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  "And, of course," Congreve said, with a sweeping gesture that included a good deal of Gloucestershire, "Every one of those yew trees you see growing in this and every other churchyard were ordered planted there by King Edward I in the fourteenth century."

  "Really? Why on earth should young Eddie have gone to all that bother in the first place?"

  "Provide his troops with a plentiful supply of proper wood for longbows." Congreve had removed the flask but hesitated in the uncorking of it. "You know, dear boy, it was King Edward who--"

  "Good lord," Hawke said, exasperated.

  "What?"

  "I want brandy, not arboreal folklore for God's sake, Ambrose. Fork it over."

  "Ah. Smell that air."

  "What about it?"

  "Sweet. Mulchy."

  "Ambrose!"

  "Alex, it's only natural for the groom to experience certain feelings of--anxiety--at a time like this, but I really think...ah, well, here comes the wedding party." Ambrose quickly slipped the flask back into his inside pocket.

  A procession of automobiles was winding its way up the twisting lane, bounded on either side by the hawthorn hedges, leading to the little church of St. John's. It was a beautiful chapel really, nestled in a small valley of yews, pear trees, laurel, and rhododendron, many just now coming into full pink and white bloom, the trees filtering light onto dappled grass. The surrounding hillsides were green with leafy old forests, towering oaks, elms, and gnarled Spanish chestnuts many hundreds of years old.

  The little Norman church was built of the mellow golden limestone so familiar here in Gloucestershire. St. John's had been the scene of countless Hawke family weddings, christenings, and funerals. Alexander Hawke himself, red-faced with rage, age two, had been christened in the baptismal font just inside the entrance. Only a mile or so from this wooded glen, stood Hawke's ancestral country home.

  Hawkesmoor still held a prominent place in Alex's heart and he visited his country house as frequently as possible. The foundation of the centuries old house, which overlooked a vast parkland, was built in 1150, with additions dating from the fourteenth century to the end of the reign of Elizabeth I. The roofline was a fine mix of distinctive gables and elaborate chimneys. Alex had long found great peace there, wandering about a rolling landscape laid out centuries earlier by Capability Brown.

  At the head of the parade of automobiles was Alex's gunmetal grey 1939 Bentley Saloon. Behind the wheel, Alex could see the massive figure and smiling face of Stokely Jones, former U.S. Navy SEAL and NYPD copper and a founding member of Alexander Hawke's merry band of warriors. Sitting up front with Stokely was Pelham Grenville, the stalwart octogenarian and family retainer who had helped to raise young Alex following the tragic murder of the boy's parents. After the subsequent death of Alex's grandfather, Pelham and a number of uniformly disappointed headmasters had assumed sole responsibility for the boy's upbringing.

  "Let's duck inside, Ambrose," Alex said, with the first hint of a smile. "Vicky and her father are in one of those cars. Apparently, it's unlucky for the groom to see the bride prior to the ceremony."

  Congreve's eyebrows shot straight up.

  "Yes, I believe I mentioned that custom to you any number of times at the reception last evening. At any rate, we're supposed to have a final rendezvous with the vicar in his offices prior to the ceremony. He is here, actually, I saw his bicycle propped by the vicarage doorway as we drove up."

  "Quickly, Constable, I think I see their car."

  Congreve breathed a brief sigh of relief that Hawke had not bolted on him, and then followed his friend through the graceful Norman arch into the cool darkness of the little church. Now the event itself was inescapably set in motion, Alex seemed to be shaking off his case of the heebie-jeebies. Here was a man who wouldn't blink in the face of a cocked gun. Amazing what a wedding could do to a chap, Ambrose thought, glad he'd so far managed to avoid the experience.

  The church could not have looked lovelier, Ambrose observed as they approached the rear door leading to the vicar's office. Because of the narrow leaded glass windows, candles were needed even at this time of day and the churchwarden had lit them all. Their waxy scent mixed with the lily of the valley on the altar caused a rising tide of emotions within Ambrose's heart. Not mixed emotions exactly, but something akin.

