by Ted Bell
Hawke signaled the barman over and placed their order. When it came, Hawke was surprised, and pleased, to see that she was taking small sips of the concoction, pacing herself. He surmised that the stress of living so much at the edge these last months, sitting atop a time bomb, had caused her nerves to fray. And as he knew all too well, that was when you had to start watching your alcohol intake like a wily fox that’s invaded your personal henhouse.
She swiveled her stool so that she could loop her left arm over Hawke’s shoulders and draw him nigh.
She leaned her head into him and said very softly, “I’ve not been completely truthful with you, darling.”
“That’s all right. At least I know you’re trying.”
“In the garden, over dinner, I kept seeing the flickering light of the candles in your beautiful blue eyes and wondering, after the life you’ve led, and all the madness you’ve had to live through that—”
“That what?” he pressed.
“That all I can see in those eyes of yours is innocence. Maybe not complete innocence, but the vestiges of innocence going back to your boyhood. You’ve never lost that, Alex. And it’s one of the things that made me fall in love with you . . . and why I decided that I had to tell you what I’ve been hiding ever since you arrived.”
“I’m listening. . . . ,” he said.
“It’s about your godson, Prince Henry. I know where he is. And he’s . . . he’s not at all well, Alex.”
“Tell me.”
“Zhang, discovering that I was sleeping with him and in a jealous rage, had him thrown into prison. On an island not far from here. The conditions for the prisoners are not good. And Henry was subjected to endless interrogations and in the beginning beatings, brainwashing, mind control, electrodes attached to his testicles—all those things and worse. I went to visit him two days ago. His condition terrified me. I demanded that he be removed from his cell and transported to the infirmary. He desperately needs medical attention or he’ll—”
“Die?”
“Wait. Let me finish. I thought maybe the sick bay at the camp was not sufficiently manned with good doctors and equipment. So, I went straight to the commandant’s office and demanded his immediate release.”
“And?”
“He said no. He had informed Beijing that a British Royal was near death and that we needed to get him off this island as soon as possible. To that end, a Chinese Army Air Force tactical transport aircraft is en route to Nassau right now. May have already landed. A medically equipped plane will land at the facility and take him to the airport at Nassau and then to Beijing, where he can get the best care possible. Xi Jinping has demanded that he be kept safe and attended to during the long flight. A doctor and a nurse are on board. . . .”
“We cannot let that happen, China. You remember Otto Warmbier, the poor boy who was imprisoned by Kim Jong-un in North Korea?”
“Of course. Our Supreme Leader does not want to see a Chinese repeat of that PR fiasco on the world stage. Not after all I’ve told you about Xi Jinping’s absolute insistence that my country earn a respected seat as a civilized member at the table of nations. . . .”
“And when is the transport flight due to land over in Nassau?”
“Last I heard, sometime around noon tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow? My God, China, we’ve got to get him out of there now!”
“I know, I know! Why do you think I was behaving so abominably? I was getting desperate as to what to do!”
“Listen to me. I’ve done a ton of hostage rescue work as you can imagine. All over the world. As have my friends Stokely and Harry Brock. If we have to storm the gates and shoot our way out, that’s what we’ll do.”
“Easier said than done.”
“At least, on the other hand, we know where to look, don’t we?”
“Yes. He was kept in the D building, right behind the security block. But by now, after my temper tantrum with the commandant, they might have moved him to a room at the infirmary. Either way, I’ll show you to him.”
“Good. Are you carrying, China? Because we could always use an extra shooter if we need one and—”
“I beg your pardon?” a supercilious voice said from right behind them. Hawke looked over his shoulder and saw the imperious little mustachioed French maître d’ he’d seen when they first entered.
“Yes?” Hawke said coldly. He’d disliked the man on sight.
“I’m terribly sorry, monsieur. Je m’excuse. I’m afraid your guest here is improperly attired for the lounge, and the management has asked that madam leave the premises. Immediately, I’m afraid.”
