Tsar: A Thriller (Alex Hawke)

by Ted Bell

  “Got it, boss,” Harry said, smiling. He loved this stuff, lived for it. It was all over his face.

  The peeling wooden hallway door was closed. From behind it came a confused roaring, laughter, and a breaking of glass. Hawke stood behind Harry, with Clifford still immobilized by his blade, and watched Harry’s right foot strike the door halfway up, blowing it inward. Harry went in low and racked the slide on the SAW, letting everybody get a good peek down the barrel, not a sight recommended for the faint-hearted. The ragged men were stunned but remained sitting in rows of chairs three deep that formed a ring in the center of the floor.

  Hawke followed Harry inside, took it all in at a glance. The temperature inside the unpainted concrete-block room had to be more than a hundred degrees Fahrenheit. The smells of copious sweat, coppery blood, and spilt rum hit him like a wall. There was a rooster trapped in the center of the circle, and the men seated all around were taking great delight in hurling empty rum bottles at the bird, the cock screeching and flapping about. The bird was bloodied, had been hit a few times, and the concrete floor was covered with smeared blood and broken glass. A pile of feathery corpses lay at the feet of one of the participants.

  The men’s golden smiles froze on their dark faces, and the effect was startling. Some of them still held half-empty rum bottles poised above their heads, but they lowered them as they saw the grim expression on Hawke’s face. And the second semiautomatic weapon he held in his left hand.

  Hawke pushed Clifford inside in front of him and let everybody get a good look at him. Harry began patting down the party boys, looking for weapons.

  “Anybody armed, Harry?” Hawke asked. “Aside from the rum bottles, I mean?”

  “Clean so far,” Harry said, moving around the circle, carefully checking each man for weapons.

  “Which one of you hearty sportsmen is King Coale?” Hawke asked, although he’d already guessed Samuel Coale was the one in the flowing purple dashiki and the snow-white dreads that reached to his waist. He had a wide leather belt around his corpulent belly and an ugly machete dangling in a sheath. Behind him, on the wall, a huge Ethiopian flag and an old poster of Emperor Haile Selassie, fist raised, the Lion of Judah himself, reluctant father of the Rasta movement.

  Old King Coale rose from his tatty throne, the only upholstered armchair of the lot. He kicked a few rooster corpses out of his way and took a step forward.

  “Yahweh is Lord, and I am his king,” he said, Rasta-style. “You come looking for your friends, Lord Hawke?”

  “I have. Where are they?”

  King Coale inclined his head left toward a closed door on the far wall.

  Hawke pressed the muzzle of the SAW deep into King Coale’s belly.

  “You’ve got your Disciples following me all over this bloody island, Coale. Tell me why.”

  “Someone pay me good money, mon. Why else you do anything?”

  “Who pays you?”

  “I forget.”

  “Let me guess. Korsakov?”

  “I tell you, he kills me.”

  “You don’t tell me, I kill you,” Hawke said, using the machine gun’s muzzle to shove the man back into his armchair.

  A loud shout of pain came from behind the peeling door. Hawke recognized the voice instantly. It was Ambrose Congreve.

  “Harry, keep an eye on these gentlemen for a moment,” Hawke said, turning away from Coale. He quickly crossed the room, twisted the knob, and shoved the door open. He craned his head around and peered inside. Then he glanced over his shoulder, looking at Brock.

  He wasn’t smiling.

  “They’re both alive,” he said.

  29

  The two Englishmen were bound back-to-back, each sitting upright in a straight-backed wooden chair. At a cursory glance, both appeared to have been beaten about the head and face. A trickle of blood ran from Sir David’s nose and mouth. Desmond, the Prince of Darkness, was standing before Ambrose with a length of iron rod in his hand. Ignoring Hawke’s sudden appearance, he drew it back and struck Congreve against the shin of his wounded leg. The detective screamed out in agony, his body straining backward in his chair, his face a rictus of pain.

  The explosive chatter of the SAW automatic weapon was deafening in the small room. All eyes swiveled toward Hawke, who had the ugly black weapon at his hip. He squeezed the trigger and fired another burst into the wall just beyond Desmond’s head, showering him with chunks of plaster.

  “What de fuck, mon?”

