by Ted Bell
Hawke had met Stoke a decade ago. He’d been kidnapped for ransom by the Tucci family mob and left to die in a burning warehouse in Flatbush. Detective Sergeant Stokely Jones Jr., NYPD, had been working Hawke’s case for nearly a month when he finally caught up with a mob capo with a rap sheet a mile long. He’d offered him a deal he couldn’t refuse. “Just gimme a location, Tuna, and I’ll forget about all that smuggling crap you’re really going down for.”
Half an hour later, he was driving his unmarked Crown Victoria at speeds of one hundred plus mph, through the streets, deserted at 3:00 A.M. He saw orange flames climbing into the black sky from two blocks away and really put the pedal down. It had to be the warehouse. The final resting place where Hawke had been left to die.
Any building burning that hot had to be bad news for the man he was trying to save. Stoke, following three combat tours as a U.S. Navy SEAL, had been drafted by the New York Jets. Fullback. He was badly injured scoring a touchdown against the Cleveland Browns, out for the game, out for the season, probably out forever. Then he’d applied for the NYPD police gig, starting out as a young patrolman on the beat down in Soho and ending up a detective.
Without a thought, Stoke careened into the warehouse’s deserted car park, then raced through the flames licking at the entrance and into the dilapidated ruin. With nary a thought for his own skin, he charged up five flights of burning wooden staircases. He finally found Hawke, bound hand and foot and left to die in a small closet full of cleaning solvents. Hawke had inhaled a lot of bad shit, including smoke, asbestos, and other poisonous chemicals, but he was still breathing.
“Can you hear me?” Stoke said, pulling the unconscious man to his feet. “We gotta get outta here, like, now!”
No response.
Shrugging off the weight of the six-foot-three Englishman, Stoke hoisted him upon his shoulders and raced to the bottom, but not before a burning ember embedded itself in his hair, scorching his scalp. He got to the ground floor, glad he could remember where the exit was because the entire room was now almost completely engulfed in flames. He’d never run this fast on a football field in his life, and it was only sheer speed that kept them from being trapped and burned alive.
“How’d you happen to meet my boss?” Stoke asked China.
“Oh, I dunno. We had a thing, I guess. Long time ago. Now we’re just old friends. Despite the fact that he killed my father.”
“He what?” Stoke said.
Hawke said, “General Sun Yung Moon, Stoke. Remember, I told you about him after we got the hell out of China. That was her father.”
“Aw, man. I’m sorry to hear that, China. But you got to cut the man some slack. I was actually there that day. It was one of those kill-or-be-killed kinda situations. It was flat-out war. It was a kill-or-be-killed kinda war. Your father did not leave Alex any choice but to defend himself. We were in a firefight. A lot of people died that day, a lot them probably people just in the wrong place at the wrong time. Including one of my oldest and bestest friends. Little Frenchman, ex–French Foreign Legion and one the toughest cats on the planet. His name was Froggy.”
“Froggy,” Hawke said. “Braver than any ten men I’ve ever met, may God rest his soul.”
“Got that right,” Stoke said. “Well. The black hats had us on the run, closing in fast. Froggy got shot bad, a round took half his leg off. Boss here picked him up and hiked him up on his shoulders. Slowed us down while were trying to make it down to the beach, see? Get out of a free-fire zone. We weren’t going to make it. Froggy kept screaming. Wanted the boss to set him down. Said he’d have our backs. Slow them down and cover our retreat. We never saw Froggy after that. . . .”
Stoke wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. He had gotten emotional, remembering that terrible day.
China just sipped at her mojito, eyes downcast, saying nothing for a long time.
Hawke cupped her chin in his hand and lifted her face up where he could look her in the eyes. He said, “Like the man says, it was war, for God’s sake, China. You of all people know how that works. You’ve been there, I know.”
China stood up, dabbed at her lips with the white linen napkin, and said, “You’ll excuse me, gentlemen. I need to use the loo.”
After she’d left the table, Stoke leaned in closer to Hawke and said, “Man, I’m sorry about that. Getting all weepy and shit. My bad.”
