Warriors (46 page)

“Up here. Let’s go. On me.”

“Hawke! Behind you on the stairs, another one! He’s locked on!”

Hawke dove and hit the floor rolling as rounds chewed up the floor around him. He came out of it with his gun up and put two rounds into the guard’s chest.

“Clear,” Hawke said, getting to his feet.

The squad, which now included Froggy and the wounded Cho, assembled at the base of the stairs. Froggy, carrying a machine gun slightly larger than he was, jumped to the lead and went up the stairs swearing and daring, challenging one and all to face the mighty Frogman.

One fool did so, and Froggy cut him in half with a sustained burst from the M-60 . . .
thump . . . thump . . . thump
.

Cho was right behind him, yelling directions to Babyface’s quarters, a right, then a left at the top of the stairs. In a beat, all of them were at the top, looking for someone to shoot.

It was strangely quiet after all the fireworks.

C
H A P T E R
  6 3

P
elham Grenville, on several occasions, had remarked that, in the absence of war, Hawke’s spirits eventually went into decline. At times like this, right in the bloody heat of it, Hawke was forced to admit the truth of that sentiment. He was a warrior. Since his youth he had frequently quoted his great hero, Churchill, on the subject of war. “There is nothing quite so exhilarating as being shot at without effect.” He was being shot at now, and he was exhilarated.

His blood was up.

The men, his men, went from room to room, heaving in smoke grenades followed by flash-bangs, killing or disabling the men who had surrounded, and were sworn to protect, the beloved commandant. Clearly, they’d sworn an oath to fight to the death because the thought of hands-up surrender didn’t seem to be high on their option list when Hawke told them to throw down their weapons.

There was a corridor, short and wide, that led to a pair of ornate double doors. Oddly enough, there weren’t two armed gorillas standing at port arms to either side.

“That’s it,” Colonel Cho whispered to Hawke. “His sleeping quarters. He’s got to be in there and—”

Hawke saw the wide carved doors swing open. Out strolled a short and oval man in white silk pajamas with red piping beneath a crimson velvet smoking jacket. He had a gleaming bald dome, a bulbous nose, and tiny little pinprick black eyes with a glint of red in the irises. He was smoking a meerschaum pipe, even had a good bowl going. In perfect English, he said to Hawke, “Hello. May I help you?”

All with an unmistakably flirtatious smile.

A baby Hugh Hefner
, Hawke thought.

Babyface. No mistake about it.

“We’re just looking for someone,” Hawke said, leveling his pistol at the man’s heart. “Sorry about all the noise. Unavoidable, I’m afraid.”

Rainwater, infuriated by the human suffering and horrific conditions he’d seen in the camp, took a step toward the camp commandant. He’d fixed his bayonet at the end of his rifle. He pushed the point into the man’s protruding belly.

“What the gentleman is trying to tell you, asshole, is that we’re here to blow up your shit.”

“What do you mean?” Babyface said, genuinely puzzled.

“Means we come here to stick your dick in the dirt, boy,” Elvis Peete, the team’s comms specialist, said, firing a round into the ceiling over the commandant’s head.

Cho added, “But first, we’re going to need some information about the exact location of various people.”

“No problem,” Babyface, shaky now, said. “Whom exactly were you looking for?”

“You,” Hawke said.

“Me?”

Hawke said pleasantly, “Do you mind if we step inside? We’ve just come down from the mountains. This hallway is quite drafty.”

“No, no, not at all! Please be my guest. All of you. Can I get you some refreshments? Tea, perhaps? Whiskey?”

He gave a little bow and waved them into his bedchamber.

The bed was a massive four-poster. There was a gilded headboard depicting warring dragons and a lipstick-red satin bedcover. Babyface toddled over to his bed, got up on tiptoes, levered himself up, and plopped down on his belly before rolling over. He seemed to find his gymnastics amusing and Hawke said, “Well done!”

“Please, do take a seat, all of you. I have so many chairs.”

There was a lot of eye-rolling and suppressed amazement, with the exception of Colonel Cho, who had obviously witnessed performances like this one in the past. It was clear that at first Babyface had no clue it was his old prisoner, escaped, and now, dressed as he was, an alien being, an American spec-ops warrior on a night raid in full battle regalia.

