards unnoticed under the cacophony of gunfire. Combat experience gave the prisoners the edge then. Striding forward two steps, Saint John reached the stunned Yashiki, who was gawking stupidly at his dead son. He brushed aside the drooping gun with his left hand, planting his right flush in the middle of the round face, drawing more blood from the already broken nose. Blinded, the stocky oriental staggered back and was thus unable to defend himself against the roundhouse left that smashed his jaw, or the follow-up that rendered him instantly unconscious.
Several feet away, Itsuko was being treated in much the same fashion. His bound hands proving to be very little of a hindrance, Stringfellow Hawke threw himself at his captor in a full tackle, his weight and the force of the lunge slamming them both to the floor. The gun freewheeled under the sofa, and Stringfellow wiggled to straddle the man, pinning him, while Dominic Santini squatted, fist clenched. With methodical, almost scientific precision the criminal Itsuko was pounded into unconsciousness.
Their enemies felled, the Hawke brothers and their foster father heaved a deep sigh. "What happened?" Santini wondered aloud, glancing from the neatly holed window to the red pool forming under Ito's body.
Stringfellow rolled off Itsuko, nearly falling without use of his hands. "It can't be more of Yashiki's men," he panted, catching himself on his bound wrists, "and Saint John didn't have a chance to call in the police."
"Or anyone else for that matter." Santini tapped Itsuko once more for good measure, grunting satisfaction when the man remained unresponsive. "That Yashiki guy planned things pretty good. Took us all without warning. So who...?"
Saint John expanded his chest to the full, rising smoothly to his feet. He reached down to pull String up with one hand under his shoulder, making sure he was steady before releasing him. "It's not Yashiki's men," he said, next offering his assistance to Santini, who supported himself against a nearby chair. He moved to the window and waved, then gently nudged his brother around and began to tug at the rough ropes around his wrists. "I figured I'd better call in the cavalry on this one. That should be Jason and Archangel out there with Epsilon Guard in tow."
As though on cue, the front door opened to admit the two aforementioned men, both carrying high-powered assault rifles and wearing headsets. Michael Coldsmith-Briggs III, a.k.a., Archangel, was a handsome man of about fifty years of age, athletic of build and wearing an ugly green kevlar vest over his white suit; with his dignified bearing it might have been a dinner jacket. "Is everyone all right?" he asked in a deceptively soft voice, his single blue eye scanning each man individually for signs of injury.
Dominic heaved a dramatic "Whoop!" of relief, craning to peek at the soldiers who moved like dark shadows beyond the entrance, thuds of other boots audible from the rear of the house. "Never thought I'd be happy to see you, Michael," he said, grinning sloppily despite the sarcasm. "You, either, Locke."
The nattily dressed black man, also wearing kevlar, gave Itsuko a light kick to make sure he was unconscious, only then taking his gun out of 'ready' position. "Don't let your gratitude overwhelm you, Dominic," he volleyed, mock affront earning a chuckle from the old Italian pilot. "You're a real ray of sunshine to me, too."
Saint John Hawke gave a final pull on the ropes binding his brother; they came loose and Stringfellow sighed gratefully, making a clumsy attempt at rubbing his chafed wrists with swollen hands. He wrapped an arm across the black-and-blue marks on his bare chest and stomach, fine boned face assuming the impassive mask he invariably donned either after a close call or when he was in pain ... or both. "I appreciate it," he said after aborting an experimental deep breath. "Thought I was dead for sure."
"You'll live a while longer yet," his elder brother replied calmly, using a forefinger to tilt his chin up. He glanced at the spreading bruises and touched the lump hidden under the brown hair, eliciting a wince and a curse from the other. "You're going to be stiff tomorrow, though. Not that you don't deserve it after that last little maneuver."
In the act of tugging his striped pajamas into place, Santini paused, offering the younger Hawke a nasty scowl. "I'll second that. What kind of a hairbrained stunt did you think you were pulling? Rushing a man with a gun?"
"Saint John did it, too," String retorted hotly, jerking himself free of his brother's light hold. "What did you think you were going to accomplish besides getting yourself shot?"
The blond drew back to stare down his long nose. "Ito was going to blow your head off!"
"Yahara was going to blow yours off!"
