What Comes Around_An Alex Hawke Novella Page 7

  “What about the deceased?”

  “Oh, I don’t think he’ll be having anything this evening. He’s moved on.”

  “Ah. Well, good work, Alex. On my way inside now. I’ll see you at the bar.”

  “Cheerio, then.”

  “Cheerio.”

  Hawke looked down at the corpse at his feet. Brass cartridges glittered everywhere on the tile floor. He used one bare foot to roll the man over onto his back, saw one dead black eye staring blindly back at him.

  “I should have killed you that night in Tangiers, Payne,” he said. “I could have done with one less funeral in Maine, you miserable bastard.”.

  He found Ambrose standing behind the bar, his cold pipe jammed into one corner of his mouth, pouring a healthy dollop of rum into Hawke’s favorite tumbler. Congreve smiled as he poured. “The ambrosial nectar of the gods,” he said.

  “Indeed.”

  “What shall we drink to?” Congreve asked, raising his glass of gin.

  “Let’s see,” Hawke mused.

  He plucked one of the cigarettes from a silver stirrup cup on the bar, lit up, and thought about it a second before speaking.

  “Absent friends and dead enemies?” Hawke said.

  And that was the end of it.

  Keep reading for an excerpt from

  Ted Bell’s upcoming novel

  WARRIORS

  On sale April 2014

  PROLOGUE

  LORD ALEXANDER HAWKE rose with the dawn.

  A shadowy gloom pervaded the gilded coffers of his high-ceilinged bedchamber. He lifted his arms high above his head and stretched mightily, extending his long naked body full length, feeling his muscles and tendons come alive, one by one. Then he wiggled his toes twice for luck and sat straight up beneath the dark blue needlepoint canopy tented above his four bedposts.

  His head ached; his lips were dry, and he tried to swallow. Difficult. His mouth felt, perhaps, like that of some ancient Gila monster standing in the middle of the Mojave Desert on a flat rock in the noonday sun. That tequila nightcap, perhaps? Ah, yes, that was it. A dram too far.

  Fully awake now, he needed light. There was a discreet control pad on the wall above his bedside table and he reached over to press a pearly button.

  A soft whir was followed by the rustle of heavy silk. As the brocade draperies on the many tall French windows drew apart, a soft rosy light began to bloom within the room. Beyond his windows, he saw the red-gold sun perched on the dark rim of the earth. He turned his face toward the sunlight and smiled.

  It was going to be another beautiful day.

  Beyond his windows lay his walled gardens. Most had been designed by the famous eighteenth-century landscape architect Lancelot Brown. He was a man known to history as “Capability” Brown because the talented and clever Brown slyly told all his potential clients that only their particular estates had the “great capability” to realize his genius.

  Beyond the gardens, a tangle of meadows circumscribed by dry stone walls. Then endless forests, temporarily clothed in a light haze of spring green. The narrow lane winding down to the village featured a precarious haystack on a horse-drawn cart, a lone vicar on his wobbly bicycle, and an ancient crone walking stooped beneath a heavy burden. From chimneys of little stone cottages scattered hither and yon, tendrils of grey smoke rose into the pale orange sky.

  He had awoken to this chilly morning in early April to watch a grey ground fog swirl up under the eaves and curl around the endless gables and chimneys of the rambling seventeenth-century manor house.

  Hawkesmoor, that ancient pile was called. It had been home to his family for centuries. It was situated amid vast parklands in the gently rolling hills of the Cotswolds, a leisurely two hours’ drive north of London on the M40 motorway.

  Hawke slid out of bed and into the faded threadbare Levis that lay puddled on the floor where he’d left them at midnight. He pulled an old Royal Navy T-shirt over his head and slipped his bare feet into turquoise-beaded Indian moccasins. They were a particular favorite. He’d bought them during a hunting and fishing expedition with his friends Ambrose Congreve and his fiancée, Lady Diana Mars, to a rustic camp near Flathead Lake, in Montana.

  On this particular spring morning, one day before his departure for far more hostile territory, the South China Sea, of all places, Hawke was full of keen anticipation. Four hundred and fifty very powerful horses that even now were stamping their hooves, waiting for him on the apron of bricks in the stable courtyards.