“Allow me to introduce myself, Commandant. I am Lord Alexander Hawke, come from England . . . and these men are—”

“ . . . a real English lord?”

“As real as it gets,” Cho said.

“I recognize one of your friends, Lord Hawke,” said Babyface, Cho’s identity at last dawning on him. “He used to be one of my students. Nice to see you, Cho. Have you been well since your relocation?”

No reply.

“Well. Be that way. You were saying, Lord Hawke?”

“Yes. I’m here at the request of the president of the United States and the Queen of England. They sent me here to your country in order to repatriate three Americans who are known to be . . . residents . . . here.”

“Really. Who might they be?”

“Mrs. Katherine Chase. And her two young children, Milo and Sarah.”

“Are you quite sure they’re here? My bells are not ringing.”

“Give us a few minutes,” Cho said, the words dripping venom onto the floor. “It’s going to sound like the Vatican on Easter morning around here.”

The little demon smiled at that.

Hawke said, “What Colonel Cho means by that is, if I have to tear you apart one piece at a time to hear what I need to hear, I am more than willing to do so. We will not leave here without the three kidnapped Americans. And we are leaving here.”

“My superiors in Pyongyang are aware of your act of war.”

Hawke said, “Don’t say that, it frightens the men.”

Cho said, “Start with Mrs. Chase. Where is she being held? Now.”

“How can I tell you? I do not know anyone by that name.”

Cho looked at Hawke, a chilling look passing between the two men that looked almost prearranged. Hawke nodded. Cho walked over to the bed and stuck the muzzle of his pistol violently into Babyface’s right ear, twisting it so that blood began to flow down his neck.

“You and I are now going someplace quiet where we can talk. Get out of that bed. Now. Do you understand how serious I am?”

“Temper, temper, my boy, I’m coming.”

He rolled off the side of the bed, gave a little leap, and somehow landed on his feet.

Hawke said, “Where are you taking him?”

“To his private study,” Cho said. “It’s just through that door there. This shouldn’t take long, Commander.”

“I wouldn’t think.”

Cho stuck the gun into the back of the man’s neck and shoved him forward, into the adjoining room, closing the door behind him.

“CLIMB UP ON THAT TABLE,”
Cho said when they were alone inside the small wood-paneled room.

“Why?” Babyface said.

“You’ll find out. Do it.”

The commandant, showing real fear for the first time, climbed shakily atop the heavy wooden table.

“Stand up. Turn around and face me. Hands behind your head.”

“You don’t have to do this, you know. I’ll tell you everything.”

“I know you will. But, you see, I want to do it this way. Where are you holding Mrs. Chase and the two American children? Milo and Sarah Chase. Tell me now. Lie to me, and it will be far, far worse for you. He meant what he said about taking you apart piece by piece.”

Cho pulled a pair of needle-nose pliers from his web belt and held them up into the slanted light through the window.

“A little trick I learned from watching you, Babyface. Remember? Where are they? Twenty seconds . . .”

The commandant told him.

“NOW ANOTHER THING. TELL ME.
You said you remembered me, right?”

“You? Yes. Of course I remember you. Such a pretty boy.”

“Good, I remember you, too. And what you did to me. So this one is for me,” Cho said and fired a nine-millimeter round straight into man’s right knee. The knee exploded in a misty red spray of gristle and pulverized bone. Babyface howled in agony and started to fall. Cho grabbed him, forcing him to remain upright.

“I said stand up there on the table! Hold on to the wall if you have to!”

“Please! Please do not do this! You—”

“Shut up. Do you remember my brother?”

“Y-yes, I remember him but—NO!”

“For my brother,” Cho said, and fired a round that disintegrated the man’s left shoulder. He howled in pain as his arm dangled loosely by his side.

“No more! Please!”

“Do you remember my sister?”

“Please! Stop! I beg you!”

“I’ll say it again. Do you remember my unborn sister? We were all standing by the well . . .”

“Oh! I don’t—”

Cho fired directly into his left knee. Babyface, delirious now, collapsed on the table, sobbing and shaking uncontrollably.

“And, finally, I ask you this,” Cho said, jamming the muzzle of the automatic deep inside the wailing man’s opened mouth, stifling his wailing cries.

“Wha—” he mumbled, wide-eyed with fear.

“Do you remember my mother?”