  “Drop the rod, Prince,” Hawke said evenly. “Now.”

  “You disrespected my family once. Once is all you get.” He raised the bar again.

  “Put the rod down. If you don’t, I’ll kill you where you stand.”

  Desmond turned and glared, somehow imagining he could force Hawke to look away.

  “Drop it,” Hawke said, “or die. Now.”

  “I’ll drop de rod, mon. But you got to drop de gun. Then we see who de man is. Without de guns.”

  Desmond’s eyes were blazing red, but whether it was rum or anger fueling his rage, Hawke was unsure. He could kill the man, shoot him now and be done with it. But something deeper, more primitive, in Hawke’s brain stopped him from pulling the trigger. He wanted to hurt the man who’d hurt his friend. He wanted to hurt him with his bare hands. It was more than wanting, he realized, as he stared into those blood-red eyes.

  It was needing.

  Hawke had since early youth, not frequently but often enough, found himself drawn to the wild freedom of a fistfight: the taunting, the restraining of friends, the squaring up, the outrageousness of one’s opponent. He found in fighting a thrilling unpredictability available to him nowhere else. Only when fists flew did he discover his spontaneous, decisive self—his truest self, he liked to think.

  He smiled at Desmond and said, “You don’t want to fight me, Prince. I’m way out of your league.”

  “Is dat so, mon? You mean ’cause you so old? Too old to fight like a man?”

  “Just put the rod on the floor. Then I’ll put my gun on the floor. Okay?”

  “You got two guns, mon. De pistol, too.”

  Hawke put the SAW and the 9mm pistol on the cement floor, his eyes never leaving Desmond’s. Then he pulled his assault knife out of its sheath and slid it across the floor.

  “Harry?” Hawke called out.

  “Right here, boss.”

  “I’m putting my weapons down in here. Keep yours at the ready until I’m done with this kid. Shoot anybody who moves in an unfriendly way.”

  “You got it.”

  “So,” Desmond said, dropping the iron rod to the floor with a clang. “Maybe you do still got a little bitty fight left in you, old man.”

  “Harry,” Hawke called again over his shoulder. “I’m going to need your help. Mr. Coale in here has challenged me to a duel. I have accepted. Will you get those fellows out there to clear a space and agree to referee?”

  “You got it, boss. Let me just get rid of these fucking dead chickens, and I’ll have a nice little ring set up.”

  “Untie my friends, Desmond,” Hawke said, unzipping his jumpsuit and stepping out of it. Underneath, he wore only a faded Royal Navy T-shirt and a pair of boxer shorts, now suddenly wildly appropriate.

  He motioned Desmond through the door and helped Ambrose and Sir David get to their feet. He was broken-hearted to see Congreve once more unable to stand on his own. Sir David got an arm around him and got him back into his chair. Ambrose had gone deathly white, and beads of perspiration broke out on his forehead. Sir David seemed sound enough and was rubbing his upper arms where the ropes had burned them.

  “Are you all right, Constable?” Hawke asked his friend. “Tell me if you’re not. I will pick up my gun, and Brock and I will get you to a hospital right now.”

  “I’ll survive,” Congreve said through gritted teeth. “But listen, Alex. You’re not really going to fight this man, are you?” he whispered. “He claims to be an Olympic champion.”


  “Of course I’m going to fight the bastard. After what he did to you? It’s an affair of honor, the Code Duello. Surely you remember that fine old tradition, Constable? Precious few left these days. Sir David, some water for the chief inspector would be helpful.”

  “Rum!” Congreve said in a hurry. “For God’s sake, rum! And then let’s get on with it. I haven’t seen a good fistfight in years!”

  “Certainly,” Trulove replied, handing Congreve a half-empty bottle of rum.

  Hawke said, “You might also want to shove that nine-millimeter of mine inside your waistband for the time being, Sir David. And Ambrose, keep my SAW handy if you’re up to it. Things might get spicy in there.”

  “Good idea,” Trulove said, bending to snatch the weapons from the floor, handing Congreve the SAW.

  Hawke left them and walked into the adjacent room. Desmond was posing in the center of the ring formed by the rows of wooden chairs and the Jamaicans who filled them, all of them now laughing riotously, clinking their rum bottles, smelling more blood. King Coale sat back regally in his tufted armchair, eager for the spectacle of his once famous son humiliating a white man.