  “The Snake,” as his new steed was called, was a 1963 Shelby AC Cobra. It was an original, set up for racing by Carroll Shelby himself. With a highly modified 427-cubic-inch engine putting out 450 horsepower, it was capable of achieving speeds nearing 180 miles per hour. It was painted in the famous Cobra racing livery, dark blue with two wide white stripes down the centerline.

  It had been purchased by Hawke’s man at the Barrett-Jackson auction in Scottsdale, Arizona, and flown to England, arriving by flatbed lorry late the previous afternoon. His primary mechanic, Ian Burns, a fine Irishman with hair and whiskers so blond they were white, gave him a knowing grin. Known forever as “Young Ian,” the lad had been going over the Cobra all night, adjusting the timing, checking the plugs, points, and carbs, making sure all was in readiness for Hawke’s maiden voyage into the surrounding countryside.

  “Quite the brute y’ve got yerself here now, m’lord,” Young Ian said as Hawke approached the car, taking long strides across the mossy brick of the courtyard. “One can see why no one could lay a finger on Dan Gurney and the old ‘Snake’ at Le Mans back in ’64.”

  “You put a few miles on her this morning, did you, Young Ian?” Hawke asked, smiling and running his hands over the sleek flanks of the beast. “I thought I heard a throaty roar wafting up through the woods earlier.”

  “Aye, I did indeed.”

  “And?”

  “Still trembling with excitement, m’lord. Can barely handle me socket wrench, sir.”

  Hawke laughed and gazed at his prize. It was truly a magnificent piece of machinery. A fine addition to his growing but highly selective collection, stored behind the long line of stable doors. A long row that featured, among others, vintage Ferraris, Jags, and Aston-Martins, a black 1956 Thunderbird convertible once owned by Ian Fleming, a spanking-new white McClaren 50, and his cherished daily driver, a steel-grey 1954 Bentley Continental he fondly called “the Locomotive.”

  “I did, sir. Topped off the petrol tank with avgas, which I highly recommend you use in the car, sir, aviation fuel having much higher octane, obviously. And runs cleaner, sir. The Weber carbs needed a bit of finesse, a couple of belts and hoses needed replacing, but otherwise it’s in perfect running order, sir, just as advertised.”

  “Let’s find out, shall we?” Hawke said, grinning from ear to ear.

  Hawke climbed behind the wood-rimmed wheel, adjusted the close-fitting racing seat for his six-foot-plus frame, and strapped himself in, using the bright red heavy-duty Simpson racing harness. Then he switched on the ignition.

  His glacial blue eyes widened at the instant roar, deafening, really, in the narrow confines of the stone-walled courtyard.

  “Bloody hell, Ian!” Hawke grinned, shouting over the thundering engine. “I do believe I feel the stirrings of one falling deeply and passionately in love!”

  “As long as y’ don’ scare the horses, m’lord.”

  Hawke laughed, a laugh of pure joy.

  “Anything at all I should know about?”

  “Just one thing, sir. Bit of a steering issue. She seems to want to pull to the right a wee bit. I’ll take care of it as soon as you return. Not dangerous, really. I just wanted you to be aware of it in the twisty bits.”

  “Thanks. Cheerio, then.”

  Hawke engaged first, mashed the go pedal, popped the clutch, and smoked the sq
uealing tires, fishtailing through the wide wrought-iron stable gates until he reached the paved drive, braked hard, and put the car into a four-wheel drift, a left-hander. He backed off the throttle for the length of the drive, slowing to a stop at the main gate to the estate. The gate was off a two-lane road that led to Chipping Campden, rarely used, and certainly not at this ungodly hour.

  Burning rubber once more, he took a hard right out into the road. He had a long straightaway shot in front of him, some miles of clear sailing before the road reentered the forest. There was still a bit of ground fog, but it was blowing around a bit and he had a clear view of the road ahead. He upshifted into second and wound the revs up to redline. He was shoved hard back into his seat, and the scenery became an instant blur.

  Ian had been right about the steering.

  The Cobra had an annoying habit of pulling to the right. It was irksome but nothing he couldn’t handle until he got her back to the stable and corrected it.

