by Ted Bell
“He has, sir. I’d told him the pony needed a name and he said he’d think on it. Blurted the name out loud whilst blowing out birthday cake candles.”
“And?”
“It is rather odd. Your son wants to call his new pony ‘Uncle Joe,’ sir. Not at all sure why. In any event, sir, I suggested ‘Dobbin.’ Because unless I am very much mistaken I am not aware of any Uncle Joes in the family, sir . . . and no one has a more extensive knowledge of the family tree than I.”
“Uncle Joe?” Hawke laughed out loud for the first time in weeks. He said, “Good lord! Well, I suppose it’s not the worst name for a pony I ever heard . . . Pelham, please put Sigrid on the line, will you? She’s expecting my call.”
“Certainly, m’lord. She’s hovering right here, sir.”
“Alex?” she said, sounding shy and tentative. “Is that you?”
“Darling,” Hawke said.
“Are you all right? You’re not hurt, are you?”
“No, no. Fully intact. Do you miss me at all, darling?” he said. “Even a little?”
“Not even a little. And if you don’t come home to me immediately, I shall miss you even less!”
“Good timing, my dear girl. On my way bright and early tomorrow morning. Just want to wish my son a quick happy birthday. See you soon, darling!”
“Here’s your boy, jumping up and down he’s so excited!”
“Hello? Hello?” he heard the little boy say then, and it almost broke his heart. He said, “Alexei, it’s your father. I’m coming home tomorrow! I’m so sorry I missed your big day, but I do want to wish you the very happiest of happy birthdays ever, son!”
“Daddy?”
“Yes, darling.”
“Oh, Daddy, I miss you so! Please come home to us, please? Pelham misses you, Sigrid misses you! Even Uncle Joe says he misses you! Everybody!”
“Uncle Joe? Who in the world is Uncle Joe?”
“Oh, Daddy, you know . . . He’s my new pony! Sigrid and I just came back up from the stables. We went out to wish him a good night. It’s freezing cold here, Daddy, and I put his blanket over him. And Fellowes is going to spend all night with him, sleeping on the hay in Uncle Joe’s stall!”
“Do you really like him, Alexei? I must say he was the finest of all the ponies I looked at.”
“Oh, Daddy, he’s only the loveliest present any boy could ever wish for . . . Thank you so much. Oh, sorry! Sigrid says it’s my bedtime, Daddy, so I must go now . . . Good night, good night, good night! I’ll see you tomorrow!”
“I love you, Alexei, with all my heart,” Alex Hawke said.
“Thank you, Daddy, for the best birthday a boy ever had!”
And indeed, there was not a scintilla of him that was not filled with love at that moment. He had his family back. They were all safe once more. He would guard them with his own life forever.
And sooner rather than later, he would track down Putin’s newest monster, Shit Smith. He would find him, and he would kill him.
And, as for Putin, let him run. Let the world deal with him now. He’d made good on his threat to kidnap Alexei. And he’d been within a hair’s breadth of having his son murdered. Hawke had dealt with Volodya for nearly a decade. He had little stomach left for the man, nor his ever more bizarre and dangerous actions. The Americans had a new president. He claimed to understand what made Putin tick.
At least somebody did.
Let someone else deal with the world’s madmen for a while. He was going to take his girl and find a beach somewhere. Maybe his little seaside home on Bermuda. Yes, Teakettle Cottage would be perfect for the two of them. Fall asleep in each other’s arms each night to the soft rustle of wind in the palms and surf breaking below on the rocks along the shoreline.
Alex Hawke had just wound Putin up. Tight. Someone else would bloody well just have to wind that coldhearted bastard down this time.
Good luck with that, whoever you are . . . you poor bastard.
