Ted Bell - Warlord

"Prince Charles is a gardener of the first order, Alex. Highgrove just happens to be the horticultural hot ticket for garden lovers all over the world. I'm sure His Royal Highness will understand my fervent desire to see a bit of his handiwork while I'm there."

Hawke was in no mood to bicker.

"I'm sure you two will have a great deal to talk about. Whether it's prizewinning dahlias or serious threats to the lives of the Queen of England, the heir apparent to the throne, and his two sons, I cannot safely predict."

Congreve said, "Your safe return to poisonous sarcasm is also annoying but gratifying, I must say. More evidence that the real you has returned. Therefore, I shall refrain from any witty rejoinder. Or, riposte, as they say en France."

Hawke bit his tongue. "Good."

"Splendid word, riposte, don't you think?"

Hawke gave a look but no reply.

Congreve seemed determined to maintain the ensuing silence for the balance of the short journey. Which was fine with Hawke. He was listening quite intently to the exquisitely moving symphony of the Locomotive's 4.9-litre engine and the deep rumble of the custom two-inch twin exhausts.

Music, more melodic than Mozart, to his ears.

His reverie was interrupted by the sudden presence in the rearview mirror of a dark green Jaguar sedan, an older version, on the road behind him. He'd glimpsed its nose on a small lane they'd passed, waiting at a stop sign, perhaps a mile back. Now it was behind him, which was not the problem. The problem was the Locomotive was doing nearly one hundred miles per hour on this straight piece of road, and the Jag was rapidly gaining on them.

"Ambrose?"

"Yes?" he said, still grouchy.

"Do me a favor, would you, and take a look at the car behind us. Tell me what you see."

Congreve craned his head around and looked back through the rear window.

"A dark green sedan, older model. A Jaguar, I think. Four men in the car, two up front, two in the rear."

"Notice anything else?"

"Two things. They all seem to be wearing black ski masks. And they're going nearly as ridiculously fast on this country lane as you are."

"Ah. There you have it. Hold on, will you? There's a grab handle next to the glove box."

"Alex, you're already going quite fast-"

Hawke accelerated up a hill, the great motor roaring as he did so. He put a little distance between him and his pursuers, but as he crested the hill he saw an immediate problem. The road took a sharp right-hand turn at the bottom and then snaked into a section of heavy forest. He waited till the last second to brake for the turn and saw the Jag in the rearview doing the same.

Hawke slowed to the maximum speed at which he could negotiate the narrow and serpentine road. The Jag pounced, got right on his tail, and he knew this was not playtime. The Jag, smaller and more nimble than the big Bentley, was better in corners than the Locomotive. There was no way to lose it as long as they were on these twisting wooded lanes.

"Good Lord!" Congreve exploded.

"What?" Hawke said, keeping his eyes on the road ahead and concentrating on pushing the old girl to her limits. He'd always loved driving at speed, seeing how much he could get away with, looking for his own limits.

"Chap's standing up through the sunroof. Raising a weapon, Alex. I think you'd better-"

The sound of lead plunking against the fastback coachwork of his beloved Locomotive was not a welcome one. Nor were the sudden spiderwebs spattered across his rear window.

Congreve was fumbling with his seat belt, muttering something unintelligible.

"What are you doing, Constable?"

"Doing? I'm diving for the bloody floor! They're out to kill us in case you hadn't noticed."

"Oh, relax, will you?"

"Relax? Is that what you said? Are you completely insane? They're shooting at us! Not just from the sunroof, but from both rear windows. Automatic weapons!"

Hawke pressed a small silver button just to the left of the rev counter on the dash. A nearly invisible panel in the burled walnut instrument panel dropped open on a latch and a small, leather-lined drawer slid outward. Inside was a nickel-plated Colt Python.357 Magnum revolver, four-inch barrel. It was held in place by two short quick-release Velcro straps round the barrel and butt of the gun. Hawke popped the straps but left the Python in place.

"We'll be out of these woods and onto another proper straightaway in less than a mile. There's a Walther PPK in the glove box if you feel like shooting back. I don't advise it."

"Shoot back? With that peashooter?"

"Will you please get off the floor? You're far worse off down there if we hit a tree than if you were safely buckled into your seat. As the law requires, may I remind you."

"Safely in my seat? You are mad, aren't you?" Ambrose huffed, and stayed put in the footwell.

"Steady on, Ambrose. The Locomotive is perhaps as heavily armored as any car in England with the possible exception of the Queen's Bentley state limousine. Impenetrable to ballistic artillery. Installed by the same chap who does the work for the Royal Garages. It also has bulletproof glass in every window. Triple-laminated with integrated leaded composites and polycarbonate substrates. That's why you're not dead. Yet, anyway."

"We're impervious, you say?" said Ambrose from his cramped position beneath the dashboard.

"Yes. Glad we didn't take the Yellow Peril? Be honest."

"Who in the world would want to kill us?"

"Let's see," Hawke said, eyeing the Jag now pulling up on the left-hand side in his rearview mirror. "The Russians? KGB? They're probably still a bit peeved with me for having taken out their newly anointed Tsar. The Chinese have never been overly fond of us, ever since we blew up part of the Three Gorges Dam on the Yangtze, among other things. And then there's the North Koreans who-"

Congreve clambered back up into his seat just in time to see the red-and-white-striped barriers of a roadblock a mile or so straight ahead.

"What's that barrier?" he asked, seeing the speed at which they were approaching the barrier. "Security for Highgrove?"

"No. I'd have been warned beforehand. It's part of this ambush. Meant to trap us. Deliver the coup de grace if need be. Hold on."

The Jag pulled right alongside the Locomotive on Congreve's side. "Get down below the window and stay down!" Hawke ordered, grabbing the Python from the tray with his left hand. Seeing the hefty revolver in Hawke's hand, Congreve slid down, getting his head well below the window frame. The masked thug in the rear seat sprayed the passenger-side windows at point-blank range. None penetrated. When the would-be assassin paused to reload, Hawke lowered the front passenger window electrically. He took a firm grip on the wheel with his right hand. For this to succeed, the Bentley's line would have to be unwavering.

Both cars were traveling at well over one hundred miles per hour, making the shot a bit more interesting. His firm grip on the wheel keeping the big car rock steady, he quickly raised his left hand and sighted down on the shooter. Squeezing the trigger of the Colt twice, he put two shots into the bastard's forehead just as he was bringing the ugly snout of his weapon up to fire again. Put a deadly end to him. Probably made a bloody mess of the Jag's interior as well.

Hawke raised the completely glazed window, replaced the Python, and the drawer disappeared back into the fascia.

"Hold on, I'm going to open her up."

"What? I can't hear a damned thing! You've blown out my eardrums!"

"I said, hold on, I'm going to speed up!"

"Alex, if you say 'hold on' one more time-"

Hawke accelerated, watching the speedometer needle climb toward 120. There was the barricade ahead and it was coming up fast. Two hooded men were standing behind it, automatic weapons at the ready. An older car, maybe an old Rover, was parked halfway on the road beyond them, its doors ajar. The road had straightened, and Hawke floored the accelerator to the firewall for this final bit. The Locomotive surged ahead and the high whine of the Arnott supercharger kicking in made normal conversation useless. The needle brushed 130 mph and kept climbing.