Night of the Hawk (LS 767)

by Victoria Leigh

"I tried—"

  "Not really." He shook his head slowly and dropped his hand from her face. "Until you realized I was going to make love to you with my hands and not the rest of me, you weren't objecting to anything. If you feel otherwise, then I'm obviously doing something very wrong."

  "You're not."

  "Then what's all this about, hmm?"

  "It's about two days of having my world turned upside down." She thrust her fingers into her hair, and some of it came free from the braid and fell in long strands across her eyes. She looked at him through the dark red ribbons of hair. "It's also a bit of reaction to what just happened. I can't remember ever feeling anything even close to that before. It scared me."

  "I would never hurt you."

  "I know that," she said, and heaved a huge sigh. "Maybe we should just get back on the road, what do you think?"

  "I think it's time for dinner. There should be someming close by."

  "Okay." Angela turned straight in the seat, but before she could start the engine, Hawk stopped her with a gentle touch on her hand. She glanced at him. "What?"

  "I was right on both counts."

  "Right about what?" she asked, and even in the fading light could see the heat of desire rekindle in his eyes.

  "You did both, Angel," he said huskily. "You melted, then you burned so hot I nearly lost my head. And do you know something else?"

  "What?"

  "It scared me too."

  ELEVEN

  It was pitch-dark when they hit the coast and turned north. Hawk had been at the wheel for an hour, and Angela had surprised them both by confining the conversation to occasional comments on the scenery they couldn't appreciate but recalled from previous trips. Discussion of Constantine, et al, was more than she could handle, because whatever Hawk was planning, it was bound to be something that would take him out of her life forever.

  That frightened her, sifting past the general fear and nervousness she'd experienced over the past few days and leaving her shell-shocked as she realized how important Hawk had become to her. Her worry about the subject grew until she blocked it from her thoughts and concentrated on the sixties-era music she had found on the radio.

  She was beginning to think Hawk planned to drive all night when he pulled into the parking lot of an aging motel whose neon vacancy sign could only be understood if you knew what it was supposed to say and filled in the blanks. Angela waited in the truck while Hawk went inside, then she helped him carry their meager possessions into a ground-floor room at the end of the L-shaped building.

  There were two double beds in the room that was otherwise furnished with the standard childproof, theftproof, nondistinctive bits and pieces that were reassuring to some travelers but an anathema to Angela. She liked seeing a flavor of the outside environment in the places she stayed. She kept her mouth shut, though, because she was tired, and not to put too much emphasis on a difficult topic, it seemed petty to spend any time thinking about the room's decorative motifs when this might be the last night she slept with Hawk.

  Slept with him. The euphemistic qualities of that phrase had never seemed quite so absurd. She'd slept with Hawk, but she'd never done it in the sense of, well, doing it. She jerked her gaze from the wall where she'd been comparing the merits of blank space with the hideous peony oil painting hanging between the beds, and found Hawk watching her from the bathroom door.

  "What's wrong?" he asked, wiping a wet rag over his eyes.

  "My vocabulary is shrinking to that of a teenager, and I'm thinking seriously about cutting that painting from its frame and burning it, but otherwise there's nothing to be concerned about." She tossed the shopping bag she'd been carrying on the floor and flopped down on a hard-cushioned chair. "How about you?"

  He studied her for a long moment, then shook his head. "You sound like you need some sleep."

  "I'm too tired to sleep," she grumbled, but didn't resist when he came across the room and pulled her from the chair.

  They stood toe to toe, but there was something in the way Hawk kept his body from brushing hers that told her he had no intention of sleeping with her or doing it or anything else. She blinked back her disappointment, then looked up at him. "What happened, Hawk? Change your mind?"

  "No, Angel. Never that." He cupped her face in his hand and kissed her briefly, then went to sit in the chair by the window that was covered in dull, rust-colored drapes. He continued without looking at her. "We can't make love because I don't have anything with me to protect you."