Hawke had to stifle the urge to break the pompous little twit’s nose, but one look at China, and he knew that was not the way to go.
Instead Hawke said coolly, “Vous êtes un cretin, monsieur, and we’d be happy to leave. Your drinks are badly mixed and your hors d’oeuvres are not fit for human consumption. Au revoir, for now, you little toad, but when I see you again, you will require hospitalization. Come on, darling, grab your drink and let’s get out of here. It’s begun to stink in here. . . .”
Hawke took her hand to direct her back to where they’d entered. She pulled her hand away and said, “No, Alex, we can’t leave just yet. Unfinished business, you might call it.”
China marched across the dance floor to the gilded staircase she’d pointed out before, the one that led up to the Castle proper and the restaurant. Hawke used the time on the stairs to speed-dial his pilots. Fuel up and be ready to fly by midnight at the latest, he told them.
Hawke spotted Stokely the second he entered the busy restaurant. There were three of them seated on the red leather banquette. Stoke on the left, Brock on the right, and who should be seated between them but his old friend Zhang. She had her arms around both men, squeezed in between them with her breasts yearning to be set free from her plunging décolletage.
Stoke got to his feet, waving at Hawke to come over to the table. Harry was smiling at him but had no interest in waving him over. He was too busy drooling over Zhang to the point where some of his saliva was clearly visible on her silk blouse. She either didn’t care or hadn’t noticed. Hawke stepped aside and let China lead the way to the table.
Zhang was grinning up at her.
“Well, well, well, if it isn’t Dragonfire Bay’s own dragon lady. It’s China Moon and her terribly misguided boy toy. . . . Slumming, are you, darling?”
China opened her mouth to speak, but Hawke stepped on her line. “Misguided in what way?” he said. Hawke leaned forward so that Zhang’s nose and his nose were nearly touching.
Zhang gave him what was likely intended to look like a smile but came out as a nasty snarl. She hissed, “Misguided in so many ways, darling, but most especially in your taste in women. I mean, seriously, look who the boy toy is dragging around tonight! The dragon lady herself!” She sat back and let her response hang there in the air over the table.
Harry saw Stoke remove her arm from around his neck, and Harry wisely did the same.
Hawke saw what was about to happen next before anyone else.
China, smiling at her rival all the while, proceeded to lean across the table and up into her face. She secured Zhang’s attention and uttered one single, solitary word: “Bitch!” The word dripped with hateful sarcasm.
And having delivered that verbal blow, she then heaved the entire contents of her cocktail glass into Zhang’s face.
Zhang, in a blind rage, screamed something unintelligible. Her carefully coiffed hair was now hanging down to her bare shoulders, thick damp strands over her face. She had sliced limes on her head and shoulders, ice cubes melting into the heat of her imposing cleavage, and worse, the citrus juice was stinging her eyes to the point where she couldn’t see at all. She began thrashing about like a madwoman, howling and clawing at the air and hissing like some insane feline c
reature who’d been mortally offended.
She tried to get to her feet, eager to have a go at China, but Stoke put an iron clamp on her biceps and shoved her back down on the banquette.
Hawke looked at Stoke with an intense focus that spoke volumes to his old friend. Something serious was going on, and Hawke needed his help.
“S’up, boss?” he said.
“Stoke. You need to come with me. Now. You and Brock. Something’s come up. A full-blown emergency. Get up. You, too, Harry. We need to go. Now! Leave her there!”
The four of them raced down the staircase and out into the night. There was a long line of cars disappearing down the hill, all waiting to enter the porte cochere at the entrance.
China went immediately to the head valet and said, “Wilson, we’re with Zhang. There’s an emergency. She wants her black Bentley brought up here immediately. She’ll be out in just a moment, so if you value your job, hurry!”