  He adored Vicky, everyone did. She was not only a great beauty, but also a dedicated child neurologist who had recently won acclaim for her series of children's books. Alex had met Dr. Victoria Sweet at a dinner party thrown in her honor at the American ambassador's residence in Regent's Park, Winfield House. Her father, the retired United States senator from Louisiana, was an old family friend of the current ambassador to the Court of St. James, Patrick Brickhouse Kelly.

  Kelly, a former U.S. Army tank commander, had come across Hawke during the first Gulf War. Hawke and "Brick," as he called the tall, redheaded man, had remained close friends since the war. The soft-spoken American ambassador, whom Congreve now glimpsed sprinting up a side pathway to the chapel, had saved Hawke's life in the closing days of the conflict. Now, Hawke's chief usher was late.

  Congreve had goaded Alex into asking the beautiful American author to dance at Brick Kelly's home in Regent's Park that night. The two of them had been inseparable ever since that fateful first waltz. Vicky had, that very evening, effectively put an end to Alex's legendary status as one of Britain's most eligible bachelors. No, it was not Victoria's future Congreve was so much concerned about, but rather the long-term prognosis of his dearest friend Alex.

  Alexander Hawke led, to put it mildly, an adventurous life.

  Having been thrice decorated for bravery flying Royal Navy Harriers over Iraq in the Gulf War, Hawke had subsequently joined the most elite of the British fighting forces, the Special Boat Squadron. There they'd taught him how to kill with his bare hands, jump out of airplanes, swim unseen for miles underwater, and blow all manner of things to kingdom come.

  Having acquired these basic skills, he'd then gone into finance in the City. His first order of business was to resurrect the somnolent giant known around the world as Hawke Industries. After his grandfather retreated from the boardroom, he reluctantly relinquished command to young Alex. Hawke had no great love of business; still, he never dared disappoint his grandfather and so, a decade later, the already substantial family interests flourished once more.

  Some called his series of brilliant but hostile takeovers around the world piratical and there was some truth to that. Alex was a direct descendant of the infamous eighteenth-century pirate, Blackhawke, and he was fond of warning friend and foe alike there was indeed a bloodthirsty hawk perched atop his family tree. With his black hair, his prominent, determined features, and his piercing blue eyes, a black eyepatch and solitary gold earring would not have looked even remotely ridiculous on him.

  As Alex had told Congreve after one particularly fierce takeover battle, pools of blood still much in evidence on the boardroom floors, "I can't help myself, Constable, I've got the pirate blood in me."

  As the man who presided over the sprawling Hawke Industries, Hawke had friends at the highest levels of the world's major corporations and governments. Because of those contacts he was frequently asked to engage in discreet missions for both the British and American intelligence communities.

  Highly dangerous missions, and that's what concerned Congreve. Alex Hawke put his life on the line constantly. If he and Vicky were fortunate enough to have children, well, Ambrose hated to think what would happen to the brood if--

  Congreve realized he'd been daydreaming as the plump little vicar droned on and Alex, who had his own private views on religion, did his best to appear both compliant and reverential. By the rising hum of conversation now emanating from the direction of the chapel, Congreve could tell the pews were filling with ladies in shades of lilac and rose and big brimmed hats and men all in morning clothes. He could hear the level of keen anticipation growing for what was, after all, the biggest
small wedding of the year in England.

  Or, the smallest big wedding, depending on your tabloid of choice. Although Alex had tried desperately to keep the wedding secret, weeks ago someone had leaked the details to The Sun, sending the rest of the tabloid press into a feeding frenzy.

  Security in the Cotswolds had never been tighter. In addition to members of H.M. Government, the British prime minister, and the American secretary of state and ambassador, all close friends of the groom's, there were a number of foreign dignitaries and heads of state seated amongst a select group of Alex and Vicky's friends and family. Alex, dogged in his determination to keep the affair small, had deliberately chosen his family's rustic chapel. The press was barred entirely, although they were certainly manning the police barricades at every obscure little lane leading to the tiny village.