The two brothers glared at each other for nearly half a minute, breaking contact only after Dom threw up both hands, nearly spilling himself onto the floor. "The war's over, in case you two ain't noticed," he growled from his precarious, one-legged stance against the chair. "String, get some ice on that cheek; you're working on a nasty shiner. Saint John, help me sit down here."
During this, Michael Briggs acknowledged an all-clear from a uniformed man in the kitchen with a word into his headmike, then slid out of his bullet proof vest, letting it drop haphazardly to the floor. He retained possession of the Uzi, however, tucking it under his elbow. He was seemingly oblivious to the interchange between the Hawke's, though he picked his ears up at mention of the intended executions. "I was wondering why Mike jumped the gun like that," he remarked glancing at the still body on the carpet. "He was under orders to let the Firm's snipers make the shots after you three had stepped outside the house. Airwolf was only supposed to hang back in case there were guards we didn't know about."
Still defensive, Stringfellow turned on him, a glower descending over his brow. "How was I supposed to know anyone was outside," he snapped, brushing back a strand of brown hair. "Like Dom said, Yashiki had this planned out."
Broad shoulders drew back with returned reproach and more than a hint of his own wrath, usually kept under tight restraint but every bit as volcanic as his brother's. "I told you to trust me on this," Saint John shot back, fists resting on his hips. "Did you really think I was going to cooperate with a bunch of mass murderers?"
Stringfellow hesitated, the challenge eliciting visible uncertainty. He glanced at Dominic, who was watching them both with paternal exasperation, his reservation clear: Would you do it to save Dom? Saint John caught the look, his indignation picking up an overlay of understanding. He looked at Dominic then back to Stringfellow, his gaze softening with an affection that extended that possible Achilles Heel to protecting his brother's life as well. "Point taken. But there wasn't any decision to be made. I knew Michael and the team were on the way; all I had to do was stall Yashiki. And keep everyone alive long enough for them to get into position," he added meaningfully, slapping his unchastened brother on the arm.
Dominic deterred the threatened retort that shone in Stringfellow Hawke's dark blue eyes by clearing his throat loudly. "I'm just glad it's over. By the way, the shot that took out Ito was a good one. With the drapes closed there was only a few inches firing arc. I'm going to need a new window, but at least I don't have to start interviewing for a replacement pilot." That last was also directed at Stringfellow, who sighed resignedly but made no comment.
Locke caught the look and chuckled. "Mike was using Airwolf's electronics to listen to the conversation in here. When he heard the order to shoot, he used the nose cameras to aim the chainguns. When Michael ..." He pointed at the white suited agent, who was listening quietly to the story; the blond grinned boyishly, giving Stringfellow a wink. "... and I heard the shots, we moved in to prevent the hostages ... that's you three ... from going down."
"Nice to hear we still rate," Santini teased amiably, his relief still a palpable thing in the room.
With the grounds secured, four men converged on the living room from the front yard and kitchen, busying themselves with the prisoners. Between them, they soon had the unconscious men cuffed and removed, and the corpse secured in a black bodybag. Still rubbing at his bruised chest and midsection, Stringfellow lowered himself stiffly onto the sofa out of the way, pinning a narrow eyed gaze on his brother. "I still want to know how you made contact. I was here when Yashiki called you; I know you couldn't have gotten a message out without alerting your guard."
Saint John lifted his right wrist, pointing to the Government issue watch there. "I activated the emergency transponder in my watch. All Itsuko saw was me checking the time."
Startled out of his irritation, Stringfellow turned wide, bright eyes on Jason Locke, who was watching him expectantly. "Emergency transponder?" he echoed, looking abashed for the first time.
The black man rubbed his mustache between thumb and forefinger, lips widening into a smug and very satisfied smile. "Told you so," he stated simply, ambling out the door.
***
"... second stem to activate the transponder in emergency mode," Saint John was explaining to his brother at the airfield the next morning. Except for them, the hangar was deserted, Dom, Jo and Mike outside prepping the JetRanger for Stringfellow's flight home. "It'll squawk on a special Company band and continue to transmit until deactivated."
The younger man accepted the stylish watch, holding it up to the light and examining it suspiciously. "And the Firm can activate it long distance any time they want to know where I am?"