The long black car rolled up moments later. Wilson got out and held the door open for the lady, reaching for his mobile with his other hand. Hawke slid into the passenger seat while Stoke and Harry climbed into the backseat.
After a moment Stoke spoke up. “Boss. You think, in hindsight, we should have called in the Legionnaires? This could spiral up pretty quickly with all the security forces around.”
“You mean, the boys from Belize?”
“Uh-huh. I sure do.”
Hawke said, “Thunder and Lightning are still on standby, but it’s too late now. This thing ends at midnight, when we put Prince Henry on the plane and get the hell out of the Bahamas. I will say one thing and I mean it.”
Hawke turned around, looked at Harry Brock and said, “I’m glad as hell you came back, Harry. I sincerely am.”
Stoke turned his head to the window and smiled.
And off they went to save the world one more time.
Off into the star-spangled night.
CHAPTER 58
Dragonfire Club, the Bahamas
Present Day
China left two little patches of rubber on the concrete drive as she accelerated the big car, roaring away from the Castle, fishtailing the Bentley a bit upon reaching the bottom of the hill, but instantly and expertly correcting it. Hawke was glad she was driving. She was, in fact, a seriously good driver and knew all the roads and all the shortcuts on the island. She could get them to their destination in a hurry.
“Where to?” she asked, never taking her eyes off the road.
“The marina,” Hawke replied.
“Got it,” China said. “I know a shortcut. Ten minutes faster than the coast road.”
“Good,” Hawke said.
“What have we got, boss?” Stoke piped up from the rear.
“Trouble,” Hawke said. “I just learned from China that Prince Henry is currently a permanent guest at that little reeducation camp over on Devil’s Island. He’s been starved and maltreated and is not in good shape at all. Needs emergency medical attention. The Chinese government doesn’t want him to die for reasons of bad publicity such as North Korea received in the Otto Warmbier debacle. They’ve sent a transport plane to pick him up and ferry him back to Beijing. Obviously, we cannot let that happen under any circumstances.”
“When’s that plane s’posed to land, boss?”
“Around noon tomorrow.”
“Better than I thought. We got everything we need to get him out aboard the Wally boat. Since we no longer care if anybody sees us or not, we can probably lean on the throttles and cut the travel time in half.”
“Sounds good, Stoke.”
“I’m going to need a gun,” China said, her eyes unwaveringly on the road. “I usually carry but not tonight.”
“Lots to choose from, China,” Stoke said. “We got an arsenal on that boat.”
“Good,” she said.
“Boss, once we exfiltrate the prince, where we going?”
“Pindling Airport in Nassau. Private aviation. Gulfstream will be juiced up and spooled up out on the tarmac waiting for us.”
“Where we going next?”
“Miami. I’ll let you and Mr. Brock off, then head out to Bermuda to refuel. Having recently been hospitalized there, I know all the doctors at Edward VII Hospital. Good place for Henry to recover, too. Sand, sun, and saltwater treatment. Ambrose Congreve is on the island, too, and would love to debrief him so Scotland Yard can go after these people.”
“Love it,” Stoke said. “Ambrose is the man!”
“Mr. Brock?” Hawke said, looking at him in the rearview mirror. “Are you still with us?”
“Yes, sir!” Harry said. “No idea what I was in for, but I am ready to rock, sir!”
“Rock?” Hawke said. He and Mr. Brock had never been able to get on the same page. He found the man annoying and prone to profanity.
* * *
—
Hawke thought China, daredevil that she clearly was, was going to put the big Bentley up on two wheels when she swerved into the parking lot at the Dragonfire Club Marina. He looked at his watch. It was almost midnight. Five hours or less of darkness left until dawn. With China showing the way to the building where Prince Henry was confined, and her knowledge of the compound, he felt his odds of success were fairly high. The four of them had not only the element of surprise in their favor, but extremely heavy firepower for such a small hostage rescue team. He would have much preferred to have Thunder and Lightning, his hostage rescue specialists based down in Costa Rica, along for the ride tonight but time and circumstances had not permitted it. Those guys meant business. They were ex–French Foreign Legion or Mossad or British SAS and what have you. He was momentarily glad of Brock. The man could hop and pop with the best of them. A stone killer in a firefight.