  A suspicious helicopter circling above the church at dawn had been quickly escorted out of the area by two RAF fighters and--

  "Well, your Lordship, I think it's high time we got you married," the vicar said to Hawke with a smile. "The good Lord knows you've broken quite enough hearts for one lifetime."

  Alex's eyes narrowed, wondering if the vicar was having him on.

  "Indeed," Alex finally replied, stifling whatever riposte was surely forming in his mind, and he and Ambrose followed the old fellow into the chapel itself and took their assigned places before the altar. The church was full, a sea of familiar faces, some bathed in shafts of soft sunlight streaming through the tall eastern windows.

  Hawke couldn't wait to get the whole bloody thing over with. It had nothing to do with misgivings or second thoughts. He had felt nothing but spontaneous and unstinting love for Vicky since the first second he'd seen her. It was just that he hated ceremony of any kind, had no patience with it at all. If not for Vicky and her father, this wedding would have been taking place in some ratty little civil service office in Paris or even--

  The organ boomed its triumphal first notes. Victoria appeared in the sun-filled chapel doorway on the arm of her beaming father. All eyes were on the bride as she made her way slowly up the aisle. Standing before the altar with a trembling heart, Alex Hawke had but one thought: By God I am a lucky man.

  She had never looked more beautiful. Her lustrous auburn hair was swept back into a chignon held by ivory combs that also held the veils that fell to the floor behind her. Her white satin dress had been her mother's; the bodice was festooned with swirling patterns of pearls which, as she moved through gold bars of sunlight, cast a soft glow upwards, lighting her face and her smiling eyes.

  The groom would remember little of the ceremony.

  His heart was now pounding so rapidly there was an overpowering roar of blood in his ears. He knew the vicar was speaking, having begun his intonations in a slow, deep register, and he was aware he himself was saying things in rote reply. The vicar kept upping the oratorical ante and, at some point, near the end of the thing, Vicky had squeezed his hand, hard. She looked up into his eyes and, somehow, he actually heard her speaking to him.

  "I, Victoria, take thee Alexander to my wedded husband, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish till death us do part, according to God's holy ordinance, and thereto I give thee my troth."

  There was the exchange of rings and suddenly the organ pipes filled the church with what could only be called the sounds of heaven and he was somehow aware that he was lifting Vicky's veil to kiss her; that Congreve having delivered the ring, stood now with eyes full of tears, and then he heard the vicar's final volley of oratory thunder.

  "Those whom God hath joined together, let no man put asunder!"

  He embraced his bride, actually lifting her off her feet, to the delight of all assembled, and then he was hurrying her down the aisle festooned with white satin and lilies, through all the applause and smiling faces of their friends and towards the sunshine which filled the doorway and the future. Outside the entrance, his uniformed comrades formed two opposing lines. On the command, "Draw swords!" steel was raised, forming an arch, cutting edge facing up.

  He'd meant for the two of them to quickly duck through the gleaming silver arch created by his Royal Navy Guard of Honor and race for the Bentley, but the overflow of well-wishers had spilled out onto the steps and he and Vicky were forced to stop to receive the hugs and kisses everyone seemed determined to bestow upon them amidst the clouds of white blossoms filling the air.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Alex saw Vicky bend to kiss the cheek of the pretty little flower girl and he turned away from her for a moment to embrace her beaming father. Vicky was rising from the kiss, smiling up at him, extending her arms towards him, clearly wanting as much as he did to escape to the back seat of the waiting Bentley.

  It was just then, when he was bending to embrace his bride, that the unthinkable happened.

  Suddenly Vicky was not leaning into him, she was falling away with a breathless sigh, white petals whirling from the folds of her veil. There was a bright flower of red blooming amongst the snow-white pearls of her satin bodice. Shocked, staggered by what he saw, Alex grabbed her shoulders and pulled her towards him. He was screaming now, as he saw her gaze go distant and glaze over, feeling the gush of warm blood flowing straight from her heart. Victoria's blood soaked through his shirtfront, and it broke his own heart into infinitely small pieces as he stared into her lifeless eyes.