“Hell, no. This isn’t about you or me. That’s just her. She’s touchy about that subject. I might be, too, were I her, confronting the man who killed her father. But don’t blame yourself.”
“Who is she, anyway?”
“Chinese Secret Police. Way up the totem pole. She’s here on assignment, to look into the business affairs of the owners here, twin brothers. Part of the Tang Family. Another ancient Chinese crime family that still practices its ancient traditions. Gambling, prostitution, vast plantations of poppy fields to supply global heroin markets, human slave trade, et cetera. China now admits she actually had dinner with Prince Henry a few times before his disappearance. She doesn’t want to talk about it, but I’m going to get whatever I can out of her. I think she knows a hell of a lot more than she’s saying about the prince.”
“Are you getting anywhere on that?”
“Just scratching the surface. But I’ll tell you one thing. The Tang twins are rotten apples. There are two Chinese PLA Navy missile frigates patrolling what I think may well be a secret Chinese military installation, right here on this little island in the Bahamas, not even a two-hour flight from Key West, from the east coast of Florida. I saw a huge structure on the other side of the island. Massive, built out over the water on four gigantic white pillars, two ashore on the mountainside and two way out in deep water. Thing looks like an angry dog ready to pounce. If it’s what I think it is, we could well be heading into the Cuban Missile Crisis to the tenth power. I believe it could well be military, specifically naval.’’
“You thinking submarines? In America’s backyard? God help us.”
“Yeah. I’m thinking subs.
“You and I are doing a recon there tonight in the wee smalls. Have a look around. Did you bring all the scuba equipment and arms I asked for?”
“Damn straight. And some more goodies you didn’t ask for. Since I was flying Air Hawke and not Delta, I figured why the hell not?”
“For example, what?”
“An M-60 machine gun and a grenade launcher. NVG goggles. A couple of M4A1 assault rifles. A couple of SIG Sauer P226s. A sniper rifle. A pair of KA-BAR fighting knives. A few other goodies. Flashbangs and smokers, that kind of struff.”
“Well, I know you had your choice of air travel and I’m very glad you flew with me as opposed to Delta.”
Stoke laughed.
“Yeah, boss. So, tell me. Who’ve we got in this business? Just you and me and Mr. B over there?”
“For now. I’ve asked Ambrose Congreve to come down here and snoop around, but he’s tied up handling some scandal involving the Royal Family. Very hush-hush, apparently. We’re just doing the exploratory. Get the lay of the land. Should the situation escalate and demand more fighters, we’re going to call our pals down in Costa Rica to jump into the fray.”
“Thunder and Lightning, you’re talking about? Froggy’s old outfit?”
“Nobody does it better.”
“You got that right, boss! Who we going up against end of the day?”
“The whole bloody Tang Empire maybe. Even here they have vast security forces scattered about on all six islands of the Dragonfire Club complex. Plus, Chinese military forces and heavily armed naval patrol vessels that make no secret of their presence here.”
“Now, that’s some serious shit right there, boss.”
“Hmm,” Hawke replied, thinking about something else.
Alex then felt a hand landing on his right shoulder, and then a disembodied voice
said, “Well, well, well. Look who’s here. My new friend Hawke. And this gentleman must be—just a guess—Big Al?”
Hawke and Stoke both stood up at the presence of a lady at the table.
“Zhang Tang, say hello to my business partner, Mr. Stokely Jones Jr. and his bodyguard, Mr. Brock.”
“Hello, Mr. Brock. Hello, Mr. Stokely Jones Jr. Nice to have you with us tonight. Are you boys staying on the island?”
“Just checked in.”
“Welcome, then. Is anyone sitting in that seat?”
“Yes,” Hawke said. “She’s just gone to the loo. It’s China Moon, actually. I believe you two know each other?”
Zhang took the empty seat as if she hadn’t heard about China being in the loo.
“Oh, everybody knows China. That crazy chick is always poking her pretty little nose into places she shouldn’t. I’m amazed my brothers, Tommy and Jackie, didn’t sent her packing long ago. She’s a high-ranking Chinese Secret Police officer—did you know, Alex?”