Saint John leaned back against the workbench and crossed his arms across his chest. "We can do the same thing in Airwolf if we need to track you down, or you us. That way you're never out of touch in case something like this happens again."
Light glinted off the watchface, the plain leather band looking dark in the man's hand. Stringfellow continued to stare at the object, blue eyes narrowed, lips drawn into a disapproving line. "I still don't like it," he muttered, making no move to don the watch. "They'll be able to follow every move I make, no matter where I am. I won't even be free of them at the cabin."
The ex-Prisoner of War straightened, a flash of emotion crossing his strong features. "Being anonymous isn't what it's all about," he corrected firmly, resting a hand on his brother's arm. "There's only one place you can ever be free." He tapped a forefinger against his own temple, sharp gray eyes unfocussing slightly. "Here. If you're free here, you're never really a prisoner. Not really."
The younger man raised his head and their eyes locked, then Stringfellow Hawke slipped the watch on, both turning in unison at the sound of footsteps entering the hangar. "All gassed up and ready to go, kid!" Dominic Santini announced cheerfully, wiping his hands on a rag. "I can have you home in time to catch me a nice lunch!"
"Yeah, I'm ready." Stringfellow paused, turning once more to his brother, a faint smile teasing his lips. "I'll look for you next weekend. We'll go spend a few days with Doc Gifford up at Crystal Lake. Introduce you to the biggest striped bass you ever ate. Until then, if you need me ..."
Saint John raised his right wrist, exposing his own locator watch. "... we know how to find you," he finished, with a bright, unrepentant grin.
***
end
Yashiki bowed again, lips curled. "So." He swept the blade away, releasing his hold on Stringfellow's hair and giving him a shove. Bereft of the support, the younger Hawke fell forward, unable to stop himself without use of his hands. Saint John was there in an instant, dropping to one knee and holding his brother by the upper arms.
"String?" he asked, allowing his worry to show through for the first time.
Sapphire eyes glittered furiously back at him. It took several tries, but finally Stringfellow managed to give raspy voice to the angry protest that was plain in his face. "What are you doing here?" he demanded, allowing the older man to balance him back on his heels. "Why didn't you take that guy ..." He cut his eyes toward the hovering Itsuko. "... out when you had the chance?"
Saint John studied him up and down, frowning at the bruises and paying particular attention to the cut on his throat, which, being superficial, had already stopped bleeding. "What did you expect me to do," he returned mildly. "Let them kill you?"
"So now these nutcases can kill us both," the younger man retorted in a stronger voice.
Indignation returning at the insult, Yashiki hefted the katana to waist level, his fingers again snagging in Stringfellow Hawke's hair. "Respect can be taught," he warned, bringing the blade into the pilots' range of view.
Slowly, deliberately, Saint John's bronze head lifted to fix Yashiki a stare. There was an arctic chill in his gray eyes, the rimefrost of promises too terrible to relate. "Get your hands off my brother," he ordered in a tone so quietly deadly that Yashiki obeyed automatically, taking a single step backward and hefting the sword in a defensive posture. Released, Stringfellow too turned, his own frozen gaze a mirror image of his brother's; to look into those very similar pairs of eyes was to peer into the stygian depths of an open grave.
This state lasted for several seconds with no one daring to so much as breathe. Then Saint John Hawke blinked and got casually to his feet, pulling his brother up with him. "Why not cut his hands free?" he suggested calmly, aura of menace converting to subliminal levels without waning an iota. "After all, you're the ones with the guns."
The silent Itsuko moved two feet to the side, turning to train his automatic more fully on them both. He said something in Japanese, and Yashiki nodded. "I agree. It is dangerous enough to leave one of you with a measure of freedom; two is potentially suicidal."
"We've been complimented, String," Saint John said with mock lightness. "We're dangerous."
"And what am I?" Santini demanded from the sofa. "A walk in the park?"
Yashiki ignored the old man. He backed up slowly, retrieving his gun from his son before sliding the sword back into the sheath under his suit jacket. "No more talk. We shall go directly to the black helicopter and from there to Chimunga. If there is any hint of betrayal, Major Hawke, your brother and friend die immediately, you soon after."