  Make love. Oh yeah, that was how some adults said it. Angela loved hearing the words from Hawk. They made her smile.

  "Check your bag, Hawk. You're bound to find what you need in there."

  He glanced at her, and there was an answering smile in his eyes. "I don't have to check. I know what I don't have."

  "That isn't the real reason, is it?" she asked after a moment.

  "No, it isn't."

  "Tell me." She sat on the edge of the bed nearest him and waited. When he finally replied, he gave her the kind of explanation she hated, because she agreed with him and didn't want to.

  "You want to make love tonight because you think you'll never see me again after tomorrow," he said evenly. "I'm not going to let it happen for that same reason."

  "We don't have to think this out, you know," she said, and knew the frustration in her body was clear in her voice. "We can approach this from the mindless, live-for-today attitude that was so popular in the eighties."

  "No, we can't."

  "You're doing that control thing again," she argued.

  "I'm making sense and you know it." He started rubbing his right hand where a scar cut across it as though it was bothering him.

  "Your hand hurt?" she asked, and only just stopped short of reaching out to touch where he rubbed.

  "Some. Go get ready for bed, Angel," he said wearily. "It's getting late."

  It was on the tip of her tongue to point out that he was telling her what to do again, but she couldn't bring herself to say it, not when he looked so tired and she didn't mean it anyway. She went into the bathroom and got out of her clothes, pulling on the knee-length T-shirt she'd bought that afternoon and taking time to wash her undies. She left them dripping on the towel rack when she went back out, and if she gave any thought to that or the way she was dressed versus how things had been at Sammy's, it was a very small thought.

  There was a light on over by the window where Hawk slouched in the chair, his feet propped up on the chair opposite. He had something in his hand that looked like a roll of material, and when she got closer she realized he held a threaded needle in his other hand.

  "What are you doing?"

  "Sewing," he said, without looking up.

  Angela rubbed her eyes and got closer for a better look. "That's not sewing," she said in amazement. "It's fancy-work."

  "Fancywork?" he repeated. "I haven't heard it called that since my grandmother died. Nowadays we call this particular kind of sewing needlepoint." He put another stitch into the canvas, and she watched fascinated as he drew the yarn back out.

  "Why are you doing it?" She leaned closer still.

  "Because it's good therapy." He adjusted his grip on the rolled canvas and set in another stitch. "You're in my light."

  She walked around to the other side and squatted down beside his chair. "Therapy for what? Your hand?"

  "That too," he said agreeably, then surprised her by telling her how he'd gotten the wound. "My grandmother was still living then, and she brought a canvas and yarn with her when she came to visit me after the surgeon did his best to repair the damage. She suggested I give it a try as therapy."

  "You learned to sew because your grandmother suggested it?" Angela couldn't picture Hawk going along with the notion so meekly.

  "She bullied me into it," he admitted with a grin. "By the time I realized it was doing me some good, I was hooked. I do it now even if my hand isn't bothering me."

  It was a side to Hawk she never
would have believed if she hadn't seen it for herself. "Why are you doing it now?"

  He turned his head to meet her gaze. "It's something to do with my hands, Angel. If I said please, would you go to bed and quit tempting my better judgment? I really don't have much willpower left, and that nightshirt is almost sexier than if you wore nothing at all."

  "I'll do it, Hawk," she said, her fingers curling around the arm of his chair, "but not because you said please."

  "Then why?"

  She leaned forward and kissed him lightly on the mouth, then retreated before her traitorous control deserted her. "I'm going to bed because I'm a lot like you."

  "How so?"

  "I've never been so hungry for a man that I've felt the need to force an unwilling one."

  * * *

  The following morning, Hawk got up and dressed quietly, not showering or shaving because he didn't want to awaken Angela. He could clean up later, but for now she looked too peaceful to disturb, too carefree. Besides, he wasn't in a hurry to move, so he sat by the window and worked on the needlepoint canvas until the parking lot outside became busy with people getting on their way. He shook her awake and left her to the shower he'd turned on moments before, then joined the sleepy travelers outside. Even though there wasn't a chance that they had been followed, particularly once they'd dumped Sammy's truck, habit made him take precautions. Moving around amid other people was one of them.

