Warriors (36 page)

She blushed to remember how he’d picked her up in the sports car at the rail station one afternoon, tossing her bag behind the soft leather seats. She’d been in Hawke’s employ for only a short time and had been to London to visit her doctor in Baker Street. She was feeling full of confidence and hope for the future. She’d pretended the dashing Lord Hawke was her beau all the way home!

And what a home it was, too. Hawkesmoor. It was all so lovely, enchanted like a young girl’s dream. Sabrina had felt a stirring in her heart and knew it for what it was, her life beginning at last.

Her own car was waiting for her, fueled up and freshly washed by the very handsome Young Ian, Hawke’s cheerful Irish mechanic and occasional chauffeur. Her little racing green MINI Cooper was sparkling in the morning sun, positively gleaming atop the wet bricks. The blond-haired Irishman had even lowered the top for her in deference to the sunny warmth and promise of the day.

“Thanks so much,” she said as he handed her the keys.

“Not at all, Miss Churchill,” he said, smiling. “It’s my pleasure.”

Had he winked at her?

She was suddenly suffused with happiness. One must always count one’s blessings. She’d promised Pelham she’d be home on Sunday evening to feed Alexei his supper around six o’clock, which meant she had a whole day and a half all to herself to do exactly as she pleased.

How lovely!

So now a delicious lunch with an old friend would kick things off. She waved good-bye to the smiling Irishman and began Hawkesmoor’s long winding drive down to the small two-lane country road. She soon came to the main gates. Her heart quickened as she accelerated steadily out of the drive and began the long climb through the forests to the top of the hill and her destination. She loved these quaint little Cotswolds villages with their omnipresent pubs.

THE QUAINT HAMLET OF BROADWAY
is one of the most popular tourist destinations in the Cotswolds. After the Norman conquest, Sabrina recalled, six new market towns were founded, including Broadway, Chipping Campden, Moreton-in-Marsh, and Stow-on-the-Wold. Farms had sprung up everywhere, and, as farms became larger, employing more laborers, new gentry arrived. Their gabled stone houses became an important legacy in these hills.

The Lygon Arms, formerly known as the White Hart, was steeped in history, dating to 1532. King Charles I conferred with his confidants there and Oliver Cromwell actually slept beneath the eaves the night before the decisive civil war Battle of Worcester in 1651.

Sabrina saw the familiar
LYGON
ARMS
sign and turned into the drive. The old inn stood on three acres of parklike grounds that included lawns, flower gardens, and croquet. There was still a whiff of pre-Victorian elegance and luxury about the place that she loved.

She turned into the car park, found a spot, and locked her car. It was lovely out, and she decided to have a quick look round. Checking her watch, she saw that she had a good twenty minutes.

Sabrina wandered around the various public rooms, and from there stepped out into the sunlight of the beautifully manicured gardens. She found herself remembering all the good times spent within these garden walls. Strolling about, she simply lost track of time.

Hurrying back inside, she realized she’d have to postpone checking into her room before her lunch with Lorelei.

Nothing had changed inside the old Duck & Grouse, despite the passage of the years. It still felt good and cozy.

She was all smiles as she entered the familiar room. An abundance of padded wine-red leather with brass studs and mahogany. Framed hunting prints. And the sign above the low-hanging ceiling leading to the loo still read
mind
your
head
! just as it had in the days when she, Lorelei, and Nell Spooner had enjoyed so many happy times.

She looked around the crowded tables for Lorelei, didn’t see her, and paused for a moment at the bar. The barman, a lean, jovial sort, ambled over, wiping down a glass.

“Hullo. I beg your pardon. I wonder if you could tell me . . . does Jeremy Somersham still work here?”

“Jeremy! He does indeed, if you want to call it work!” the old fellow said. “Doesn’t work Saturdays, I’m afraid. But he’ll be here for luncheon tomorrow, that’s a dead cert. Shall I tell him you asked, miss?”

“No . . . no, it’s not necessary. Thanks so much. Perhaps I’ll stop by again and—”

“Sabrina! Sabrina, over here!” She turned, saw her old friend waving from a table beneath the frosted window, and rushed over.

“Why, Lorelei Li!” Sabrina cried happily. “How dear of you to call.”

