Hawke

Stoke ended up as the legendary leader of the legendary SEAL Team Six. Six was the most elite and deadly of the SEAL teams, a top-secret counterterrorist unit founded by another Navy legend, the baddest of the bad, Richard Marcinko.

Needless to say, when Stoke left the Navy and joined the NYPD, he was one of the toughest rookies ever to walk a beat. He was still massive, and still took exceedingly good care of himself. He worked for Hawke, but in his heart, he was and always would be a Navy man.

“My man,” Stoke said, “look at you! Got yourself a tan! Why, you brown as a berry! What you been doin’ down in them islands?”

“Let’s just say that in the course of my current assignment, I was able to catch the occasional ray,” Hawke said, laughing. He picked up his bag and followed Stoke through the revolving doors.

“Well, get ready for changes in latitude, bossman,” Stoke said over his shoulder, “ ’cause you ’bout to freeze your ski

He knew it might be a bit cool, still the sting of icy air took his breath away. December in Washington was usually just wet and chilly, but this was seriously cold weather. Under his flight suit, which had burned up in the fire, he’d been wearing nothing but khaki shorts, a Royal Navy T-shirt, and flip-flops. Mistake.

Flip-flops weren’t all that ideal for icy puddle-hopping, Hawke discovered following Stoke through the maze of snow-laden cars in the parking lot.

“So. Tell me. How was your flight, boss?”

“A little unexpected turbulence on the first leg. I’ll tell you all about it later.”

“So we going straight to the State Department,” Stoke said. “Conch called on the car phone and said it was urgent. Said bring your ass over there as soon as humanly possible.”

Stoke unlocked the doors to the beat-up black Hummer and climbed behind the wheel. For a Hummer, the car was deliberately unassuming. The fact that there was a turbocharged four-hundred-horsepower engine up front and that the entire body of the car was armor-plated was hidden by a disguise of dust and dents. The banged-up Virginia vanity plates on the Hummer read:

Hawke opened the passenger side door and climbed in. He was hugging himself, shaking with cold. “Right, then. State Department,” he said, his words forming puffy white clouds of vapor that hung before his face. “And step on it.”

“You got it,” Stokely said, downshifting and roaring out of the parking lot.

“Any danger of getting some heat in here, Stoke?”

“Chill a minute, brother,” Stoke said.

“Oh, I am, I am chilling. I can assure you that much,” Hawke said, his teeth literally chattering.

“Hell happened to your arm?” Stoke asked, noticing the bandage.

“I cut myself shaving,” Hawke said, and Stokely just looked at him. Man said some crazy shit sometimes. Fu

“Good old Foggy Bottom, coming up,” Stoke said, stepping on the gas.

“Well,” Hawke said, settling back in his seat now that a blast of hot air was coming up from under the dashboard. “You look chipper, Stoke. Fine fettle, I must say.”

“Hell does that mean, ‘fine fettle’?”

“It means you look fit, Stoke, that’s all. In good form. Are the decorators all out of the new house?”

“Yeah, they out. None too soon for me, I’m telling you something. I ain’t had lots of experience with no decorators, but what I just had is plenty. Kinda shit we talk about at lunch? You ever heard of cerulean blue, boss? Me, either. But it’s serious blue. Nothing candy-ass like robin’s egg blue, you understand. Cerulean blue is darker, more like cobalt when it’s done. Anyway, that’s your bedroom.”

“Cerulean.”

“That’s it, boss. But this is one prime piece of real estate you got now. Man, wait till you see it. I still haven’t figured out all the security shit.”

“That’s reassuring. You being chief of security and all that.”

“No, man, I got most of it down. But this is some major high-tech shit you got goin’ on now. Hell, we got so many TV monitors ’round that house, our monitors has monitors! Know how they call the house The Oaks?”

“That’s been its name for two hundred years.”

“Well, my thought is we oughta change it. We oughta call it The Monitors. Got a hell of a lot more monitors than we got oaks.”

“It’s a thought.”

“So. Whassup? We chillin’ ’round here tonight or you flyin’ back to the Bahamas or wherever?”

“Spending tonight here,” Hawke said. “First night in the new house. I hope Pelham has seen to the flowers. Vicky will probably be—joining me there tonight.”

“Vicky? You still messin’ with that chick? Man, you are something else.”

“In what sense?” Hawke asked as Stoke turned into the underground garage. At the security booth, the guard leaned into the car, saw Hawke holding up his pass, and, smiling, waved them in.

“In the sense that you don’t ever understand nothing about women.” Stoke pulled the Hummer into a space and shut it down. “For instance, you got a perfectly good woman upstairs waiting for you, totally in love with your ass. Now, you chasing around with Vicky.”

“So?”

“I don’t know. What’s going on with Conch?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, well, maybe you still working in there, too, is all I’m saying.”

“I’d never do that, Stoke,” Hawke said, reaching for the door handle. “It wouldn’t be chivalrous.”

“Chivalrous? Oh, yeah. I forgot. Wouldn’t be chivalrous.”

“Are you coming in?”

“No, I ain’t coming in that building. That place spooks me. All them chivalrous white people ru

“Matter of fact, I’m meeting a couple of spooks. That’s why I’m here,” Hawke said, smiling at Stokely. “I’ll be about an hour, if you want to go get yourself something to eat.”

Stoke watched Hawke walk away.

Spooks?

Is that what the man said? Wasn’t very damn chivalrous, now, was it?

21

Spooks, here I come.

Hawke was still gri

Reaching the top floor, the very kingdom of spookdom, Hawke returned the salutes of two more marines standing duty by the double doors to the secretary’s outer office. Both wore odd expressions, he thought, until he looked down at his own wardrobe.

Marines, apparently, were unaccustomed to visitors wearing flip-flops.

“Ah. Yes. Just flew up from the Bahamas,” he said as one of the marines pulled the door open. “Called the secretary from the plane. Wanted me to come directly from the airport. No time to change, you see.”

Entering the outer office, now feeling self-conscious about his appearance, he thought he saw a familiar face behind the reception desk.

“Sarah?” he said hopefully. Sarah? Sally? “It’s Alex Hawke. Remember me?”

A pretty, heavyset woman in her mid-forties looked up into his face. “Good Lord,” she said. “I mean, why, Lord Hawke! Well. What a surprise! I certainly don’t have you down in my book this early! Wonderful to see you, your lordship!”

Hawke started to say something, then bit his lip. He’d always found his title a little embarrassing and off-putting. He allowed no one to use his title except his butler, Pelham, who threatened to quit if he could not use his employer’s proper title. Still, this was hardly a time to press the issue.

“And you as well, Sarah,” Hawke said. “Now, look at you. You’ve changed your hair. It’s most becoming, I must say.”

“And look at you,” Sarah said, fighting the pink flush she knew was rising up her throat. “You look—”