  Doors to several of the motel's rooms stood open as families trailed back and forth to their vehicles, loading the things they'd brought in the night before. Hawk walked past them and on to the coffee shop attached to the motel, where he waited at the counter nearly fifteen minutes to buy two large coffees, blueberry muffins, and a day-old newspaper out of Portland. The papers were late that morning, the waitress informed him when he asked, and he gathered from her tone that it was the rule rather than the exception.

  He had to wait again to pay, because the man behind the desk needed to change the tape in the cash register and he wasn't very good at it. Hawk considered walking out without his change from a twenty, but leaving that much would call unwelcome attention, so he waited and tried not to growl in his impatience because that would be remembered too.

  There was still a lot of loading activity as he walked across the parking lot with the breakfast bag in his left hand and the paper tucked under his arm. He knew something was wrong before he was halfway across the lot. The door of the room he'd shared with Angela stood wide-open and there was something on the hood of the truck that hadn't been there when he'd left. Blood was pounding so loudly in his ears that he didn't hear the sound of the bag and paper hitting the ground as he began running toward the room, reaching for his Astra without breaking stride.

  His peripheral vision identified the thing on the truck as a cellular phone. It rang as he got to the door, but Hawk ignored it and, with his gun pointed ahead, ducked through the doorway, wary and alert. The room was empty and he'd expected that, but he checked the bathroom just in case. She wasn't there, but he saw she'd left her nightshirt folded on the bed with the clothes she'd worn the day before. The tidy pile told Hawk she'd probably been dressed when they came for her.

  They—as in Constantine's people—had taken Angela because it was cleaner than trying to take Hawk in front of witnesses. He wouldn't have gone quietly, whereas Angela could be easily coerced into doing so. It was also apparent that Constantine wanted him alive. Otherwise, they would have handled things much differently, and it would have been his blood staining the parking lot and not just a little coffee.

  He saw his sports bag in the corner where he'd left it and wondered why they hadn't taken that too. There was still quite a lot of money inside. Otherwise, nothing in the room indicated a struggle, and he was relieved she'd been smart enough to realize that a fight was useless. It would have made no difference to the end result, except that she would have been hurt in some way by men who were indifferent to suffering.

  Angela had learned the hard way how to survive, and it was all his fault. The fact that he'd let down his guard long enough for Constantine's men to get to her was something he'd deal with when he had time for recriminations.

  He took a couple of deep breaths to steady himself and put his gun away. Then he went back out to the truck and picked up the phone that hadn't stopped ringing. A voice he didn't recognize gave him all the information they wanted him to have, and Hawk listened carefully to the instructions without writing anything down. They were simple, really, not much more than a time and a place and the usual guidance about no cops, no deal.

  He disconnected and ignored the furtively curious looks from a family packing up their car three doors down. He went back into the room, shut the door, and tossed the phone into the wastebasket. It was probably bugged and he didn't have time to take it apart and find out. He gathered Angela's things and stuffed them into a shopping bag, then put his sports bag on the bed and began to empty it. He found what he was looking for stuck into a bottom corner of one of the side compartments.

  Satisfied that he at least knew how they'd been tracked, Hawk crushed the tiny transmitter under his foot, then refilled the bag. He was certain the guard at Sammy's who'd sold out to Constantine was responsible. Angela had told him about the man who'd slipped into the cottage two nights earlier, when she'd been hiding in the rhododendron bushes. But he couldn't waste time with regrets now. He had his own program to think about.

  The exchange of one auburn-haired female hostage for one renegade DEA agent was slated for midnight. He had less than sixteen hours to figure out how to ensure Constantine didn't renege on the deal and kill Angela too.