Epilogue
Bermuda, the North Shore
The sun was just about to kiss the far horizon of the world, and towering banks of western clouds were tinged with gold and red as two lovers emerged from the sea. Holding hands, they began the sandy trek homeward. The man owned a small home nearby, set atop a rocky bluff above the sea. The house, a former sugar mill, was surrounded by dense green jungle, thick with wildly colored birds and exotic foliage.
It was called Teakettle Cottage because of its picturesque profile; its white domed roof was a perfect pot, and the lurching white chimney resembled nothing so much as a spout. The cottage, oft depicted on Bermuda’s postcards, had a long and colorful history. It had housed a number of legendary gentlemen down the decades, including movie idol Errol Flynn and the immortal Hemingway, who had written the final chapters of The Old Man and the Sea under this very roof. Now it was the beloved retreat of Lord Alexander Hawke, a wounded warrior come to bind up his grievous wounds and take refuge from war and violence.
“Hullo!” a high-pitched voice cried out from above. It was the ancient Pelham, Hawke’s lifelong friend and gentleman’s gentleman.
“Pelham!” Sigrid called up to him. “We had the most marvelous ocean swim! Three whole miles! You should try it sometime!”
Hawke laughed and waved up at the man, feeling the last rays of the sun warm on his shoulders. After two whole weeks of marinating in all this sunshine, Hawke and Sigrid were both glowing with health and radiant with happiness. It had been a perfect day. After a feast of lobster and icy Pinot Gris out on the terrace, they had just completed a three-mile swim in open ocean and—
“Nap time! Last one in the sack’s a little pickle!” the woman shouted back to him, sprinting ahead through the receding surf and soft pinkish sand. Sigrid’s lithe body, like his own, was a shade darker than copper, and they both reveled in the boundless energy they suddenly found within themselves.
A lot of that newfound energy was expended in the bedroom. His was a whitewashed room, with all of its many gleaming windows opening outward to the glories of the aquamarine sea and the azure skies of Bermuda. The floor was glazed red Spanish tile, and the furniture was minimal, save the bed. Oh, that bed! How it called to him—
The current master of the house had long ago fitted a massive eighteenth-century four-poster bed into the smallish room. He loved it not so much for the vast expanse of white linen and the goose-down pillows, but for the sheer height of the bed. He loved awakening in the cool dawn and inhaling the glorious views afforded him by a high bed amidst so many windows. And falling asleep each night with a thousand stars beaming down on him.
Hawke laughed and raced to catch up. These late afternoons were when the two made feverish love before falling asleep in each other’s arms. As a rule, the first one to wake up jumped out of bed and headed to the bar where the evening’s pitcher of Dark ’n’ Stormys was waiting, courtesy of the octogenarian butler who made the world go round here at Teakettle Cottage.
They made slow sweet love in that old bed that very afternoon. Then despite the soft cries of wind beginning to howl around the windows, they slept.
“Excuse me, m’lord,” Pelham said, pausing in the doorway. “May I shut the windows, sir? We’re having a bit of a blow, a thunderstorm, as you can see. I kept thinking it would awaken you.”
Hawke lifted his head and gazed at his old friend. “Of course, Pelham, even though, as you well know, I adore bad weather.”
“Since you were a wee child, your lordship.”
The elderly man floated into the room, making short work of shutting out the wind and rain, but neither the rumble of thunder nor the flash of lightning could be put at bay.
Hawke sat up, the sheets puddled around his waist. “Yes, yes. My god, what a breeze. What time is it, Pelham?”
“Going on half-six, sir.”
“Six-thirty? What time are we expected for dinner at Shadowlands this evening?”
“Lady Mars’s invitation called for promptly at eight, sir. Apparently a bridge on
the coast road is out due to the storm. You’ll have to detour en route to St. George’s.”
“It’s black tie, isn’t it? This bloody dinner party?”
“Afraid so, m’lord. Everything is laid out in your dressing room and—”
Hawke swung his long legs out from under the duvet and started to slide from the bed. “Sorry, darling. Have to hurry . . .”
