Hawke

“Jesus Christ. Twenty hours?”

“Maybe less. Now, I know your old Navy unit used to be pretty good at this kind of thing. SEAL Team Six, I mean.”

“Good? Shit. They the best-trained, deadliest, most capable group of warriors in America’s history. Hop and pop, stuff” and snuff. Snatch and grab.”

“Stoke, if ever I needed anybody like that, it’s now. How in hell are we going to get Vicky out of there? Could the team you and Quick put together yesterday possibly—”

“No way. Not something like this. No way.”

“So, who? Who in God’s name can help us?”

“Well, bossman, that’s a real good question. Real good. I ain’t sayin’ it can’t be done, all I’m sayin’ is—”

Stoke clasped his hands behind his head and lay back against his pillow, staring at the ceiling. Alex could almost hear the wheels spi

“Thunder and Lightnin’!” he said.

“What’s that?”

“The sons of beaches, that’s who. Navy SEALs. They were my two Team Six platoon leaders, now semiretired,” Stoke said. “Mr. Thunder and Mr. Lightning. That’s what we called them two head-bangers. Call one Thunder ’cause he good at blowing things up. Call the other Lightnin’ because you dead and he’s gone before you know what hit you. Man is one cold-blooded assassin. If anybody on this planet can get Vicky out of there alive, they the ones.”

“Where are they?” Alex asked, leaning forward, hope showing in his eyes for the first time since he’d heard Vicky’s voice on the tape.

“Martinique,” Stoke said. “They run their operations out of a base camp on the cape by St. Marin. Where the St. Lucia Cha

“Operations?” Hawke asked eagerly. “What kind of operations?”

“Well, secret shit, you know? Black ops. They all mercenaries now. Soldiers of fortune. Go anywhere in the world, blowin’ shit up for people who don’t want their name in the papers. Got their own patched-up old C-130. Flyin’ in, snatchin’ and grabbin’, killing terrorists. All that good stuff.”

“Hostage rescue?” Hawke asked.

“Best freelance hostage rescue team in the world. Bar none.”

“How many of them?”

“Their team size varies all the time. That business, folks tend to come and go. Like a SEAL platoon, two squads, seven guys each. They got a platoon standing by, generally. Last time I talked to them, they had about fifteen or so commandos down there. Constant training.”

“All ex-SEALs?”

“Nope. Got a couple of Viet Montagnards. Three or four frogs, ex-Foreign Legion desert warfare types, couple of real badass Gurkhas from Nepal, and the rest former SEALs, some seriously bad dudes, boss.”

“Can you set something up, Stoke? Now?”

“Depends on if we catch ’em at home, boss. They on business trips mostly. Frequent fliers, frequent drinkers, frequent headbangers.”

“Stoke, they’re our only hope.”

“Soon as that little Danish pastry doctor lets my ass out of this sickbay, I’ll get on it.”

“You’re out and on it, Stoke,” Hawke said. “Head up to the bridge and try to raise these guys on the sat phone. We can fly down there as soon as Kittyhawke’s been refueled.”

“Thunder and Lightnin, boss, that’s what I’m talkin’ about!” Stoke said, throwing back the covers, and literally leaping out of bed. “Boom! Crash! Bang!”

Alex found Ambrose on deck just outside the man’s personal cabin. He was standing at the portside ran, watching the gulls dive, and puffing thoughtfully on his pipe. He was wearing a monogrammed navy silk bathrobe with red piping and mismatched red and blue leather slippers.

His hair was standing straight up as if he’d just climbed out of bed, which in fact he had.

Hawke crept silently across the teak decks and joined his friend at the varnished mahogany rail.

He put his hand on the man’s shoulder, which made him jump almost a foot in the air. “Hullo, old thing,” Hawke said.

“Good Lord! Alex!” Ambrose exclaimed.

“Don’t tell me you didn’t hear me land a little while ago?”

“Well, I, er, just woke up and—” He pulled two wads of yellow beeswax from his ears. “I, er, use these at night. My own snoring, you see, is so dreadfully loud that it wakes me up.”

“Aha,” Alex said. “I just came from seeing Stoke down in sickbay. I can’t tell you how I feel about what you and Stokely did. It’s just too—”

“You’re not upset?”

“Good God, no! Ambrose, listen to me. There are simply no words in my mind to describe what’s in my heart. To say that I am deeply and profoundly grateful is so woefully inadequate, I can’t even say it.”

“Since we never discussed the matter, I mean, well, frankly I always felt a little guilty about—”

“There is no vocabulary, Ambrose, that can convey enough to thank you for what you’ve done.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I’m a police officer, Alex. Just doing my duty. The truth is you solved the case yourself, whether you realize it or not.”

“Don’t be ridiculous! It was all your hard work that—”

“The photograph you spotted, Alex. The old Polaroid. It was the critical piece of inductive information that made all the other pieces of the puzzle fit.”

“I couldn’t see it. You did.”

“You saw it, Alex. Your mind just wasn’t ready for it yet.”

“Yes. I’ve had some kind of a—breakthrough. I’ve never felt better. Hard to describe the feeling. Clarity, perhaps.”

Alex put his hands on both of Ambrose’s shoulders and squeezed. Congreve saw tears threatening, but Alex blinked them back and smiled.

“Ambrose, time is short and I’ve some incredible news to tell you. But first, how are you? Ross said you were hit?”

“Oh, good Lord, I’m fine. Just a wee bruise over my heart is all. Ouch, yes, right there. I’d be dead, certainly, had not Stokely made me wear his perfectly hideous vest. Most unattractive.”

Hawke laughed, and said, “Ambrose, Vicky is alive.”

“What!” Ambrose exploded. “You can’t mean it! I mean to say, how on earth—”

“Don’t ask me how, I don’t know. Nor have I time to speculate. All I know is that she’s alive and being held hostage by the Cubans. By General Manso de Herreras.”

“The brother of Admiral Carlos de Herreras, the man I arrested.”

“Exactly,” Alex said. Taking his friend by the arm, Hawke said, “Come for a quick stroll around the decks, and I’ll tell you my immediate plans. God willing, I’m off again within the hour.”

Alex recounted the whole thing: his meeting aboard the JFK, his conversation with the secretary of state, Vicky’s cassette, and his most recent chat with Stokely. They reached the stern, and both settled into the comfortable banquette.

“Thunder and Lightning?” Ambrose said, relighting his pipe. “I certainly like the sound of that.”

“Let’s hope they live up to their celestial billing, old boy.”

“Yes,” Ambrose said. “We should drink a toast.” Picking up the nearest phone, he said, “Congreve here, sorry to trouble you. I’d like two very spicy Bloody Marys, please? Fine. That will be all, thank you.”

“I’d love to join you,” Alex said, “but Stokely and I are taking off” for Martinique as soon as Kittyhawke’s tanks are topped off and we’ve loaded all of Stoke’s SEAL equipment.”

“I’m very glad for you, Alex,” Ambrose said. “You’ve made a great leap forward, you know, coming to grips with the past. And, of course, it’s splendid news about Vicky. If anyone can save her, you two can.”

“We’ll get her out,” Hawke said, his jaw set. “I’m going to make a copy of the treasure map in case I need a bargaining chip for Seсor de Herreras.”

“I must say, Alex, I’ve never in my life seen you happier.”

“I admit I’ve never felt quite this way before. I always imagined I was a fairly happy-go-lucky sort of fellow. But now—look, here comes Sniper!”

The steward had arrived with Ambrose’s cocktail order, and the parrot was perched on the man’s shoulder. Upon seeing Alex, the big bird immediately flew to its owner’s outstretched forearm.