  * * *

  Micah Blackthorne still hadn't returned to his base in Denver, but Hawk used a variation of the "matter of life or death" argument and convinced the man in charge to get a message to his boss. Blackthorne called him back five minutes later at the pay phone in a family restaurant a few miles south of the motel. Hawk wasn't bothered that Constantine's men were probably watching, because arranging for the return of the money he'd taken was part of the deal. He couldn't very well do that without using the phone. So long as they weren't listening, he didn't care. Even so, he kept his back to the dining room because he needed to get at the paper in the lining of his jacket and he preferred to do that unobserved.

  His only real concern was that Blackthorne wouldn't believe he hadn't killed his partner. He needn't have worried.

  Blackthorne identified himself first, then said, "I've been hoping you'd remember you still had friends out here. What took you so long?"

  "Everything was under control until a couple of days ago," Hawk said. "Besides, I didn't want to involve anyone in what I thought needed to be done."

  "Thought, as in past tense?"

  "Yes. It was my intention to take out the man on top," he said, and knew Blackthorne would understand he was talking about Constantine. "With myself as the only witness and my good name a touch soiled, it seemed like the only way to get justice done."

  "Who really killed your partner?" Blackthorne asked. "The man you're after?"

  "His son. I returned the favor that same night. The complicating factor was my ex-boss. He was at the scene."

  There was a silence as Blackthorne assimilated the information. "He's walking on both sides of the fence, then. That's interesting. No wonder you went to ground." He hesitated, then asked, "So what's changed that made you call me?"

  Hawk told him about Angela, a concise report that left out some of the details but gave Blackthorne all the information he needed. Blackthorne listened without interrupting, then asked what he could do to help.

  Hawk told him what he wanted and how much he could pay. Blackthorne agreed, and Hawk began to pull at the threads in his jacket so he could give Blackthorne the bank-account codes he'd need to get at the money Hawk had stashed. Blackthorne, though, said they'd settle up later, when it was over.

  Which meant, Hawk realized as he put down the phone, that Blackt
horne was a hell of a lot more confident than Hawk about the outcome. It gave him something to hang on to as he sat at a nearby table and waited for Blackthorne to call again.

  "The Sea Charmer is moored about an hour south of your position," Blackthorne said when he called back over an hour later. "It's a small marina, but with enough movement in and around other boats for reasonable cover. If the diver goes in after dusk, he shouldn't have too much difficulty placing the explosives without being noticed."

  They were working on the assumption that Angela would be aboard the Sea Charmer at midnight. It made sense, given the deserted beach where Hawk was to present himself and his assumption that Constantine not only wanted to kill him personally, but that he'd do it on his boat. Constantine wouldn't risk coming ashore, not when he was in a position to force Hawk to come to him.

  Hawk didn't ask how Blackthorne had gotten the information in such a short time. Blackthorne was a man with connections, a lot like Sammy but with a sense of justice in place of Sammy's strictly mercenary attributes.

  "Have you got anyone in mind who can get here in time?" Hawk asked, checking his watch. Dusk was about nine hours away.

  "There's a man up in Portland who can get there in plenty of time," Blackthorne said. "He gave me a list of equipment, and I've got someone else working that end. Another man should be at the marina anytime now. He'll keep an eye on the Sea Charmer, but I doubt he'll see anything. They won't risk bringing her aboard until the last minute, and then they'll probably pick her up en route to the beach."

  Hawk agreed and added, "I'd forgotten how efficient you could be."

  "It's a good plan," Blackthorne said in return. "The only part I don't like is the end. You haven't left yourself a way out."

  "There isn't one."

  "Why don't you let me work on that? I can get some men into the area—"

  "I can't take that chance," Hawk cut in. "He'll kill Angela if he smells a trap."

  Blackthorne hesitated, then said, "Trust me. You know I'll do it right."

  Hawk thought about it. "Yes. Thank you."

  "Have you given any thought to a backup plan in case they don't use the Sea Charmer?"