“No! Is she? I had no idea.”
“Well, you just keep your nose clean around her.”
“So sorry!” China said, suddenly reappearing at the table. “There was a wait list to get into the ladies’ loo.”
“Yes?” Zhang said, looking up, startled, as if puzzled by China’s sudden arrival.
“That chair belongs to me,” China said, the color rising in her cheeks. “Please vacate it, Zhang. Now.”
“Actually, it belongs to me, as, obviously, do all the rest of the chairs out here. How do you know lover boy, over there?”
“Actually, that’s none of your fucking business, Zhang.”
Zhang said, “Down, girl! It’s not nice to insult the owner. Especially if you don’t want to get locked out of the spa, and your hairdresser, darling.”
China smiled ever so sweetly and said, “Well! Zhang, my dear, here I was, all prepared for a battle of wits, but you appear to be unarmed. . . .”
Hawke tried not to laugh but it bubbled out of him anyway.
“Oh, do fuck off, won’t you, China?” Zhang said.
“China, stop it,” Hawke said, seeing the possibility that this vitriolic verbal sparring might well lead to a physical battle. He added, “This is getting ridiculous, ladies. Please take a deep breath and calm down.”
China looked at Hawke and smiled. “Thanks for the drink, lover boy. I’m going to skip dinner tonight. I’ve suddenly got a terrible taste in my mouth. The cheap liquor they serve here at this dump, I suppose. Anyway, I’m off. Call me if you want to chat some more about you know what.” With that, she turned and made her way through all the tables to the elevator bank.
Zhang said, “Touchy, touchy, that girl. It seems I’ve ruined your little party, Alex. I’m sorry. Are you two an item? You and China Moon?”
“We were, a decade or so ago. Just having a drink for old times’ sake.”
“Good. She’s gone. I’m starving! What is everyone having?”
“May I suggest the crow?” Hawke said to her with a smile to take the sting out of it.
“Crow, did you say? How rude!” she said, throwing her napkin down on the table and getting up to her feet.
“If you’re going to pick sides in a battle royale, Alex, you’re always better off going with the winning side. Call me when you’re ready to apologize. Good-bye, Stokely. Mr. Brock. It was lovely meeting you.” She turned and walked away, disappearing into the Zinc Bar.
“Lover boy, huh?” Stoke said. “Looks like you’ve been pretty busy down here, boss man. Man, you got ’em coming and going all over the place!”
“Right. Just what I needed. To get caught in the middle between those two vixens.”
“‘Vixen,’ huh?” Stoke said. “I’ve heard that word before. What’s it mean, anyway? Witch or something along those lines?”
Hawke smiled and said, “Let me see. I do know. I believe it means a sexually attractive woman who also just happens to be a mean, shrewish, and ill-tempered bitch on wheels.”
Stoke laughed. “You got that right, man, I’m tellin’ you. Those two gals? Shit.”
“Stoke, China was coming on to you. Despite that big fat gold wedding ring on your hand.”
“Yeah, I picked up on that. I feel like whatever happens in Dragonfire Bay stays in Dragonfire Bay. Still, something bothers me about that chick China Moon. I think she’s dangerous. I think she’s the spider in this web. Girl is flat-out poisonous. Beautiful, I’ll grant you that, but otherwise . . .”
“Hmm,” Hawke said. “What’s your read on the other chick?”
“’Bout the same. I don’t much trust either one of them. The Tang girl? Mata Hari personified. You know, that belly dancer who spied for both the Germans and the French in World War One. Got her ass executed by a French firing squad. This one you’ve got? She’s after your ass, man. Maybe for a good reason, maybe not. But she’s got you smack-dab in the middle of her crosshairs. Hell, both of ’em do! I think that’s the problem. Which one of them is gonna pull the trigger first?”
“That’s a comforting thought,” Hawke said. “Any more where that came from?”
“Just give me time, my brotha. Give me a little time. I’m a damn hotbed of good ideas lately.”
