Warriors (40 page)

The Jeep suddenly broke free of the dense mangroves and emerged into the broad light and Hawke could see the road narrow to a sandy lane traversing the island’s coastline. As the open Jeep ping-ponged along beside the turquoise waters lapping at the white sand, Hawke could make out a strange moundlike structure off to his left. He reached forward and tapped Stoke’s shoulder.

“What the hell is that thing over there?” he said, pointing. “All covered with vines and vegetation. Looks like a bloody Mayan ruin.”

Stoke turned his head, cupped his mouth, and shouted, “That’s the hangar. Where the boys keep the chief’s C-130 airplane. Big black mother they call
Dumbo.
Fly that thing all over the world. It’s how they cut down on airfare for business travel. Got a five-thousand-foot airstrip just over there, cut right into the mangroves.”

A minute later, the Jeep was just passing under a huge gumbo-limbo tree when Hawke heard a sound above. He looked up to see two men hanging in the branches, in full jungle camo and greasepaint faces, smiling down at him over the barrels of their MP6 submachine guns. Hawke waved, impressed with the improved security.

In the old Martinique days, those two boys would have been snoozing at the base of the gumbo-limbo.

A moment later, the caravan entered a sizable clearing of soft white sand. In the middle stood an amazing four- or five-story structure that looked remarkably familiar.

It was, Hawke saw, a perfect emerald cube, perhaps forty by forty and gleaming in the sunlight. From where he stood, the solid glass building made entirely of clear green glass building blocks seemed to be lit by a green fire glowing deep from within.

“I remember this building,” Hawke said. “Back in Martinique, at the old fort, they called it the Emerald City, right, Stoke?”

“Right. It was built as a museum for the spoils of war back then, a place to display all the things the boys would pick up off the ground after the shooting died down. It was half this size then.”

Froggy waved an arm, encompassing the entire bizarre structure.

“Is much better, now, no? We had the old one shipped over block by block. Then, we make it even bigger, adding new blocks. This is the new HQ for Fort Whupass! Zo beautiful, no? An architectural jewel, FitzHugh McCoy calls it. He and Chief Charlie Rainwater are waiting for you inside. Allons-nous, mes amis! Let’s go, let’s go!”

Harry Brock, sweat soaked and with his arms full of weapons, looked askance at the green cube glinting in the sun and said, “Okay, somebody tell me this crazy-ass glass sweatbox is air-conditioned, okay? Seriously. I was born at night, but not last night.”

“It’s air-conditioned,” Stoke said.

“Not,” Frog said.

“Wait,” Brock said, “you mean it’s not? No AC?”

“Harry!” Stoke said.

“What?”

“Shut it.”

C
H A P T E R
  5 5

P
elham Grenville, the octogenarian butler in service to the Hawke family for six decades, a fellow much beloved by Alexander Hawke since early childhood, was working late into the night. He was alone in his dim pantry. The house around him was dead still. In the muffled distance, the tall George III clock standing sentinel in the great hall rumbled as if getting its courage up and then struck a resounding twelve times in slow, stately procession.

The butler looked up in the direction of some unseen noises beyond the windowpanes. He saw the fat raindrops beating against the tall leaded windows, heard the sigh of a breeze in the barren early spring trees, and returned to the work at hand. Normally this was his favorite hour. The massive old house, portions of which were some six centuries old, was sound asleep and would remain so for perhaps another eight hours. He had time to do what needed doing, what he loved to do. All the time in the world.

And yet.

The master of the house had gone off to war yet again. Every time he left, it was left unsaid but always understood that there was a very good chance he might not return. And Hawkesmoor felt such a different place in his absence! It was just ancient stone, brick and mortar, empty rooms and galleries without his presence, without his laughter and great good spirit. Lord Alexander Hawke, as Ambrose Congreve had once remarked, was the true “engine” of this house. And it was he and he alone who made it hum with life.

Pelham was perched comfortably on his three-legged stool, his snow-white head bent with solemn concentration. Admiring his work, he smiled. He was nearing completion of a lovely needlepoint gentleman’s waistcoat. The garment featured playfully twisting garlands of green ivy on a scarlet background. It was to be a surprise wedding and Christmas gift for his dear friend Congreve. A man who loved style above all else save his true love, Lady Diana Mars.