  Chapter Two

  STOKELY JONES WAS STANDING ON THE CHURCH STEPS WITH Brick Kelly and Texas Patterson, the three of them maybe four feet away from Alex Hawke when it happened. Stokely thought he'd caught the wink of a muzzle flash. It had been high and on the outside, straight down the third baseline and up in the tree line, near the left crest of that hillside, just opposite the front of the church.

  Vicky was dead. That much was for damn sure.

  Only took one glance at the girl and he'd known the wound was crosshairs mortal. Then, looking at Alex, still holding his bride in his arms, his anguished face buried in her hair, Stokely heard American and British security forces inside the church shouting at everyone to get down, hit the deck. Heavily armed and flak-jacketed personnel immediately formed themselves a cordon around those standing outside on the steps, telling them to get their asses down as well.

  Inside the church, everybody had heard Alex's scream. There was screaming and confusion in there, too. Hell, man, you had the British prime minister in there, you had lots of royal folks, and you had the damn American ambassador and secretary of state. Not to mention all kinds of other foreign dignitaries and some famous Hollywood people. Lots of likely targets in the little church. But the sniper, he shot the bride.

  "Get a doctor here for God's sakes," he heard Alex cry again and again in a broken voice, "She needs a doctor right now!"

  Stokely saw the look on Alex's face when he spoke and then he just took off running for the hills, knowing there was nothing he or anybody else could do for Vicky, but thinking there was something he could goddamn well do for Alex.

  "Saw a muzzle flash," he shouted ahead to the group of British special forces and plainclothes guys, bristling with weapons. They were forming up into a perimeter along the stone wall surrounding the churchyard. "Shooter's up there in the trees on that hill!" The old wall was over four feet high but Stokely, still in his morning clothes, vaulted it in mid-stride and kept running. "You guys, you not too busy, you might want to give me a hand up there," he shouted back over his shoulder. If the Brits had any brains they'd come with him. If not, he'd go catch the son of a bitch all by himself.

  And when he did--

  He'd entered the dark woods, the mossy ground spotted with sunlight but dark now even though it was mid-morning, and was scrambling over the roots of some of the biggest trees he'd ever laid eyes on. He saw old stone tablets sticking out of the ground at odd angles and realized he was running through a graveyard, now overgrown with underbrush. The slope of the hill angled sh
arply upwards and he was having a tough time keeping his footing in the fancy-ass new shoes he was wearing.

  That must have been why the young plainclothes guy had been able to catch up with him, and, shit, run right alongside of him for a minute. Stoke was the fastest guy he ever knew and here was this blond-haired, freckle-faced kid matching him stride for stride. Maximum speed of a normal human being, in a short sprint, was about fifteen miles an hour. Stoke had been clocked at a shade under twenty, and this kid was pulling away. Looking at him kind of sideways, too. Hell, six-foot-six black guy in striped pants, a black cutaway and top hat probably not all that common a sight in this neck of the woods.

  "Who the bloody hell are you?" the English guy said, not even breathing hard.

  "Friend of the groom," Stokely said, as the two of them leapt over a heap of fallen trees. "Who the bloody hell are you?"

  "MI5. Security. Assigned to the prime minister."

  "Good. Shooter was at the top of one of those trees. Just up there on that overhanging cliff...if you--"

  The guy sprinted ahead so fast that Stoke didn't even bother to finish his sentence. For a white guy, the kid was quick. And, if they managed to get lucky, two guns were always better than one. Stoke ripped the top hat off his head and flung it away, picking up his pace and closing the distance between them. Still it was tough to run in a pair of shiny sissy shoes, especially when you had to keep your eyes looking up all the time. Chances were, the shooter had split, but he also could be sitting up there somewhere in the treetops just waiting to pick off somebody like Stoke or the plainclothes kid. Tough call.

  Kind of guy who would shoot a bride just coming out of the church? Flat-ass crazy.

  He looked down for a split second, having seen or sensed something, all those years in Nam kicking in, and that's when he saw the trip wire. He managed to clear it by maybe half an inch.

  Christ, Stoke thought, the asshole has mined the goddamn woods!