Obeying a one-word order, Ito pulled Santini up. "I don't got a foot," the pilot grunted, windmilling his arms to keep his balance on one leg. "Don't expect me to keep up or nothing." He glanced at a crutch leaning in the corner near the door, a sly look further creasing the craggy features unhidden by the wiry beard. "If you won't get me my replacement, how about that crutch over there?"
"That weapon, you mean," Yashiki returned with contempt, bringing the Ruger to bear on the center of the red and white pajamas. "If you cannot keep up, old man, you can be eliminated now."
Santini rolled his eyes dramatically. "All right. All right. Just tryin' to cooperate, that's all." He hopped forward, snagging Stringfellow Hawke's bare shoulder to steady himself. When the three stood together, Yashiki jerked his head at his son.
"Tie Major Hawke and the old man's hands as well," he ordered. "There must be no chance of failure this time."
Ito slid his gun into the waistband of his jeans and extracted more rope from his pocket, scowling when Stringfellow stepped between him and his intended. "Not gonna do you any good," the pilot growled, rounded chin high. "If you think we're going to help you blow up a nuclear plant, then you are as crazy as I thought." He stood there, legs apart and braced, unyielding defiance smoldering in his eyes, and for a long moment the only sound in the room was that of a low growl in the back of Yashiki's throat.
Though it felt as though eternity itself had lapsed, it was actually only seconds before the tall blond Saint John Hawke was in hasty motion. Despite his stoic facade, he was unable to hide the look of dismay that flashed across his face at this turn of events. He grabbed his brother's arm, roughly tugging him toward the door and nearly upsetting Dominic in the process. "We don't have a choice, String," the older Hawke cajoled through gritted teeth. "They're holding all the cards." Stringfellow staggered backward at the first yank then rebraced himself, eyes locked with Yashiki's; Saint John tugged again, adding with some desperation, "There's no reason to be stubborn about this."
"Ha! There's no reason for the sun to come up tomorrow either," Santini snorted, hopping forward a step when Ito prodded him in the back with the gun, "but that's never stopped it, either."
Keeping his feet firmly planted, the younger Hawke twisted until he could see his brother's face. His own bore a mixture of rebellion and the certainty of his actions. "I'm not going to be used as a weapon against you. Not like this."
Saint John's returning look was enigmatic but carried that firm undercurrent of affection his stubborn younger brother had been able to evoke since they were children. "You're going to have to trust me on this, String. There's no other way."
"If you go through with this, neither one of you will ever be able to live with yourselves," Santini interjected bluntly, scowling at his foster sons. "And neither will I. I'm with String, if we're gonna go down, let'em do it now and get it over with."
Ito, standing behind Dom, glanced at the watch on his wrist, speaking for the first time. "We are behind schedule, Father. We must be at the plant before dawn."
"Hai!" Though it was Stringfellow and Dominic who presented a united opposition, it was Saint John Hawke to whom the samurai directed his attentions. Both as eldest son and through his victory in aerial combat, it was the tall pilot who had become the foremost enemy of the master Yahara and, by association, his devotees. As Stringfellow had so accurately described, the others were, in effect, no more than living weapons to be used against him. "Major Hawke. The lives of your friend and your brother rest in your hands. We go now, or they die now."
And there it was. No more time for decisions or delay. Saint John lifted both large hands palms open in a mollifying gesture, acceptance already on his lips; it was never uttered. Reading his brother's intentions and determined to preempt him, Stringfellow shifted his stance subtly, lithe muscles coiling. Without warning he poised himself on his left foot, lashing out in a perfectly executed crescent kick with his right to contact the nerve juncture in Yashiki's hip. Unbalanced by the sudden sharp pain, the oriental sagged, losing the gun. Using the opening, the young pilot pivoted on the same foot to delivering a second, more devastating forward kick to the center of the older man's face, then spinning on the advancing Itsuko. That proved to be his undoing, for Ito was already in motion; he shoved Dominic into Saint John, spilling them both to the side, then rammed the barrel of his gun hard into Stringfellow's lean middle, a short jab to one high cheekbone dropping the pilot to his knees, gasping for breath. Having neutralized one opponent, Ito stepped back to again cover Saint John, who had his arms full of Dominic, Itsuko closing in before either prisoner had a chance to join the fray. The whole incident had taken exactly four seconds.
