Ted Bell - Hawke

“Let’s go surfin’ now, everybody’s learnin’ how …” Stoke sang at the top of his lungs. He could see glimpses of the sea now through the palms. There was still sporadic fire coming from all sides, but Hawke and Fitz and the boys in the back of the bus seemed to be doing a good job of suppressing it.

Stoke was driving with one hand now, firing his .45 out the windshield and the driver’s side window. He didn’t have any targets but he liked the general idea of fire coming from all sides of the truck.

Suddenly the truck rocked left. Something had slammed into the vehicle hard on the right. He waited for an explosion—nothing. He looked at the right side door. An unexploded Russian RPG had poked its ugly-ass nose right through his goddamn steel door and stopped! The things were two feet long and there was at least a foot inside sitting there pointed at him!

Shit. He was more surprised than afraid. You talk about lucky. Can’t get no more lucky than a dud RPG coupla feet from your ass. Can’t hang around here too much longer, less luck be running out.

“Stoke!” he heard Hawke say in his headphones.

“Talk to me, brother.”

“The big house coming up on your left, el finca grande. You and I are hopping off there. Make for the trees and drop us off!”

Stoke leaned out the window and shouted at Hawke, who was still firing his HK at anything that moved.

“Fuck you talking about, boss?”

“Pull inside that stand of trees, Stoke,” Hawke said, leaning in the window, grinning his ass off. “You and I have some unfinished business. It might take a while. Fitz and Boomer will get Vicky to the IBS and then out to Nighthawke. Then send an IBS back for us. If we’re not at the rendezvous in half an hour, tell him to go without us.”

Stoke slammed on the brakes and skidded to a stop inside a grove thick with palms.

“I knew you’d understand,” Hawke said, smiling.

Hawke then leapt to the ground and ran around to the rear of the truck. He quickly climbed up inside, found Vicky, and whispered something into her ear. She reached up and wrapped both arms around him and he kissed the top of her head and turned away.

“She all right?” Fitz said, climbing down off the tailgate with Hawke.

“She will be,” Hawke said. “I’m sure you fellows will make sure of that.” He looked up at the commandos jammed into the back of the truck and saluted them.

“Well done,” Hawke said, looking each man in the eye. “Remarkable job. Thank you, each one of you, for what you did.” There was silence inside the truck, and Hawke had turned away, when one of the men coughed.

“We know where you and Stokely are going, sir,” Cosmo said. “A couple of us would like to come with you.”

“Make it all of us, mon ami!” Hawke heard Froggy say.

“Thanks, Froggy,” Hawke said, “but we might have a better chance if it’s just the two of us. Besides, I need all of you brave gents to protect the lovely lady. Ready, Stoke?”

“Let’s move out, boss,” Stoke said, and he and Hawke disappeared into the darkness.

There was still sporadic shooting behind them. The fire, though sparse, was getting closer. Hawke heard Fitz shout something obscene as he climbed behind the wheel and the old truck shot forward, spraying sand from the rear wheels, headed for the beach.

Hawke wasn’t overly worried. If anyone could get Vicky safely aboard the inflatable and out to the designated rendezvous with Nighthawke, it was FitzHugh McCoy, Charlie Rainwater, and the incredible band of warriors inside that truck.

Five minutes later, Alex and Stoke were a hundred yards from the main finca, hunkered down, well hidden in the scrub palm at the fringe of the jungle.

The place was immense.

Wings extended in all directions, mostly three stories high, some with towers and turrets at least six or seven stories. Towers and parapets and hundreds of yellow lights, oblongs and hexagons, a wonder of golden windows. All was pale stucco, and the many rooftops and chimneys were finished with bright blue ceramic tiles.

Both men scanned the width and breadth of the finca compound with their night-vision goggles. There was an eight-foot stone wall, topped with concertina wire, surrounding the entire compound. The main portion of the house lay some three hundred yards inside the wall. Just opposite them was a massive iron gate flanked by two guardhouses with dim blue lights burning inside.

For the most part, the house was surprisingly quiet. Considering that all hell had broken loose in the last half hour, there was remarkably little activity.

One wing, built on a rocky promontory extending out into the sea, was ablaze with light. Stokely and Hawke immediately deduced it was the general’s living quarters. They could see a few silhouetted figures moving past the windows. On the very top floor, beyond what appeared to be a bedroom, a large open terrace was built overlooking the sea.

“Good Lord,” Hawke said under his breath. “You see that?”

“Yeah,” Stoke whispered. “A damn Bengal tiger just cruised by. Look up in the tree to the right of the entrance. Hard to see him, but there’s a boa constrictor napping on the lowest branch.”

“Are you ready to go rock this boat?”

“I was born ready,” Stoke said, slamming a fresh mag into the rubber grip of his Beretta.

“Then let’s saddle up,” Hawke said, in a perfect mimicry of Fitz’s gung-ho cry.

They had previously decided there was only one way they could both gain access to the finca and stay alive in the process.

So they dropped to their bellies and crawled like snakes across two hundred yards of open sand, dotted with clumps of devilish sand-spurs. When they reached the guardhouse on the right side, they simply stood up and smiled at the guard.

“Buenas noches, seсor,” Hawke said. “Habla inglйs? I am Alexander Hawke. This is my colleague Detective Stokely Jones. We would like a word with General de Herreras.”

So saying, Hawke and Stoke stepped back and dropped their submachine guns and sidearms to the ground. Then they each placed their hands on top of their heads. Hawke began whistling an old tune, one Stoke thought he recognized as the theme from Bridge on the River Kwai. He instantly joined in, producing a lively if unlovely harmony.

The stupefied guard instantly emerged from the guardhouse, training his weapon on them. He shouted something in Spanish, and the other guard came running.

The second guard spoke English.

“What de fuck you think, amigo? You kill many of my brothers. Now, we take you to the general? No, we shoot you fucking bastards!”

He squeezed off a burst, the rounds sizzling about three feet over their heads.

While the other guard trained his submachine gun on Stoke, the English-speaking one walked right up to Alex, pulled a jungle knife from a scabbard on his hip, and sliced open the blouse of Alex’s tigerstripes. Then he stuck the point of the blade under his chin. He’d hooked the thin gold chain around Alex’s neck.

The St. George’s Alex had worn since childhood caught the light. The guard ripped the chain and the gold medallion fell to the ground. The man bent down to retrieve it, dangled it in front of Alex’s eyes.

“Vaya con Dios, seсor,” the guard said, twisting the knife blade so that it pierced the taut skin.

“Shoot these gringo bastards,” he said, stepping back outside the field of fire. “The white man first.”

The other guard raised his gun and racked his slide but saw that Stokely walked directly between the muzzle of the AK-47 and Alex. The huge black man had a small white handkerchief in his raised right hand.