Lorelei reached up, held her arms out, and the two women embraced warmly, kissing each other’s cheeks before breaking the clench, then just staring at each other through happy eyes.

“How wonderful to see you again!” Sabrina said. And it was, too. Lorelei was pretty, clever, and rich. She was part of an ancient and powerful Chinese family with connections at the very highest levels at her home in Beijing. She’d attended boarding schools in Switzerland before coming to Cambridge and her French, German, and English were pitch-perfect.

Lorelei always did just as she pleased, highly esteeming the judgments of those older and wiser, but directed chiefly by her own. If there was a bad side to Sabrina’s friend, it was the innate power of having rather too much her own way. And a disposition toward thinking a little too well of herself. But for all that, you could put the word
fun
all in caps in her plus column.

“And you as well, darling! Now, let’s have a look at you,” Lorelei said, “and then have some lunch as I’m starving. My treat. I don’t really care who invited whom, so sit down and I’ll go grab us each a pint of the best. The waitstaff had a private party here last night and they’re all too hungover to work, apparently.”

“Just tea for me,” Sabrina said.

“You’re not on duty, darling. Have some fun.”

“In the Royal Protection Service, one is always on duty, darling.”

Sabrina watched Lorelei weave her way expertly through the crowded bar, her hips swaying beneath the very short silk print skirt. A moment later, Sabrina saw the barman pulling a fresh pint of frothy Guinness for her friend and serving up a steaming cuppa for herself. And then Lorelei was back, her face alight, with the sloshing schooner of lager and the tea.

Lorelei raised the mug and laughed. In a perfect parody of a German accent, she said, “Zo, if I only had zose big pink German bosoms like you und a very small dirndl, I could put my hair up und look like zose pretty barmaids at Oktoberfest biergartens in Munich! Ja? Nein? Noch ein bier, bitte!”

She sat down and took a sip.

Sabrina joined her, beaming at her good fortune. Old friends were best friends, her mother’d always said.

TWO HOURS LATER, THEY WERE
still at the table, chatting like mad. Lunch had come and gone, and they were just getting warmed up. Discussing men, of course, but also some of their youthful adventures beneath this very roof. Sabrina was having so much fun she hardly noticed when Lorelei suddenly laughed and said, “I have the most marvelous idea!”

“What’s new?”

“Precisely my sentiments, Sabrina.”

“I’m sure it’s marvelous, but is it a good idea, this idea of yours, or a bad idea, that is the obvious question.”

“This one’s a corker. I believe you said you haven’t checked in yet, have you? Your room upstairs, I mean?”

“Definitely did not. I was running late. Here’s my overnight bag. So. What’s the idea?”

“You’ve got two whole days of holiday, right?”

“Right.”

“Cannot afford to waste them.”

“Cannot.”

“So, drumroll, you and I, are driving down to Cornwall.”

“Cornwall.”

“Yes. To an exquisitely beautiful cottage on a stony bluff overlooking the sea. Too picture-perfectly lovely to be imagined. We’ll walk along the shore. We’ll picnic, we’ll ride horses, stroll the beaches, troll the pubs . . . all too marvelous for words, darling.”

“I’m in.”

“Damn right, you’re in. Let’s go. Frightfully noisy in here now, have you noticed?”

“What about my car?”

“We’re leaving it here in the hotel car park. It will be fine overnight, don’t worry. We’ll tip the attendant a quid to mind it.”

“If you say so.”

“I say so.”

“I don’t know about this, Lorelei.”

“Trust me, Sabrina. We’ll have a swell time. Have I ever led you astray?”

“I won’t answer that, thank you.”

Sabrina pulled her mobile out of her purse and punched in a number.

“Just give me a minute. I’m going to call my friend Pelham and let him know my plans have changed. It’s ringing now. Oh, by the way. What’s the name of the cottage in Cornwall?”

“Nevermore,” Lorelei said. “Like the raven quoth in the poem.”

“Did you say ‘quoth’?” Sabrina said, laughing, and after she’d told Pelham her plans, they were off to the races.

C
H A P T E R
  5 0

A
n hour earlier, a gleaming midnight blue Gulfstream IV, having spent a long starry night streaking a high arc across the broad Atlantic, touched down in brilliant sunshine at Key West International Airport. Aboard were the three men chosen by their respective governments to lead the rescue of William Lincoln Chase and his family.

