Ted Bell - Hawke

Ambrose heaved a sigh and pulled the vest on over his tweed jacket, muttering to himself the whole time.

“Okay. Quick, get your boys through the woods to the back of the house and wait for my go signal. Check?”

“Check.”

“Ross, you and Ambrose wait here twenty seconds after I go. See me goin’ up that wall, you haul ass for that front door. Stay low. Wait. You hear me tell Quick ‘go,’ that means I’m inside, and Quick’s going inside and you and Ambrose blow through that front door. Then straight up them steps to that top-floor bedroom fast as you can, cool?”

“Cool,” Ambrose said, smiling at him.

“I believe you are,” Stoke said.

He gave Ambrose a punch to the shoulder right on his Kevlar vest, laughed, and took off, sprinting around the fountain like a running back. He looked in both Humvees and saw keys stuck in both ignitions. Man sure seemed lax about a lot of shit. In seconds, he was crouched beneath a window, looking up at the balcony. The sun’s rays had just hit one of the tallest towers on the roof and were moving down toward the balcony. Shit.

He caught the balcony rail with the first toss of the rubber-coated grapnel hook on the end of his climbing rope. Didn’t make a sound. He went up the wall hand over hand with the dagger in his mouth, just in case the man had decided to sleep out on his porch. Knife in your mouth like to scare folks shitless.

Peeking over the rail, he saw that the long terrace was empty. Just a row of louvered mahogany doors onto the bedroom, all closed. He hauled himself up and over and stood for a second, thinking it through. He turned to the rail, leaned over, and saw Ross and Ambrose scrambling around the fountain. He gave them five seconds, then started trying the doors, praying to find one open.

Third one was ajar. He pulled it open two inches and put his ear to the door. Snoring. Loud damn snoring. He started feeling lucky.

He slipped through the door and pulled it shut. Like stepping into a damn meat locker, it was so cold. Man had the AC down to fifty. He couldn’t see shit for a couple of seconds, it was so dark. The snorer was to his left, maybe thirty feet away. To his right, same distance was a goddamn fire going in a fireplace. Had to be ninety outside and the man had a fire going!

Across the room, he could see light shining under a wide doorway. He started in that direction, not making a sound, and bumped into something hard. Banged his damn knee. It was some kind of damn chair, bolted to the floor. He felt the arms and back. Like a dentist’s chair felt like. What the hell?

He moved through the darkness to the double doors most likely leading to the upstairs hallway. Tried them, both were unlocked. He cracked one door wide enough that Ross would see it, then he felt around on the wall for a light switch. Just before he pressed it, he whispered the word “Go!” into his mike.

He hit the switch, and the whole room lit up. Huge damn bed with a huge damn bald-headed man under some shiny black satin sheets. Man was on his back, had about twenty pillows behind him, propped up with a black and pink silk sleep mask over his eyes. Son of a bitch was still snoring!

That’s when the first of many concussion grenades went off downstairs and the man sat bolt upright, lifted his cute little mask, and saw this huge black guy standing by his bed with a pistol aimed at his forehead.

“Madre de Dios!” he shouted. “Quй pasa? Who the fuck are you? What’s going on?”

“Good morning, Doctor,” Stoke said, a big grin on his face.

“Doctor?” the man said. “There must be some mistake. I’m not a—”

“You a pussy doctor, ain’t you?” Stoke asked. “Otherwise, why you got that damn gynecological chair stuck in the middle of your damn room? Banged the shit out of my knee on one of your damn stirrups, Doc.”

All hell was breaking loose downstairs, and just when he was starting to worry about them, Ambrose and Ross came through the man’s bedroom door.

“I was just waking up the doctor here,” Stoke said as Ambrose and Ross joined him at the foot of the bed. “See his chair? Man like to play doctor. Do pelvic examinations and shit.” The man shifted under the sheets and Ross brought up the Streetsweeper and put it right on the target. Streetsweeper tended to get people’s undivided attention.

“Take your hands out from under the sheets, very slowly, and cross them behind your head,” Ross said. The man, who’d gotten real quiet, did like he was told, but who wouldn’t, looking down the barrel of Ross’s sawed-off weapon?

“Is this your man, Constable?” Stoke asked.

Ambrose stepped closer to the bedside and studied him, mentally adding thirty years to the face in the Polaroid photograph and the one in Stubbs Witherspoon’s police sketch. It wasn’t the face that did it so much as the eyes. One look at the eyes and you knew this was a killer. Wild, dark, killer’s eyes. There was no question in Ambrose’s mind.

He was face to face with the man in the New Year’s Eve Polaroid. One of three brothers who’d slaughtered Alex Hawke’s parents. He leaned in close to the fellow and spoke.

“What is your name, sir?”

The man stared at him in disbelief. This could only be the work of his brother Manso! He’d been set up. This was why he’d been forced off the Martн. Humiliated in front of his men. His treacherous brother would pay dearly for this. He would—

“I asked you your name!” Congreve shouted.

“I am Admiral Carlos de Herreras, seсor! Commander in chief of the Navy of Cuba! This is an outrage! I demand that you—”

“Quiet.”

Ambrose pulled out a little leather case and flipped it open, showing the man his shield.

“My name is Ambrose Congreve,” he said in an even voice, full of measured intensity. “I am a special investigator for the Criminal Investigation Department of New Scotland Yard. In the name of Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II, I am placing you, Carlos de Herreras, under arrest upon suspicion of murder. I order you to get out of that bed and come with me. Now.”

“You will regret this, seсor. We are the new ruling party of Cuba! My brother, he is the new—”

“Get out of that damned bed!” Congreve shouted, and ripped the sheets back. “As if I give a hoot in hell who you are! On your feet, Admiral, you’re under arrest!”

The man sighed, major league all pissed off, slowly pulling his hands out from the pillows. Still had the little black and pink mask up on his forehead. Stoke was looking at Ambrose, smiling, about to congratulate him, when Ross shouted, “Stokely, watch out!”

Stoke turned but it was too late. The fat man’s arm was extended toward him, a little black automatic in his hand. His thought was, shit, this is what happens when you go lending out your flak jacket. Then a sledgehammer hit him.

Stoke stayed on his feet long enough to see Ambrose raise and fire his weapon, hitting the suspect’s gun hand before he could squeeze off a second shot. The fat man was screaming in pain as Stoke hit the floor.

Ambrose knelt beside him, stuffing his handkerchief into the wound. There was a tremendous amount of blood, but he was still breathing. Ross had the big man cuffed and was speaking into his mike. Stoke was fading in and out and Ambrose was feeling for his pulse when he heard Ross in his headphones say, “Tom, give me a sitrep.”

“Still taking fire,” Quick said. “I’ve got one man down.”

“Were coming down the front way,” Ross said. “Give us some cover.”

Then Ross had his hands under Stoke’s armpits and was pulling him to his feet.

“Come on, Stokely, we have to get you to a doctor now!”

“He’s a doctor, ain’t he?” Stoke said, grinning weakly at the fat man and getting woozily to his feet. His whole front was sticky with hot blood.