Cho emptied the magazine into the North Korean’s head before he could even nod yes.

“I thought so,” Cho said. “I do, too.”

He slammed in a fresh mag, then leaned over and spat in the face of the corpse.

CHO OPENED THE DOOR AND
caught Hawke’s eye.

“Yes?” Hawke said.

“He’s dead.”

“So I gathered. What did you get?”

“She’s here. Mrs. Chase.”

“Here?”

“In this house. He had her brought here for safekeeping as soon as he heard the first explosions at the main gate. She’s down in his basement safe room with guards. I made him call them and order her immediate, unconditional release to you. And to guarantee us safe passage out of the camp. He ordered a stand-down, effective immediately.”

“Doesn’t mean we won’t have to shoot our way out.”

“No, sir, it doesn’t. Not a lot of military discipline here.”

“Good work, Colonel. And the children?”

“Barracks Building 025. All the camp children live there, including the two Americans. The largest one, the one farthest north near the bend in the river. Second floor.”

“Just a second,” Hawke said, adjusting his lip microphone. “Alpha, this is Bravo, do you copy?”

“Copy, Bravo,” Stoke said.

“The two Chase children are located in northernmost barracks, Building 025. Second floor.”

“Building 025, second floor, roger that. On our way there now. How about the mother?”

“We’ve got her, Stoke. Still alive. I’ll let you know. Go find those children. Over.”

STOKE WAS FIRST TO FIND
the two children. They were barely alive. Dressed in rags and huddled on rancid straw in the last room he searched. He was shocked at their appearance. In Hawke’s Lightstorm dossier, he’d seen youthful photos of both Milo and Sara recovered by the FBI. Two young, vital, healthy, and happy American kids. Each had grown a couple of inches, but their hair was almost gone; they were just two little shadows in the process of fading away.

Mostly it was their hollow, sunken eyes. They looked like small adults on a starvation diet. No way to tell the boy from the girl except for size. Milo was the youngest and the smallest.

He bent down and said to the boy, “I’m here to take you home.”

“Who are you?” the boy said, drawing back, terror in his eyes at the sight of the giant with the booming voice. Stoke saw that he was trembling.

“A friend of your father’s.”

“You don’t know my father,” he said, distrust clouding his features. He clearly didn’t trust anyone.

“I know who he is.”

“Our father is dead, anyway. What do you know?”

“Is this your sister?”

“I’m Sarah,” the young girl said. “What do you want?”

“I want to take you home.” Stoke smiled.

“They’ll kill you if you try to leave. They shoot everybody,” she said.

“I have a gun, too. I will kill anyone who tries to harm me. Or you.”

“You speak American, don’t you?” Milo said. “It’s funny.”

“I do. I’m an American soldier. I rescue people like you. All the time.”

“When the guards come? If they hear us talking to you, they’ll beat us.”

“My soldiers have seized control of this place. No one will ever hurt you again here. You just have to trust me. Look at this.” He handed Sarah a folded picture he carried in his wallet.

“Who is she?” Sarah said.

“That’s my niece in Miami. Sofia. She’s your age.”

“She’s pretty . . . so . . . we’re really leaving? You’re taking us home? I don’t believe you.”

“But I am. We’d better get going, too. There’s a boat waiting for us out there.”

“What about all the other little children here?” Milo said. “Can they come?”

“Our mission here is to get you guys and your mom out safely. But we’re going to liberate as many children as we can. Lead them down to the river before we go. It’s shallow enough now that they can swim or wade across and escape into China. We will shoot anyone who tries to harm those trying to escape. Do you understand?”

“Are we crossing the river, too?”

“No. You two are going home with your mother. On an American submarine.”

“Our mother?” Milo said.

“They told us our mother was dead,” Sarah said. “That’s why we never see her.”

“She’s not. I just spoke to someone who’s with her right now.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“You will. Wait and see.”

“What’s your name?” Milo asked.

“My name is Stokely Jones Jr., son, but you can just call me Stoke, okay?”

“Okay, Stoke. Nice to meet you and . . . MOM! Mom, you’re okay! You’re alive!”

Just as the boy stuck out his hand, Alex Hawke and Colonel Cho walked into the room. They had their arms around the children’s mother, supporting her, as she was too weak to walk. When she saw them she sagged and tears filled her eyes.