An experienced fighter, Omeko was already straightening, clapping a hand to his shattered nose. "Your death on this day was predestined at birth," he snarled through the blood streaming across his mouth. Fury stripped away the thin veneer of urbanity he'd been maintaining until now, dead Yahara's mission suddenly taking a backseat to his own embarrassment. He scooped up the gun and backed away, bringing it to bear on the kneeling Stringfellow. "I need only one hostage to accomplish my purpose. The old man will serve."
"NO!" In an instant, Saint John's solid bulk was interposed between the weapon and his downed brother, blue-gray eyes wide and resolute. "Touch him and the deal's off," he snapped, putting one hand behind him and resting it protectively on String's bowed head.
"You're all real brave against a man with his hands tied behind him," Santini added cuttingly, bending to put an arm around his younger son's shoulders. "You all right, kid?"
Yashiki's full mouth twisted into a grimace. "This is not a matter of courage, though we will soon see how bravely you die." The sound of the 9mm Ruger being cocked was very loud in the suddenly silent room.
"Wait, Father!" Ito's protest came just in time to prevent all three prisoners from dying then and there. The gunman's skin was flushed, taking on an expectancy that was somehow more frightening than his father's outrage. He bowed, a few inches only, not lowering his own gun from its bullseye on Dominic's back. "It was agreed, Sir, that the honor of the first kill would be mine."
Yashiki hesitated, fingers twitching impatiently around the Ruger's grip, the desire to do the job himself distorting his thick features even further. Finally, he nodded curtly and stepped back a pace. "Hai. It was my word to you and to Yahara-san. Kill the boy; he will be an example for you, Major Hawke, of what will happen to the old man if you do not restore our master's honor as you agreed."
Smiling cruelly, Ito pushed Dom aside and leveled his gun at the younger Hawke's head. Saint John uttered a protest and sidled to his left, powerful muscles flexed for the frantic pounce that would have either won him possession of the gun ... or a bullet. Itsuko precluded either from coming to pass by sweeping with his left foot and catching Saint John midstep; the pilot's legs went out from under him before ever he could complete the attempt. He landed on his hip, rolled and made it back to his feet just as the sharp multiple 'CRACK!' of a weapon discharging filled the air. Simultaneous with this, Ito Yashiki seemed to do a spastic little jig as he was forced backwards a full five feet. He landed sprawled on the carpet like a discarded rag doll, brown eyes wide with surprise.
Time itself froze ... held ... while those remaining stared from the body to each other in puzzlement. It took several seconds before anyone realized that the blast had originated outside the front window, which had disintegrated into shards unnoticed under the cacophony of gunfire. Combat experience gave the prisoners the edge then. Striding forward two steps, Saint John reached the stunned Yashiki, who was gawking stupidly at his dead son. He brushed aside the drooping gun with his left hand, planting his right flush in the middle of the round face, drawing more blood from the already broken nose. Blinded, the stocky oriental staggered back and was thus unable to defend himself against the roundhouse left that smashed his jaw, or the follow-up that rendered him instantly unconscious.
Several feet away, Itsuko was being treated in much the same fashion. His bound hands proving to be very little of a hindrance, Stringfellow Hawke threw himself at his captor in a full tackle, his weight and the force of the lunge slamming them both to the floor. The gun freewheeled under the sofa, and Stringfellow wiggled to straddle the man, pinning him, while Dominic Santini squatted, fist clenched. With methodical, almost scientific precision the criminal Itsuko was pounded into unconsciousness.
Their enemies felled, the Hawke brothers and their foster father heaved a deep sigh. "What happened?" Santini wondered aloud, glancing from the neatly holed window to the red pool forming under Ito's body.
Stringfellow rolled off Itsuko, nearly falling without use of his hands. "It can't be more of Yashiki's men," he panted, catching himself on his bound wrists, "and Saint John didn't have a chance to call in the police."
"Or anyone else for that matter." Santini tapped Itsuko once more for good measure, grunting satisfaction when the man remained unresponsive. "That Yashiki guy planned things pretty good. Took us all without warning. So who...?"