Ambrose was the man with whom Pelham had shared the difficult task of raising little Alexander Hawke after the murder of his parents when the boy was only seven years old. When discussing Hawke, meaning the man himself, as they frequently did, they reminded each other that, even in his thirties, he was still very much “a work in progress.”

In Pelham’s practiced fingers the needles flew. In the stillness of the hallways beyond, he heard only the faint
tick-tock, tick-tock
echo of the grandfather clock at the foot of the wide staircase. And then—

A scream.

A woman’s animal howl of such piercing anguish, he could scarcely credit it as being human. He felt like he’d been struck dumb. Had he fallen asleep? Was he dreaming, or—

And then another desperate wail of terror, far louder than the first, and this one shook him to his marrow. This was no dream, but what in heaven’s holy name was it?

He dropped his work to the floor and raced through darkened rooms to the Great Hall. He could hear it clearly now, at once deafening and terrifying and—

The screaming was coming from above.

It was coming from . . . dear God . . . the nursery!

It was Sabrina! The boy must be hurt or—

“I’m coming, I’m coming!” he shouted as he dashed through many darkened rooms and raced up the first broad flight, across the landing and then on to the second and third flights. His old legs weren’t as good as they used to be, but they served now. No man of any age could have reached the top floor more quickly than he.

The hall was, for some strange reason, dark. But he could see the slender bar of yellow light beneath the nursery door at the far end of the hall. He sprinted for the door, reaching for the handle . . . twisted . . .

“Help me! Oh God, help me!” Sabrina cried out, terror in every syllable. “Stop! Get away from him! Get away . . .”

The solid oak door was locked.

And there was another voice inside the child’s room, a woman’s voice, a voice he did not recognize. An intruder . . .

“OPEN THIS DOOR!” Pelham shouted, banging his fist repeatedly on the solid panel. “OPEN IT NOW! I’M CALLING THE POLICE!”

Sabrina’s screams and the sounds of a struggle had stopped. Now there was only a racking sob . . . a moan of pain. And the tearful sobbing of Alexei.

He frantically wrenched the lock once more, knowing he had only seconds to get inside the room. There was a utility closet at the other end of the hall. Inside it lay the only possibility of rescue.

He ripped the closet door open and yanked down on the dangling lamp cord. To his right was a large brass fire extinguisher and beside that, a fire axe. He grabbed the axe, whirled, and raced back to the nursery.

Alexei was screaming now, screams of pure terror, crying out, “Get away! Get away from me! Bad bird! Bad bird!”

Pelham swung and swung, again and again, horror fueling his muscles and determination as great slivers of wood flew, giving him hope.

He took a step back and swung with every ounce of strength he still possessed.

The panel gave in at last, splintered inward just above the doorknob.

He reached inside and twisted the lock open, yanking at the door in the same instant.

THE FIRST THING HE SAW
was the horror of blood-spattered nursery walls. He heard a grunt. Through the opened French doors to the third-floor balcony, a dark-haired young woman, who seemed to be wounded, was escaping into the night. Howling wind and rain tore at the curtains and whipped the shades as she disappeared. He looked aghast at the chaos around him, then raced to the window to see a large sedan careening away.

His heart broke. Huddled on the floor near the banging doors, he saw the inert form of Sabrina in her torn nightgown. She was bloodied from head to toe and unmoving. Her eyes were gone, empty black holes. She was dead. Where was Alexei?

“Bad bird!” the boy shouted, shrinking back, covering his face with his small hands.

He whirled in a rage to see little Alexei, hidden by the half-closed closet door, huddled half inside the closet where he’d fled, his head down, now using his hands to try and defend himself from . . . the raven. Blood trickled down his forehead, from his ears, his hands, his eyes . . .

The bird was not just attacking. This bird was trying to kill Alex Hawke’s son. Whirling and diving, pecking at his head, his face, his poor bare shoulders . . .

“Get away from that child!”