Hawke had stopped briefly in Miami and picked up Stokely Jones and Harry Brock, who were waiting at Galaxy Aviation, Miami International. Both men were in high spirits, excited about the possibility of yet another high-stakes mission together with Alex Hawke.

After a taxi to a remote part of the field at Key West, Hawke’s pilot and copilot helped offload the pallets of spec-ops tactical assault weapons and gear he’d ferried from England. Everything was neatly loaded into the rear of the black Escalade Hawke had arranged to have waiting.

Stoke, meanwhile, had prearranged to have Sharkey’s boat, the
Miss Maria,
delivered to the Conch Island Marina on Key West.
Miss Maria
was the ideal boat for getting around in the Keys, what with all that speed and firepower. Not that Stoke thought they’d need heavy ammo down here, but you never knew, did you? The three of them had enemies just about everywhere on the planet.

Since Stoke knew the way to the marina, he climbed behind the wheel of the big SUV and they headed off to the marina.

Late last week, Sharkey, from his hospital bed at Dade Memorial, had given his personal permission for the use of the Contender 34,
Miss Maria
.

It was a miracle. But the little guy had survived.

And only God knew how he’d overcome a point-blank shooting at the low-life gin joint in Miami. Luis always been a tough little character. The doctors all said it was nothing but a sheer will to live that had pulled him through. One even called it
un milagro
, a miracle.

ONE OF THE HAPPIEST DAYS
of Stoke’s life? That would be when he had picked up Mrs. Gonzales-Gonzales and driven the GTO over the causeway to Dade Memorial to pick Sharkey up and take him home. Maria and Stoke had helped him inside the house and got him into his own bed.

“How you doing, little buddy?” Stoke said, fluffing his pillows. “You happy to be home, little brother? Got your
amorcito
waiting on your ass hand and foot?”

“I’m happy to be anywhere, man.”

“You just stay here and do whatever Maria tells you do. You got that? Doc said you’re going to need at least a month’s worth of bed recuperation before you get back on your feet. I got you that new flatscreen over there;
Oprah
and
Jeopardy!
will keep your sorry butt occupied.”

“I appreciate that, boss, I really do.”

“You take care of yourself, okay?”

“I’ll be back on the job, boss,” Sharkey said, safely back in the little two-bedroom stucco bungalow on Calle Ocho in Miami’s Little Havana. “Don’t you worry about that, man.”

“You better be,” Stoke said. “I’ve got a little mess to clean up over in China. Shouldn’t be gone more than a few weeks or so. Soon as the doctors say it’s okay, you get yourself back to the office and hold down the fort, all right? I’ll feel a whole lot better if you’re there.”

“You bet. You know you can count on me.”

“I sure do,” Stoke said, giving his friend’s one good arm a squeeze. “I sure do, partner.”

TEN MINUTES LATER, WHEN THEY
pulled into the marina parking lot, it was baking hot in the tropical sun. Conch Island Marina was a typical South Florida boat haven. Beer, bait, boats, slips for rent, charter service, guides, the whole nine yards.

Stoke had a rough idea of which dock, but he was not entirely sure, so he drove around to the harbormaster’s office, a cement block structure, to ask for directions to the slip.

Conch Island Marina was typical, but with that special Key West flavor the world knows and loves. Conchs, as the residents called themselves, had their own way of doing things. The marina was filled with colorful boats as well as colorful characters. Who, by the way, for the most part, all got along.

The temperature inside the air-conditioned office had to be below freezing, but it was cleaner and brighter than Stoke had expected. There were floor racks of fish-oriented merchandise, a display case of reels, a wall rack of rods, a couple of coolers, and along one wall a line of bait bins with a constant flow of running water, home to a lot of vaguely apprehensive shrimp.

A heavy man in a stained canvas apron was skimming off some of the dead baitfish floating on top of the water in one of the middle bins, using a small dip net and dumping them in a plastic bucket.

“Make pretty good chum,” Stoke said. So obvious the guy gave him a look.

“What they gen’rally used for. What can I do for you?”

“Looking for a Contender 34, the
Miss Maria
? Down from Miami?”

“Slip B-25, right out chonder. You a gummint man? DEA? Lotta damn far powr on that thang. Fifty cal? Shee-it.”