CHAPTER 36
Black Dragon Lagoon, the Bahamas
Present Day
Hawke and Stokely, both clad in Six Wolf grey night combat uniforms and wearing light body armor underneath, arrived at the Dragonfire Club Marina at 2:45 A.M. They had not passed a single soul or vehicle since leaving the hotel on Hawke’s motorcycle. Hawke had been carefully noting the comings and goings of security at the gate for the last three nights. There was a shift change at 2:30 A.M., and the 3:00 A.M. guy never rolled in until after 3:30 A.M., whereupon he promptly fell asleep in the little guardhouse after about half an hour of swigging from a rum bottle and watching porn on his computer terminal.
It was dead quiet, save the softly tinkling sound of sailboat halyards whipped around by a fresh breeze, slapping the hollow aluminum masts of yachts of varying size, all the way up to three hundred feet in length overall. Hawke and Stoke dismounted and walked quickly out onto the main pier, but not so quickly as to arouse the interest of some insomniac skipper up on deck for a smoke. Hawke could see the Wally moored all the way at the end of the narrow pier where he’d left it late that afternoon. He’d sent Brock ahead to the marina to organize the weapons and ammo on the boat prior to their arrival. He was also expected to top off the tanks with petrol, and, most importantly, to mount the fifty-cal machine gun on its mini-mount up on the bow.
“Man, oh, man, where’d you come up with this sweet little piece of naval beauty?”
“A loaner. I call her Wally. Belongs to Zhang’s brother, Tommy. Let’s do try not to sink it tonight, shall we? Might spoil the party.”
“What the hell is it, boss? And what does that name mean? Chop-chop?”
“It means ‘Hurry-Hurry.’ The boat’s a Wallytender. Piece of bloody work, isn’t she?”
“What’s her power situation?”
“The new Volvo Penta 650s outboard propulsion.”
“Whoa, Mama. That’s some serious shit right there.”
“Tell me about it. I’ve been having fun with it.”
“You want me to drive?”
Hawke said, “Absolutely. Hop aboard. I’ll free the lines.”
Stoke stepped aboard and lowered his six-five, three-hundred-pound frame down into the helm seat. “You got the keys, I hope. . . .”
“Oh, yeah,” Hawke said, and Harry Brock tossed them down to him.
Stoke twisted the key in the ignition, and the big outboards at the stern roared to life. “Sweet Jesus! Listen to that! I want one of these babies for Christmas!”
“Be a good boy, and I’ll get Santa on it,” Hawke said, jumping dow
n into the cockpit and freeing the spring line. Then he loaded all the scuba gear and assault weaponry Stoke had brought to the party, stowing it in the aft storage locker below the deck.
Stoke said, “We outta here now?”
“Lines are free. Equipment stowed. Let’s go. Take it nice and easy till we’re well clear of the harbor entrance and out in open water . . . as in dead slow.”
“You got that right,” Stoke said, easing back on the throttles until they were running at idle speed, a soft burble gurgling at the stern.
Once they were out in open water, Hawke turned on the GPS and said, “Okay, all good. You see this piece of protected coast here, on the other side of the island? That’s our destination. We’ll approach dead slow from the south. Beach the boat, run her up into the mangroves to keep her out of sight, and swim the rest of the way to the target.”
“And that’s where we’re headed?”
“No,” Hawke said, pointing his finger at the coastline on the GPS screen. “The house is here, up on the mountaintop. The target is massive. Looks like heavy steel-reinforced concrete. No windows, no doors.”
“Huh. I smell military, boss.”
“Yeah. Place reeks of it. Light up our radar, Stoke. See who we’ve got for company. I told you about those two big Chinese missile frigates. They are now on the other side of the island, heading toward each other and coming back around every two hours, so we’ve got to get a move on. We don’t want to get anywhere near those bad boys. Put Wally on a course for this spit of land here. We’ll run in at full throttle until we get around that isthmus. We’ll nip inside that peninsula into the bay and get off the bloody radar.”
“How do we get inside that place, boss?”
“Swim in, I guess, submerged, from the sea. That is, if there’s a way in, I suppose.”
“I love to swim. Just a natural-born SEAL baby, I’m tellin’ ya.”