His face contorted with fury, Pelham swung the axe at the swooping bird. He missed, of course, the axe too heavy and the bird too quick and cunning. He dropped the axe and started moving after it, swatting at it with his bare hands. Swiping at it, screaming at it, all the while getting in between Alexei and this bloodthirsty demon . . . it worked. The bird was now after him, diving and raking its claws across the top of his crown, trying to peck his eyes . . .

And then, spying the silver whistle clutched in a death grip in Sabrina’s bloody hand, he remembered.

“This is how you get him to come to you or fly back to his cage,” Sabrina had told him that first morning the bird had arrived in its golden pagoda cage. She had opened the cage door and the bird flew to the windowsill. “Now, just watch this,” she said, placing the whistle between her lips and blowing a note beyond human hearing.

And the bird had flown to the cage.

Pelham snatched up the whistle from Sabrina’s cool dead hand, certain she was beyond all help now, and put it to his lips.

He blew it.

The bird instantly ceased its attack.

God bless you, Sabrina.

The raven now flew up near the coffered ceiling, winging once around the room and then returned to the opened door of the cage. It paused a long second or two on the sill, then hopped inside and up onto its perch.

Pelham took several deep breaths, calming himself with each exhalation. Without taking his eyes off the raven, he took slow, small steps backward toward the foot of the child’s bed. He bent to a crouch and got his arms under and around Alexei, holding him to his chest as he got back to his feet.

“Sshh,” he whispered to the boy. “We have to be very still now. Can you do that, Alexei?”

“Y-yes, I guess so . . .”

“Are you all right?”

“Sabrina, she tried to—”

“Tried to save you, I know. We have to be quiet now, Alexei, just for a minute.”

“Where’s my dog? Where’s poor Harry? Harry? Where are you?”

Pelham’s heart sank. Had Alexei lost his much-loved little puppy as well?

The dog had heard his name and peeked his nose out from under the boy’s bed. He growled once at the raven and withdrew to relative safety.

Pelham shifted his eyes to the bird, almost daring it to move. With the whistle clenched in his teeth, Alexei secure in his left arm, he advanced slowly toward the raven, the bird watching him warily from inside the still-open cage.

His steps were slow and deliberate, his movements minimal, without even a hint of threat, his pale blue eyes locked onto the raven’s, the bird’s sharp black eyes watching his every step closer toward the golden pagoda standing atop the little boy’s dresser.

Pelham’s long black shadow accompanied him, moving alongside him across the circus-papered walls of the softly lit child’s room. His young charge whimpered in his arms. Alexei’s wounds all appeared superficial, thank heaven, but he was in pain and shock.

The aged man’s soft footfalls echoed on the hardwood floor.

Each measured step he took toward the bird he counted as a minute victory.

He came to a stop two feet before the dresser. Alexei buried his head against Pelham’s chest. The poor child was shuddering with fear.

“Almost done,” he whispered. “Almost over . . .”

The fire axe was leaning against the wall, just where he’d left it.

With his one free hand, he reached forward, to close the small golden door of the cage . . .

The raven suddenly stiffened, squawked loudly, and flared its wings.

C
H A P T E R
  5 6

H
ail to the chief, my brother!” Stoke said, striding over to the long conference table to embrace Chief Charlie Rainwater. Rainwater was a tall, good-looking full-blooded Comanche warrior. He wore his long blue-black hair in a heavy ponytail that fell to his waist. To hold his hair back, he wore a solid gold napkin ring, a little souvenir he’d picked up in one of the late Mr. Gadhafi’s many palaces.

The chief had blazing black eyes beneath thick black brows, and his long nose was sharp as an arrow above somewhat cruel lips and white teeth. He wore a great deal of southwestern silver jewelry on his wrists and around his neck for a stone-cold warrior. Bare chested as always, Rainwater was wearing a pair of worn skintight buckskin breeches that Hawke recognized immediately.

“The baddest of the bad,” Rainwater said, pointing at Stoke and smiling broadly.

“And the largest of the large,” Stoke said, smiling back at his old comrade.

Hawke called out to the big ex–Navy SEAL. “You are indeed a sight for sore eyes, Chief!”

“And you as well, Hawke,” Rainwater said, his big teeth bone white in his copper-colored face.

There was a good deal of back-pounding going on when Hawke and Brock mounted the final set of steps and entered the War Room at the new and improved Fort Whupass.