  Hawke stepped inside the ring, pulling his T-shirt over his head. He used it to wipe the green and black camo greasepaint from his face, then tossed the shirt aside. Desmond was dancing around on the broken and bloodied glass, stripped down to a pair of ratty track shorts.

  It was close and unbearably hot inside the room. The two men in the ring were already drenched with sweat, though the fight had not even begun.

  With the small crowd roaring support for their national hero, the two fighters squared up and began to circle each other. Desmond, a southpaw, quickly threw a few feints with his left to see if Hawke was paying attention. He definitely was. Hawke backed away, blinked his eyes rapidly, and tried to gather his wits. He’d boxed quite a bit in the Navy, with some success. But he’d never been in front of a lefty before.

  Hawke was moving to his right. He immediately got tagged with a straight left hand to the jaw, followed instantaneously by a vicious right hook that connected, hard, rocking him back on his heels.

  First blood. Hawke could taste it, the blood flooding his mouth. He remembered enough to swallow it quickly as he’d been taught, as something like tunnel vision and deafness descended on him. His anger at what this man had done to Ambrose had lifted itself and spiraled up into a kind of ecstasy. He was no great pugilist. But he was physically reckless, capable of unmitigated violence, he was strong, and he was motivated.

  He had a chance.

  Hawke smiled at his opponent, shaking it off, trying to rid himself of the carousel of cartoon canaries he saw circling inside his head.

  “I’ve never been hit that hard before,” Hawke said, and grinned. “This is going to be more interesting than I thought.”

  “I just gettin’ warmed up, old mon.”

  “Your wrist seems to have healed nicely,” Hawke said, trying to get his feet moving again. He’d been hoping the injured wrist might still be a problem for his opponent. Been counting on it.

  “Dat was Clifford’s wrist you broke, mon,” Desmond said, jabbing hard. “Not mine.”

  “Called himself Desmond the day I broke his wrist on Tribe Road.”

  “Cliff always sayin’ dat shit around town, mon. Sayin’ he Desmond. Say he get more pussy when he call himself me.”

  Hawke kept his fists up beside his face in a defensive posture, still woozy from the tag, trying desperately to regain his composure. He knew he had to get back into the fight quickly. Because of Desmond’s lightning speed and power, Hawke couldn’t afford to get hit with another shot.

  He moved left and right, stalling and thinking. The little camp boxing he’d done during the first Gulf War didn’t seem to be helping him much now. But one piece of advice kept trying to come back to him. What the hell was it?

  When you’re facing a southpaw, Mr. Hawke, always lead with your right hand and throw a left hook behind it.

  Yeah, that was it.

  Hawke stepped into the man and threw the two prescribed punches, using everything he had. He saw immediately that he’d loosened a few of those shiny gold teeth in Desmond’s mouth. But Desmond shook it off and grinned.

  The Jamaicans jumped to their feet, cheering their boy on with curses and shouts, hoots and hollers.

  Desmond kept dancing, wiping the blood from his mouth with the back of his fist. “Is that it? Is that all you got, old mon? C’mon. Show me something. Show me what you got, white mon.”

  Hawke realized that he’d just given this kid his two best shots and that they’d barely fazed him.

  The fight was on.

  Hawke circled Desmond. The Jamaican stood his ground, watching and waiting, a huge grin on his glistening black face. Hawke was bobbing and weaving. Desmond began to throw some brutal right jabs. One of them connected, catching Hawke over his left eye. The blow opened a cut that began to bleed instantly, filling Hawke’s left eye with blood.

  “That’s one eye closed, Grandpa, now I’m going to shut the other one. You ready? Get ready!”

  Desmond began jabbing wildly, dancing around the half-blinded Hawke, hurling insults and laughing loudly as Hawke’s punches went wide. The crowd was on their feet again, into it now, smelling the blood of an Englishman.

  Hawke knew he was in serious trouble. His shots to the head weren’t connecting. The kid’s hand speed was lightning fast, and Hawke couldn’t see much anymore. His mind was scrambling, searching for anything useful he could dredge up from his brief boxing career. A phrase, something his coach used to beat into all of them in training, began to take form in his mind, and then suddenly he had it.