“Get back in here, buster, and finish what you started,” Sigrid said, her voice husky and filled with deep longing.
“Stop that,” Hawke said to her, swatting her rather prominent bottom. “Pelham, I want to wear those gold studs given me by Lord Mountbatten tonight. Inspector Congreve always seems a bit covetous of those gorgeous nuggets, does he not?”
“He has mentioned on occasion that he would gladly kill you in cold blood for them one day, yes, sir.”
Hawke laughed, jumped out of bed stark naked, and headed for the loo, grinning at Pelham. “Oh, and do me a favor, will you, old fish? Call your pal Ambrose Congreve and tell him that, due to weather, his friend Hawke might be running a wee bit late.”
“Indeed, m’lord.”
“Alex?” came a sleepy voice from beneath the duvet.
“Yes, darling?”
“Do we really have to go? Come back to bed.”
“This dinner is in your honor, my dear. Remember? Very kind of Lady Mars and Ambrose Congreve, I should say. Now haul yourself out of that bed and slip into something smashing, will you?”
He went into the bathroom and pulled the door closed. He hated shaving and leaned into the mirror to see if he might avoid the mug and razor on this rainy night. He saw the face of a strange new man, clear of eye and miraculously free of pain and fear. These last months since Christmas, trying desperately to save his son, life had been hellish, depleting his spirit and his vitality.
The agony had affected Sigrid too, and in London one night, late over wine, he had proposed that they escape for a few weeks on Bermuda, just the two of them, and let the shining sun and the elements cleanse them and rekindle their spirits.
He rejoiced in knowing that Alexei was safe in the hands of the Yard’s Royalty Protection Service, who were also safeguarding William and Kate’s children, Prince George and Princess Charlotte. The celebrated couple had been delighted to take little Alexei in for a few weeks. The two little boys were becoming fast friends, classmates at Eton in an experimental program for gifted boys of a very young age.
Hawke smiled at the face in the mirror.
It was going to be a lovely evening. Candlelight and good claret, probably a roast of lamb. There in the dining room at Shadowlands, surrounded by his closest friends, cheery lads he’d known since college, with the beautiful new love of his life by his side . . . Well, he was a lucky man. Life was bliss once more and all was right with his world.
Shadowlands, the Bermuda estate now owned by Lady Diana Mars and her husband Chief Inspector Ambrose Congreve of Scotland Yard, was once the grandest estate on the island of Bermuda. It is a sprawling twenty-two-acre property in St. George’s that once belonged to a business tycoon named Vincent Astor. The wooded Astor Estate, with its gorgeous mansion, exquisite gardens, and many guest cottages, had once boasted a private narrow-gauge railroad, complete with Union Station.
Hawke was driving too fast, late again, and nearly missed the imposing wrought-iron gates that guarded the driveway at Shadowlands. The squall that whipped this part of the coastline was steadily growing in intensity.
“Slow down, Alex,” Sigrid said, peering ahead through the foggy windscreen. “We’re only ten minutes late. No need to kill ourselves.”
“I know, I know . . . Is that it? I can’t see a bloody thing!”
“Yes! Turn in here!”
Hawke managed to safely navigate the Land Rover Defender along the twisting drive through the rain forest that was Shadowlands. Moments later, Ambrose was standing under the porte cochere, a broad smile of welcome on his face, his hand outstretched to help Sigrid from the mud-splattered car.
And so to dinner . . . where Hawke was delighted to find himself seated at Diana’s right.
She said, “You and Sigrid together again, Alex. I’m overjoyed to see the two of you so happy. I still remember that rainy night we were down at the Gardener’s Cottage after she’d gone. I’ve never seen you so desolate and grieving. You were completely bereft.”
“Yes.”
“How are you, darling boy? We miss seeing more of you.”
“Oh, I’m happy enough. But may I tell you something?”
“Of course.”
