Ted Bell - Warlord

One hour before daybreak, at 0457, the British commando attack would commence. The troops would storm the house. It was estimated that there were at least twenty heavily armed men inside. Some of the crates off-loaded from the trucks had been identified as containing Russian-made RPGs, rocket-propelled grenades, and mortar rounds.

HAWKE HAD A DIFFICULT TIME with Congreve and Drummond. Both men had to be persuaded to remain up on the same bluff overlooking the house where they'd spent a cold damp hour the evening before. They wanted front-row seats and were determined to get them.

"I knew I should have left you two in town," Hawke finally said in frustration. "Damn it, you're both being completely unreasonable. And, frankly, unprofessional."

"This is our fight too," Congreve said, slipping his hand into the pocket of his tweed jacket and feeling the butt of his small Walther.380. "We don't want to be stuck up here on the hill in the cheap seats. Especially since you're going to be down there in the thick of it."

"This is not even remotely your fight, Ambrose," Hawke said. "And, frankly, I can't even believe we're having this discussion. This is a fight for a commando team. Highly trained professionals. Men who actually do this for a living. They wear Kevlar, not tweeds, to a firefight. They are using weapons you wouldn't know how to load, much less aim and fire. A lot of those boys down there are battle-tested veterans of Iraq, men who've done house-to-house fighting in places like Basra and Fallujah, under the worst possible conditions."

Congreve was silent, chewing on the stem of his pipe, keeping his own counsel. Finally, he looked at Hawke and spoke.

"And yet you yourself are going to participate."

"No, I am most likely not. Not at this point, at any rate."

"You're certainly dressed and armed for it."

"I'm simply prepared should I get the chance. I am trained to do this. If I can be of help, I will. You will recall my solemn promise to the Prince of Wales about finding his godfather's murderer. He may well be inside that very house."

"My apologies, Alex. Silly idea of mine. No one is any better than you at this type of warfare. You certainly should not be wasted sitting up here and watching the whole shooting match with Bulldog and me."

"No, I should not. But unless someone thinks I can help, I'm unfortunately going to be in the armored personnel carrier with the commanding officer. A fate worse than death from what little I know of the man."

"Who is he?" Drummond asked. "I've dealt with most of 'em over the years."

"Masterman," Hawke said.

"Major Milo Masterman?"

"The very same."

"God save you, Alex. You're better off walking into a barrage of live fire than sitting it out with that nasty bastard. They should have put him in front of a firing squad years ago, simply for being a flaming arsehole."

"Yes. At any rate, wish me luck."

With that, Hawke was up and away into the darkness, moving swiftly down through the woods toward the cart track on the far side of the hill. This is where Masterman had ordered his APC command post positioned, camouflaged heavily with brush.

As Hawke ran, he was thinking of every possible argument he could give to the assault team leader as to why he should be allowed into this fight. His blood was up. And when it was, there was scant use trying to stop him. But stepping on toes when someone else's men's lives were at stake was something he'd always tried to avoid. He wouldn't want it done to him, so he never did it to anyone else.

There was possibly priceless intelligence to be had inside the Barking Dog Inn. Of that he was now convinced. Weapons from foreign foes, but which weapons and which foes?

And, he felt, this was all tied to the Pawn. To Smith. A man Congreve had been convinced was guilty of a heinous murder thirty years ago. A man who even now might be inside that house. He could not explain his conviction, even to himself, since it was based on the ravings of that drunken madman, McMahon.

But the feeling was there and it was strong.

He had always trusted his gut.

And it had made all the difference.

He'd keep a solemn promise to Charles. And that was the end of it. He'd think of something, some way to get into this damn fight. He whipped out his mobile phone and punched in a number.

GOOD AFTERNOON, SERGEANT. I'm Detective Michelle Garcia, Palm Beach PD."

"Afternoon, Detective Garcia," the short, doughy-looking corrections guy said, making a big show of looking at his watch. "Three fifteen. 'Specting you a little earlier, Detective. This your prisoner, here, John T. Smoke?"

"Yes, this is Mr. Smoke. I am putting him in your custody."

"My friends call me 'Smokehouse,'" Stoke said to the corrections officer in the voice he dredged up from the bottom. "I better not ever hear you say that name."

"All this boy's paperwork in order?" the guy said, ignoring Stoke. Like he got shit from cons all the time, rolled off his back like swamp water off an iguana.

The corrections officer had a khaki gut pouring over his black leather utility belt and a thick redneck accent, and Stoke hated him on sight. His name, according to the cheap plastic tag, J. T. Swoon. Hell kind of name was Swoon? Sounded like folks who married cousins to Stoke, people who lived in "hollers."

"Paperwork right here," Michelle said, and handed him a Palm Beach PD manila envelope with the name "John D. Smoke" printed on it in large letters. Swoon took out a sheaf of papers, glanced through them quickly, and nodded his head.

"Looks like it's all in purty good order, Detective. 'Less there's anything further I need to know about this here prisoner, I can begin processing this boy right now and you can skedaddle on back to the beach. Keep that nice tan a yours goin'."

Michelle rolled her eyes, gave Stoke a sweet look that said, Sorry about this asshole, I get this all the time, don't worry about it. She gave him a quick smile, turned around, and left before her face gave anything away.

"For some damn reason or other," the sergeant drawled when all the paperwork was done, "I can't lock you up yet. A suit over to the Admin Building has asked to see you. Something about a murder you allegedly committed up in Statesville, Georgia? A state trooper? You remember anything about that, boy? No? I'm talkin' to you, Smokehouse."

"I ain't got nothin' to say to you, cracker. Let's just get this over with."

"You call me 'cracker'?"

"You call me 'boy'?"

"You lookin' at hard time here, boy, that I can gar-an-tee. Hacks in here don't cotton to smart mouths. Sit your ass down over there on that bench. Guard'll be here momentarily to escort you over there-here he is now. Hey, Squirrel."

"Hey, J. T. This the one goin' over to Admin?"

"Yep, that's him. Calls himself Smokehouse. He's a big 'un, ain't he, Squirrel? You watch your damn ass with this one, son. Got a mouth on him, too."

"Les' go, boy," Squirrel said, and Stoke got to his feet.

The hot, humid air outside felt like a blast furnace. Miami, compared to the swampy Everglades, is Juneau in January. It was a long ten-minute walk over to the Admin Building and Stoke was soaked to the skin when they arrived. He was amazed at the size of the prison complex. It was shaped like a wheel, with cell blocks hanging off the end of each spoke. In the center of the hub was the ugly three-story building he was now entering.

They crossed the small lobby and took an elevator to the third floor. The guard, short, round, with a walrus moustache that obscured the lower half of his face, never said a word, which was just fine with Stoke. When the doors slid open, a big-bellied man in a short-sleeved white shirt and loud tie said, "I'll take over from here, Squirrel."