Saint John expanded his chest to the full, rising smoothly to his feet. He reached down to pull String up with one hand under his shoulder, making sure he was steady before releasing him. "It's not Yashiki's men," he said, next offering his assistance to Santini, who supported himself against a nearby chair. He moved to the window and waved, then gently nudged his brother around and began to tug at the rough ropes around his wrists. "I figured I'd better call in the cavalry on this one. That should be Jason and Archangel out there with Epsilon Guard in tow."
As though on cue, the front door opened to admit the two aforementioned men, both carrying high-powered assault rifles and wearing headsets. Michael Coldsmith-Briggs III, a.k.a., Archangel, was a handsome man of about fifty years of age, athletic of build and wearing an ugly green kevlar vest over his white suit; with his dignified bearing it might have been a dinner jacket. "Is everyone all right?" he asked in a deceptively soft voice, his single blue eye scanning each man individually for signs of injury.
Dominic heaved a dramatic "Whoop!" of relief, craning to peek at the soldiers who moved like dark shadows beyond the entrance, thuds of other boots audible from the rear of the house. "Never thought I'd be happy to see you, Michael," he said, grinning sloppily despite the sarcasm. "You, either, Locke."
The nattily dressed black man, also wearing kevlar, gave Itsuko a light kick to make sure he was unconscious, only then taking his gun out of 'ready' position. "Don't let your gratitude overwhelm you, Dominic," he volleyed, mock affront earning a chuckle from the old Italian pilot. "You're a real ray of sunshine to me, too."
Saint John Hawke gave a final pull on the ropes binding his brother; they came loose and Stringfellow sighed gratefully, making a clumsy attempt at rubbing his chafed wrists with swollen hands. He wrapped an arm across the black-and-blue marks on his bare chest and stomach, fine boned face assuming the impassive mask he invariably donned either after a close call or when he was in pain ... or both. "I appreciate it," he said after aborting an experimental deep breath. "Thought I was dead for sure."
"You'll live a while longer yet," his elder brother replied calmly, using a forefinger to tilt his chin up. He glanced at the spreading bruises and touched the lump hidden under the brown hair, eliciting a wince and a curse from the other. "You're going to be stiff tomorrow, though. Not that you don't deserve it after that last little maneuver."
In the act of tugging his striped pajamas into place, Santini paused, offering the younger Hawke a nasty scowl. "I'll second that. What kind of a hairbrained stunt did you think you were pulling? Rushing a man with a gun?"
"Saint John did it, too," String retorted hotly, jerking himself free of his brother's light hold. "What did you think you were going to accomplish besides getting yourself shot?"
The blond drew back to stare down his long nose. "Ito was going to blow your head off!"
"Yahara was going to blow yours off!"
The two brothers glared at each other for nearly half a minute, breaking contact only after Dom threw up both hands, nearly spilling himself onto the floor. "The war's over, in case you two ain't noticed," he growled from his precarious, one-legged stance against the chair. "String, get some ice on that cheek; you're working on a nasty shiner. Saint John, help me sit down here."
During this, Michael Briggs acknowledged an all-clear from a uniformed man in the kitchen with a word into his headmike, then slid out of his bullet proof vest, letting it drop haphazardly to the floor. He retained possession of the Uzi, however, tucking it under his elbow. He was seemingly oblivious to the interchange between the Hawke's, though he picked his ears up at mention of the intended executions. "I was wondering why Mike jumped the gun like that," he remarked glancing at the still body on the carpet. "He was under orders to let the Firm's snipers make the shots after you three had stepped outside the house. Airwolf was only supposed to hang back in case there were guards we didn't know about."
Still defensive, Stringfellow turned on him, a glower descending over his brow. "How was I supposed to know anyone was outside," he snapped, brushing back a strand of brown hair. "Like Dom said, Yashiki had this planned out."
Broad shoulders drew back with returned reproach and more than a hint of his own wrath, usually kept under tight restraint but every bit as volcanic as his brother's. "I told you to trust me on this," Saint John shot back, fists resting on his hips. "Did you really think I was going to cooperate with a bunch of mass murderers?"