  HAWKE ENTERED THE dark wood, a place of blue-tinged evergreens.

  The macadam road was a twisting snake, but then, he was at the wheel of the Snake. It was narrow, chock-full of inclines, switchbacks, and decreasing radius turns. It was the perfect place to see how his new prize handled. He pushed it hard, not happy unless his tyres were squealing, and the car responded beautifully, enormous torque, precision handling, wedded to splendid racing tyres. Heaven, in other words.

  When he finally emerged from the wood, he charged up a rather steep hill, crested it, went fully airborne for a moment, and then sped down into the next straightaway, the engine warmed up now and responding beautifully. He redlined third and upshifted to fourth, then down again to second for the intersection, a tight right-hander into a narrow country lane.

  And that’s when he heard the blare of air horns behind him.

  Christ, he thought, who the hell?

  He glanced at the rearview mirror and saw the familiar stately grille of an old Rolls-Royce filling the mirror. Right smack on his tail. He slowed, moved left onto the grassy verge, and gestured to the big silver Roller to overtake, for God’s sake. He couldn’t wait to get a look at the driver. What kind of a moron would even think of trying to pass on this bloody—

  A woman. A beautiful woman. Bright yellow Hermès scarf wound round her neck. Silky black hair cut short, and a stunning Asian profile.

  She blew the triple air horns again as she blew past, and Hawke’s shouted reply surely went unheard over the wind and the combined engine roar. He saw her right arm emerge, hand raised high, ruby red nails, the middle digit extended straight up as she tucked in front of him, almost nicking his front fender.

  Fucking hell.

  “Balls to the wall, you crazy bitch!” he shouted at her in vain, shaking his righteous fist in disbelieving anger.

  And that’s when it happened.

  He’d taken his right hand off the wheel for a split second, the steering had pulled hard right, and a stout and hardy chestnut tree leaped up out of the woods and smacked him good, pinging both his pride and his new and very shiny blue bonnet in one solid blow.

  He forgot the stupid incident over time, but for some reason he never forgot the license plate number on that old silver Roller.

  M-A-O.

  As in Chairman Mao?

  He had no idea. But, as it all turned out in the end, he’d been absolutely spot-on about that damn plate number.

  It was Mao.

  And the woman behind the wheel? Well, she was indeed one crazy bitch.

  CHAPTER 1

  Washington, D.C.

  December 2009

  BILL CHASE PICKED up the phone and called 1789.

  Chase had always thought a year was an odd name for a restaurant. Even for a quaint, colonial eatery in the historic heart of Georgetown. But the year, he knew, was historic: in 1789, George Washington was unanimously elected the nation’s first president. In that same year, the United States Constitution went into effect. And also that year, his alma mater, Georgetown University, had been founded.

  1789 had been his go-to dining spot in town since his freshman year. The place felt like home, that was all. He loved the elegant high-ceilinged, flower-filled rooms upstairs, usually filled with an eclectic potpourri of the well-heeled and the well-oiled, frenetic lobbyists, assorted besotted lovers, gay and straight, illicit and otherwise, various self-delighted junior senators with JFK haircuts, as well as the tired, the careworn, the elderly congressmen.

  He liked the restaurant for its authentic colonial vibe, the simple food and subtle service, even the quaint Limoges china. Not to mention the complete absence of pretentious waiters or wine stewards who uttered absurdities like “And what will we be enjoying this evening?”

  We? Really? Are you joining us for dinner? Or this little gem he’d heard just last week at Chez Panisse: “And at what temperature would you like your steak this evening, Mr. Chase?” Temperature? Sorry, forgot my meat thermometer this evening. Honestly, who came up with this crap?

  1789’s utter lack of haute-moderne pretension was precisely what had kept Chase coming back since his college days; those beery, cheery, halcyon days when he’d been a semipermanent habitué of the horseshoe bar at the Tombs downstairs.

  Chase hung up the phone in his office, rose from his father’s old partner’s desk, and stood gazing out the floor-to-ceiling windows. It was late afternoon, and the cold, wintry skies over northern Virginia were laced with streaks of violet and magenta. His private office on the thirtieth floor of Lightstorm’s world headquarters had vistas overlooking the Capitol, the White House, and the Pentagon.