  Kill the body, the head will die.

  He stepped into the man and struck suddenly, viciously, and without warning. He threw two ferocious left hooks, delivered mercilessly, one to Desmond’s liver, the other to his ribs.

  He saw a much surprised Desmond spit blood from the two body shots. The Jamaican had been wisely protecting his liver, keeping his elbows tucked in close. But Hawke had seen a fraction of an opening and had struck hard. And now the blood was surely bubbling up inside his opponent’s body. Desmond coughed, expelling a great looping gout of flying blood.

  Hawke took one step backward and dropped a straight right hand directly on Desmond’s chin. The blow staggered the Jamaican, knocked him backward, arms pinwheeling, and he almost went down. Two old fellows leaped out of their seats and grabbed Desmond by the elbows, keeping him on his feet, one of them hissing in his ear, “Des, you going to let this old white candy-ass bastard kick your ass? No, you ain’t, boy! C’mon, now, fight! You a Jamaican, son, you a champion!”

  Desmond stepped back into the fight. His eyes were moving around in his head, and Hawke could see he was forcing them to focus.

  “Had enough, son?” Hawke said, keeping his feet moving. He had his breathing going now, feeling good, into it, the blood lust starting to rise.

  “Just beginning to piss me off, mon. Thass all you be doin’.”

  Hawke saw the anger flash in the kid’s eyes and knew he had a slight chance to win this. Get them mad, that’s how you win fights.

  Suddenly, the kid charged him, windmilling, throwing a flurry of wild punches. Hawke got his hands up, catching punches on his arms. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the real punch coming from down low. A haymaker right hook. It was coming up fast and looked as if it could knock over a tall building.

  But Hawke slipped that punch and countered with another pair of lethal left hooks to the kid’s ribs. He heard a loud crack, the whole room did, and felt the man’s bone break under his fist. Desmond stopped breathing, but Hawke stayed right on him and threw a fast four-punch combination to his face, wham-wham, wham-wham.

  Hawke stepped back. One of his punches had caught Desmond over his right eye, now bleeding profusely, and loops of blood were flying out of both nostrils.

  Hawke was vaguely aware that Harry Brock was
circling the ring, considering whether or not to step in and stop the fight. But Harry hesitated. He could sense that Hawke must be seeing some fight left in the kid. Hawke clearly wasn’t backing off. He wanted to throw one last shot.

  “You want me to stop this?” Brock asked Hawke.

  “He hurt my friend. An eye for an eye, a bone for a bone,” Hawke said out of the side of his mouth, his eyes focused only on his target. He wanted more.

  Hawke wound up and delivered a big right hand to the jaw. The Jamaican, his jaw broken, folded up like an accordion, collapsing to the filthy floor strewn with broken glass and chicken blood, adding a little of his own to the mixture.

  Hawke backed away, saw Harry Brock bending over Desmond’s unconscious body. Harry gave Desmond a fair ten count, allowing him every chance to get back on his feet.

  “…Ten!” It was over.

  Brock whirled around and grabbed Hawke’s right wrist, thrusting his hand into the air in victory.

  The Jamaicans went wild, some of them coming out of their chairs to cheer the victorious Hawke. They didn’t care much who’d won; it had been a hell of a fight. Collapsed in a chair against the wall, Congreve raised his fist in the air, saluting the victory. Sir David even stepped into the ring, pounding his man on the back, shouting into Hawke’s ear words he couldn’t hear because the blood was pounding so hard inside his head.

  Hawke saw the defeated Jamaican on the floor, his arms flung out as if someone had thrown him away. He was now stirring about, eyelids fluttering open, moving his lips, and he stepped over to have a word. Desmond’s father, who’d been tending to his son, turned away in disgust. Hawke took his arm and spun him around.

  “I don’t want to see your crew on my tail anymore. You understand me? What will happen if I do?”

  Coale nodded yes and walked away, defeated.

  Hawke then bent over the boy and looked into his blood-filled eyes. He spoke softly, just loud enough so the boy alone could hear him.

  “It’s not about age, son, it’s about desire. You had it once and lost it. Maybe you should think hard about trying to get it back.”