The marina was dead quiet.
“Hold on, boys,” China said, taking a hard right and aiming the big black Bentley directly at the locked entrance gates of the marina.
“China! What?” Hawke said as she increased her speed.
“Another shortcut,” she said calmly and just blew right through the padlocked metal fencing, literally blowing the two gates off their hinges and flying into the water on either side of the big concrete pier.
She slowed slightly now, driving nearly all the way out to the very end of the wide pier where the Wally was moored.
“Alex,” she said, suddenly in charge, “you and Stoke go fire the engines and free the mooring lines. I’ve got one last detail to take care of, and I need Mr. Brock here to give me a hand. Mr. Brock?”
“Sure. What do you need?”
Hawke shrugged his shoulders and looked at Stoke, shaking his head as they walked away. What the hell was she up to now?
China remained behind the wheel, and Harry walked around the front of the car, stepping carefully because there were only a few feet of room between the automobile’s chromed radiator and the end of the pier.
“What’s up?” Harry said, putting his hand on the driver’s-side windowsill.
“Pretty straightforward, actually. I’m going to park Zhang’s Bentley out here in the underwater garage.”
“The underwater what? Are you sure you—”
“I’m putting it in neutral. Could you pull my door open? Thanks. So, get back there and give me a good push. I’ll get out and push, too, from right here while I keep the front wheels straight. When you’ve got it rolling fast enough to go off the end on its own, just say ‘Go!’ I’ll let go of the steering wheel and jump the hell out of the way.” She saw him with both hands on the trunk in the rearview mirror, really leaning into it.
“Okay, Harry?”
“Yep!”
“Okay . . . start . . . pushing . . . now!”
“Boss!” Stoke cried out. “You got to see this!”
“See what?” he said, looking over at the far end o
f the pier where Zhang’s precious Bentley was rolling forward toward the end of the pier, clearly about to swim with the fishes. “Bloody hell!” Hawke exploded.
The big Bentley, with China holding the wheel and Harry Brock pushing from behind, looked like it was headed right off the end of the pier!
The car was heavy as hell, but between the two of them, they got enough momentum going. When China abandoned ship and was safely out of the way, Harry really put his shoulder into it. He could not believe what they were doing but the woman clearly had her mind made up.
Hawke and Stoke looked on in shock as the Bentley rolled . . . right off the end of the pier! And went straight down about twenty feet before it hit the surface with massive splash. . . . The big Bentley had gone vertical before it hit and now only the back half of the automobile remained sticking up out of the water.
China watched the last of the bubbles of the car reach the surface of the black water, then turned to her audience and bowed deeply in their direction.
“Just taking a bow, boys. What do you think?”
Hawke, shaking his head, said, “Holy God, China, what the hell?”
“That’s some crazy shit right there, boss,” Stoke said, just on the off chance that he wasn’t aware of it.
* * *
—
Hawke had slipped aboard and down into the helm seat, leaving Stoke up on the dock to free their lines and push off. Hawke fired the big 650HP outboards, not nearly as concerned about the noise as he’d been in the past. He was well past caring what anybody in this bloody place thought about what he did or did not do anymore.
He had only one thought on his mind now: getting inside that main gate, locating his godson alive, and getting him the hell out of there.
He’d briefly thought about returning to the hotel so he and Stoke and Brock could grab their belongings. But he immediately thought better of it, knowing he’d never be able to forgive himself if he arrived at Prince Henry’s bedside too late. They were never coming back to Dragonfire Club, but for the length of his stay, he’d never left anything of real value in the penthouse, or any top secret comms from MI6; those he’d either deleted or burned in the fireplace after reading them.