“I sometimes find myself wondering if I’m outgrowing this life of mine, Diana. Weary of it. Living on the edge as I do. Constantly putting myself in harm’s way the way I do. Putting even my only child in the eye of the storm. All the violence. All the bloody drama.”
“Oh, Alex, you’re still a very young man. Service to Queen and Country has always been your life’s desire, ever since you were bouncing on Mountbatten’s knee as a five-year-old.”
“I know. It’s true. It’s what I was born for, I suppose. But these past two weeks here have been wonderful for me. I’m lucky to have such a refuge as that little cottage of mine. I always feel so safe there . . . so far removed from the evil that bestrides the world, the overwhelming danger . . . the—”
A young butler had slid up behind him and was bending to whisper in his ear. “M’lord, please excuse the interruption.”
“Yes, yes. What is it?”
“There’s a call for you, sir. In the library.”
“A call? It’s almost midnight. Who is it?”
“It’s Pelham Grenville, sir. He says it’s most urgent.”
“Pelham? What did he say was wrong? I don’t—”
“You’d best come take the call, your lordship. He didn’t sound well at all and—”
Hawke put his napkin to his lips, rose up, and put his hand on Diana’s shoulder, whispering to her.
“Please excuse me, Diana. Apparently Pelham is calling and something is dreadfully wrong . . . I have to go. Can you have someone ferry Sigrid home when the party’s over?”
“Of course, darling. I’ll bring her myself. I’m sure it’s nothing.”
Hawke ducked into the library where a fire was roaring and took the deep leather chair beside the hearth.
“Pelham?” he said into the receiver. “Is that you? Are you there?”
“Yes, m’lord,” he said, and Hawke had never heard the man speak in such a strained and muted voice.
“What on earth is the matter? Should I come home?”
“Yes, sir, I believe you should. There’s . . . uh . . . there’s someone here. An unexpected visitor. He insisted that I call you and let you know.”
“Someone? Who? Don’t you know who it is?”
“No, m’lord, this man is not someone of my acquaintance. He is . . . how shall I say it . . . a bit unbalanced . . .”
“Has he hurt you?”
“Hmm. He—he cut my hand with his knife, rather deeply, to be honest . . . I don’t know what to do, I just . . .”
“Pelham! Put him on the phone! Do it now!”
“Yes, m’lord . . . here he is.”
“Hello?” Hawke said. “Who the hell is this?”
Silence.
“Tell me who you are, you bastard! What did you say? Speak up! I can’t hear you.”
The man’s voice was a low-down and ugly whisper.
“I’ve come for you.”
“What’s that? Say that again! Who are you?”
“My name is Smith. Shit Smith. I’ve come for you.”
Hawke dropped the phone on the floor and raced through the house toward the entrance, his own words ringing in his ears as he jumped into the Defender and roared off into the dark wet night: “So safe here . . . so far removed from the evil that bestrides the world, the overwhelming danger . . .”
Acknowledgments
I would like to express my profound gratitude t
o my good friend and literary agent, the one and only Peter McGuigan, and his wonderful, talented team at Foundry. Claire Harris, for your unwavering cheery spirit against all odds. And, last but not least, to my film rights agent, Richie Kearn, who knows where all the land mines in L.A. are buried.
About the Author
TED BELL is the former vice-chairman of the board and worldwide creative director of Young & Rubicam, one of the world’s largest advertising agencies. He is the New York Times bestselling author of Hawke, Assassin, Pirate, Spy, Tsar, Warlord, Phantom, and Warriors, along with a series of YA adventure novels. He lives in Greenwich, Connecticut.
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Also by Ted Bell
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Patriot
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Hawke
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Young Adult Novels
The Time Pirate
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Copyright
This book is a work of fiction. References to real people, events, establishments, organizations, or locales are intended only to provide a sense of authenticity, and are used fictitiously. All other characters, and all incidents and dialogue, are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real.
overkill. Copyright © 2018 by Theodore A. Bell. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.