  To his left he could see Georgetown, Washington’s oldest neighborhood, and home to the Chase family for generations. The streets of town were already lost to a grey fog bank. He watched it now, rolling up from the south and over the silvery Potomac like a misty tsunami. Traffic on the Francis Scott Key bridge had become two parallel streams of haloed red and white lights flowing slowly in opposite directions.

  Bill Chase had plenty of reasons to be happy despite the dull grey weather. His marriage had never been stronger or more passionate, and his new fighter aircraft prototype, the Lightstorm, had just emerged victorious in a global battle for a huge Pentagon aeronautical contract. But the best part? His two adored kids, Milo, age four, and Sarah, age seven, were healthy, happy, and thriving at school.

  Today was a red-letter day. His wife’s fortieth. The Big Four-Oh, as she’d been calling it recently. He had just booked a table for four upstairs at 1789. His family would be dining tonight at a cozy round table in the gracious Garden Room on the second floor, right next to the fireplace.

  BILL CHASE HAD come a long way.

  In this decisive year of 2009, he was the fifty-year-old wunderkind behind Lightstorm Advanced Weapons Systems. LAWS was a global powerhouse whose rapid rise to the top in the ongoing battle for world dominance in the military tech industry was the stuff of legend. Bill himself had acquired a bit of legend.

  Fortune magazine’s recent cover story on him had been headlined: “One Part Gates, One Part Jobs, One Part Oppenheimer!” His portrait, shot by Annie Leibovitz, showed him smiling in the open cockpit of the new Lightstorm fighter.

  The Pentagon had relied heavily on LAWS for the last decade. Chase’s firm just been awarded a massive British government contract to develop an unmanned fighter-bomber code-named Sorcerer. It was Bill’s pet project: a mammoth bat-wing UAV capable of being launched from Royal Navy aircraft carriers. Heavy payloads, all-weather capability, extreme performance parameters, and zero risk of pilot casualty or death.

  An electric crack and a heavy rumble of thunder stirred Chase out of his reverie. He looked up and gazed out his tall windows.

  Steep-piled buttresses of thunderheads had towered up darkly. Another mounting bulwark of black clouds to the west, veined with white lightning, was stacking up beyo
nd the Potomac. Big storm coming. He stood at his office window watching the first few fat drops of rain slant across his expansive windows. A stormy night, rain mixed with fog, was on the way and it was too bad.

  They had planned to walk the few blocks to the restaurant from their gracious two-hundred-year-old town house just off Reservoir Road.

  He wanted the evening to be special in every way. He’d bought Kat a ridiculously expensive piece of jewelry, filled their house with flowers. All day today his wife, Kathleen, had been facing down the Big Four-Oh, and, like most women, she wasn’t happy about it.

  Kat had been adamant about her big birthday. She’d insisted upon no fancy-pants black-tie party at the Chevy Chase Club, no shindig of any stripe, and, God forbid, not even the merest suggestion of a surprise party.

  No. She wanted a quiet dinner out with her husband and their two children. Period.

  No cake, no candles.

  Bill was feeling celebratory, but he had acquiesced readily. It was, after all, her birthday, not his. Light-years ago, she’d fallen for his southern Bayou Teche drawl and charm; but she’d come to rely on his southern manners. True gents were somewhat in short supply in the nation’s capital. And Kat, at least, believed she had found one. Besides his own career, William Lincoln Chase Jr.’s wife and family meant the world to him.

  And he tried hard to let them know it, every day of his life.

  CHAPTER 2

  Georgetown

  DINNER WAS LOVELY. The heavy rain had somehow held off, and they’d all walked the five blocks to the restaurant hand in hand, the evening skies a brassy shade of gold, the skeletal trees etched black against them like a Chinese watercolor Chase used to own.

  Kat had worn an old black Saint Laurent cocktail dress with slit sleeves that revealed her perfect white arms. She was wearing the diamond brooch at the neckline, the one he’d given her for their twentieth anniversary. The kids, little Milo and his older sister, Sarah, had even behaved, beautifully for them, and for that he was grateful.