Stringfellow hesitated, the challenge eliciting visible uncertainty. He glanced at Dominic, who was watching them both with paternal exasperation, his reservation clear: Would you do it to save Dom? Saint John caught the look, his indignation picking up an overlay of understanding. He looked at Dominic then back to Stringfellow, his gaze softening with an affection that extended that possible Achilles Heel to protecting his brother's life as well. "Point taken. But there wasn't any decision to be made. I knew Michael and the team were on the way; all I had to do was stall Yashiki. And keep everyone alive long enough for them to get into position," he added meaningfully, slapping his unchastened brother on the arm.
Dominic deterred the threatened retort that shone in Stringfellow Hawke's dark blue eyes by clearing his throat loudly. "I'm just glad it's over. By the way, the shot that took out Ito was a good one. With the drapes closed there was only a few inches firing arc. I'm going to need a new window, but at least I don't have to start interviewing for a replacement pilot." That last was also directed at Stringfellow, who sighed resignedly but made no comment.
Locke caught the look and chuckled. "Mike was using Airwolf's electronics to listen to the conversation in here. When he heard the order to shoot, he used the nose cameras to aim the chainguns. When Michael ..." He pointed at the white suited agent, who was listening quietly to the story; the blond grinned boyishly, giving Stringfellow a wink. "... and I heard the shots, we moved in to prevent the hostages ... that's you three ... from going down."
"Nice to hear we still rate," Santini teased amiably, his relief still a palpable thing in the room.
With the grounds secured, four men converged on the living room from the front yard and kitchen, busying themselves with the prisoners. Between them, they soon had the unconscious men cuffed and removed, and the corpse secured in a black bodybag. Still rubbing at his bruised chest and midsection, Stringfellow lowered himself stiffly onto the sofa out of the way, pinning a narrow eyed gaze on his brother. "I still want to know how you made contact. I was here when Yashiki called you; I know you couldn't have gotten a message out without alerting your guard."
Saint John lifted his right wrist, pointing to the Government issue watch there. "I activated the emergency transponder in my watch. All Itsuko saw was me checking the time."
Startled out of his irritation, Stringfellow turned wide, bright eyes on Jason Locke, who was watching him expectantly. "Emergency transponder?" he echoed, looking abashed for the first time.
The black man rubbed his mustache between thumb and forefinger, lips widening into a smug and very satisfied smile. "Told you so," he stated simply, ambling out the door.
***
"... second stem to activate the transponder in emergency mode," Saint John was explaining to his brother at the airfield the next morning. Except for them, the hangar was deserted, Dom, Jo and Mike outside prepping the JetRanger for Stringfellow's flight home. "It'll squawk on a special Company band and continue to transmit until deactivated."
The younger man accepted the stylish watch, holding it up to the light and examining it suspiciously. "And the Firm can activate it long distance any time they want to know where I am?"
Saint John leaned back against the workbench and crossed his arms across his chest. "We can do the same thing in Airwolf if we need to track you down, or you us. That way you're never out of touch in case something like this happens again."
Light glinted off the watchface, the plain leather band looking dark in the man's hand. Stringfellow continued to stare at the object, blue eyes narrowed, lips drawn into a disapproving line. "I still don't like it," he muttered, making no move to don the watch. "They'll be able to follow every move I make, no matter where I am. I won't even be free of them at the cabin."
The ex-Prisoner of War straightened, a flash of emotion crossing his strong features. "Being anonymous isn't what it's all about," he corrected firmly, resting a hand on his brother's arm. "There's only one place you can ever be free." He tapped a forefinger against his own temple, sharp gray eyes unfocussing slightly. "Here. If you're free here, you're never really a prisoner. Not really."
The younger man raised his head and their eyes locked, then Stringfellow Hawke slipped the watch on, both turning in unison at the sound of footsteps entering the hangar. "All gassed up and ready to go, kid!" Dominic Santini announced cheerfully, wiping his hands on a rag. "I can have you home in time to catch me a nice lunch!"
"Yeah, I'm ready." Stringfellow paused, turning once more to his brother, a faint smile teasing his lips. "I'll look for you next weekend. We'll go spend a few days with Doc Gifford up at Crystal Lake. Introduce you to the biggest striped bass you ever ate. Until then, if you need me ..."
Saint John raised his right wrist, exposing his own locator watch. "... we know how to find you," he finished, with a bright, unrepentant grin.
***
end