Ted Bell - Tsar

There was a clearing and a small ravine ahead, deep and wide enough to have a wooden suspension bridge strung across it. There were two men guarding the entrance to the bridge, although guarding may have been too strong a word. They sat on the ground, cross-legged, on either side of the narrow bridge opening, with what looked to be automatic weapons across their laps. They were passing a thickly rolled spliff back and forth between them, joking about something in hushed tones.

Hawke came up behind Harry and whispered into his ear, “I’ve got left, you take right. Go.”

In an instant, moving swiftly and silently, they were on the two guards, wrestling them quickly to the ground. Hawke immediately went for his man’s throat, drawing his razor-sharp blade from right to left, feeling the sudden warm gush as the man’s jugular was sliced open. Harry’s man suffered a similar fate. They left them there and crossed the wildly swaying rope bridge at a run, automatic weapons at the ready.

Moving through dark jungle on the ravine’s opposite side, they felt the path start to climb. The vegetation was thinning out, there was starlight, and Hawke was sure they were nearing the Disciples’ compound. It would only make sense that the primary tracking station would be situated on the island’s highest ground.

“Lights,” Harry whispered, and they came to a stop, crouching side by side at the edge of wide clearing, still hidden within the heavy foliage. “Up there on the hill.”

A decrepit two-story concrete structure, almost completely hidden by heavy looping vines and overgrown banana trees, sat on the hillside. The windows were curtained, but pale light shone from within those on the upper floor. At the front, an arched entrance with the door ajar, light spilling out. On the roof, the rusted-out antennas and radar dishes of a bygone era, a space race the good guys won.

This building had once been used to monitor the trajectories of giant Atlas rockets roaring overhead just three minutes after they’d departed the launch pad at Cape Canaveral. How the mighty had fallen. Now this decaying ruin was the headquarters of old King Coale, and a not so merry old soul was he. At least, that’s what Hawke would bet.

“Guy by the door,” Harry whispered as they crouched in the bush. “Armed.”

“Yeah.”

“My gut,” Harry said, “Ambrose and Trulove are inside that building.”

“My gut, too, Harry. Sit tight. We’ve got to do this right the first time, or they could get hurt.”

“Assuming they’re still alive.”

“We wouldn’t be here if we didn’t assume that.”

Hawke felt an old twinge of irritation. Sometimes Harry talked too much. There was a negative cast to his personality that Hawke did not admire. Still, he was a good man in a fight, hard as hell to kill, and Hawke was glad he had him along tonight.

The man by the door was slouched in a chair, smoking a cigarette. A rifle dangled loosely from one hand. Hawke saw something familiar: the long dreadlocks hanging about the shoulders, the Selassie sweatshirt, and the heavy gold chains draped around the neck. And even in the low light, the gleam of gold at his mouth.

“I know this guy,” Hawke said, studying the figure through a small monocular hung around his neck.

“Who is he?”

“Calls himself the Prince of Darkness. Name is Desmond Coale. He’s the son of the man who’s been invading my privacy, Samuel Coale. Coale’s inside that building.”

“Head shot,” Harry said matter-of-factly. He’d affixed the silencer to his SAW and was putting his eye to the night-vision scope preparatory to putting a single round through Desmond’s left ear.

“No,” Hawke said, pulling the barrel down. “We’ll use Desmond to get to the father. We’ll split up, circle around through the woods to either side of the building, come at him from behind. On the count of thirty, make some kind of noise over on your side of the building, get him to come to you. I’ll do the rest. Thirty seconds. On my mark. Ready, Harry?”

“Born ready.”

“Remember, we want this character alive, Harry. Go.”

They separated, Harry going left, Hawke right, each man moving quickly and silently through the dense vegetation that surrounded the old NASA building. Hawke saw movement behind the curtains in an upstairs window. Someone pulled the curtain aside and peered out into the darkness for a few moments, then disappeared. There was music, loud reggae, and some raucous laughter coming from that upstairs room. Hawke recognized the song playing. Jimmy Cliff’s “The Harder They Come.”

Hawke ran quickly from the cover of the woods to the side of the crumbling concrete building. He paused briefly, looking at his dive watch. In five seconds, Harry would somehow distract Desmond. He moved to the front of the building and peered around the corner. Desmond was still in his chair, head down, reading his newspaper in the yellow light of the doorway.

A second later, a muddy old soccer ball bounced from behind the other side of the building. It rolled to a stop maybe fifteen feet from young Coale’s feet. He looked over at it, threw his paper to the ground, got up, and went over to see what the hell was going on.

“Who’s dat fuckin’ wit me?” he said loudly, still holding the rifle loosely at his side. Getting no reply, he went forward to pick up the ball.

That’s when Hawke made his move. He was around the corner and up behind Desmond before the Rastaman had taken three steps toward the ball. As Desmond stood, Hawke snatched a great handful of thick, matted dreadlocks, yanked the man’s head straight back, and lay the flat side of his serrated assault blade against his throat, just under the bobbing Adam’s apple.

“Dat’s me fuckin’ wit you, Prince,” Hawke whispered into the man’s ear.

“Who?”

“My name is Hawke, remember me? My colleague and I have come here to kill you. Or collect our friends. Your call. Nod if you understand your two choices, Desmond.”

The Jamaican made a strangled sound in his throat and said, “Dat’s not me, mon. I ain’t de Prince, mon, dat’s Desmond, he’s my bra’. My brother inside de house. I am called Clifford.”

“You look a whole lot like Desmond to me.”

“We twins , mon, I swear it’s de troo’t.”

Hawke sensed it was. It was tough to lie convincingly with a knife at your throat.

“Say one word, Clifford, you make any sound at all, and you’re dead. Understand me?”

Clifford managed to nod yes without slicing his own throat open. His brother had already told him this Hawke was a man to be taken seriously.

“Okay, Clifford, relax. We’re all going inside now.”

Hawke looked over his shoulder and saw Harry moving toward the open entrance with his weapon at the ready.

“Is your father inside? Upstairs?” Hawke whispered in Clifford’s ear. “Nod, yes or no.”

Getting a yes, Hawke said, “I believe the old man has company. Two Englishmen. Yes?”

He got another yes nod.

“Excellent. Let’s go see how they’re doing. You’d better start praying that no harm has come to them. You understand me?”

He turned the man around and marched him to the entrance, the two of them going inside the front door just behind Harry Brock.

They walked into a big square room filled with sofas and a blank large-screen TV on one wall. The room was empty except for the trash swept into the corners. So, apparently, was the smaller room beyond, which was dominated by a large snooker table, the felt long gone, probably used for meetings and dining. A naked bulb, dimly lit, dangled above the table. To the right, an open staircase led to the second floor.

“Where is everybody, Clifford? Whisper.”