“My gut, too, Harry. Sit tight. We’ve got to do this right the first time, or they could get hurt.”
“Assuming they’re still alive.”
“We wouldn’t be here if we didn’t assume that.”
Hawke felt an old twinge of irritation. Sometimes Harry talked too much. There was a negative cast to his personality that Hawke did not admire. Still, he was a good man in a fight, hard as hell to kill, and Hawke was glad he had him along tonight.
The man by the door was slouched in a chair, smoking a cigarette. A rifle dangled loosely from one hand. Hawke saw something familiar: the long dreadlocks hanging about the shoulders, the Selassie sweatshirt, and the heavy gold chains draped around the neck. And even in the low light, the gleam of gold at his mouth.
“I know this guy,” Hawke said, studying the figure through a small monocular hung around his neck.
“Who is he?”
“Calls himself the Prince of Darkness. Name is Desmond Coale. He’s the son of the man who’s been invading my privacy, Samuel Coale. Coale’s inside that building.”
“Head shot,” Harry said matter-of-factly. He’d affixed the silencer to his SAW and was putting his eye to the night-vision scope preparatory to putting a single round through Desmond’s left ear.
“No,” Hawke said, pulling the barrel down. “We’ll use Desmond to get to the father. We’ll split up, circle around through the woods to either side of the building, come at him from behind. On the count of thirty, make some kind of noise over on your side of the building, get him to come to you. I’ll do the rest. Thirty seconds. On my mark. Ready, Harry?”
“Born ready.”
“Remember, we want this character alive, Harry. Go.”
They separated, Harry going left, Hawke right, each man moving quickly and silently through the dense vegetation that surrounded the old NASA building. Hawke saw movement behind the curtains in an upstairs window. Someone pulled the curtain aside and peered out into the darkness for a few moments, then disappeared. There was music, loud reggae, and some raucous laughter coming from that upstairs room. Hawke recognized the song playing. Jimmy Cliff’s “The Harder They Come.”
Hawke ran quickly from the cover of the woods to the side of the crumbling concrete building. He paused briefly, looking at his dive watch. In five seconds, Harry would somehow distract Desmond. He moved to the front of the building and peered around the corner. Desmond was still in his chair, head down, reading his newspaper in the yellow light of the doorway.
A second later, a muddy old soccer ball bounced from behind the other side of the building. It rolled to a stop maybe fifteen feet from young Coale’s feet. He looked over at it, threw his paper to the ground, got up, and went over to see what the hell was going on.
“Who’s dat fuckin’ wit me?” he said loudly, still holding the rifle loosely at his side. Getting no reply, he went forward to pick up the ball.
That’s when Hawke made his move. He was around the corner and up behind Desmond before the Rastaman had taken three steps toward the ball. As Desmond stood, Hawke snatched a great handful of thick, matted dreadlocks, yanked the man’s head straight back, and lay the flat side of his serrated assault blade against his throat, just under the bobbing Adam’s apple.
“Dat’s me fuckin’ wit you, Prince,” Hawke whispered into the man’s ear.
“Who?”
“My name is Hawke, remember me? My colleague and I have come here to kill you. Or collect our friends. Your call. Nod if you understand your two choices, Desmond.”
The Jamaican made a strangled sound in his throat and said, “Dat’s not me, mon. I ain’t de Prince, mon, dat’s Desmond, he’s my bra’. My brother inside de house. I am called Clifford.”
“You look a whole lot like Desmond to me.”
“We twins, mon, I swear it’s de troo’t.”
Hawke sensed it was. It was tough to lie convincingly with a knife at your throat.
“Say one word, Clifford, you make any sound at all, and you’re dead. Understand me?”
Clifford managed to nod yes without slicing his own throat open. His brother had already told him this Hawke was a man to be taken seriously.
“Okay, Clifford, relax. We’re all going inside now.”
Hawke looked over his shoulder and saw Harry moving toward the open entrance with his weapon at the ready.
“Is your father inside? Upstairs?” Hawke whispered in Clifford’s ear. “Nod, yes or no.”
Getting a yes, Hawke said, “I believe the old man has company. Two Englishmen. Yes?”
He got another yes nod.
“Excellent. Let’s go see how they’re doing. You’d better start praying that no harm has come to them. You understand me?”
He turned the man around and marched him to the entrance, the two of them going inside the front door just behind Harry Brock.
They walked into a big square room filled with sofas and a blank large-screen TV on one wall. The room was empty except for the trash swept into the corners. So, apparently, was the smaller room beyond, which was dominated by a large snooker table, the felt long gone, probably used for meetings and dining. A naked bulb, dimly lit, dangled above the table. To the right, an open staircase led to the second floor.
“Where is everybody, Clifford? Whisper.”
“Dey mostly off island, it bein’ Saturday night. Drinkin’ wit de Skanktown ho’s at de Skibo Grill, mos’ likely.”
“Where’s your father?”
“He upsteers. Wit de prisoners. Wit my bra’. Dey havin’ a party up dere.”
“Let’s crash that party, shall we?”
They quickly mounted the stairs, Harry first with his SAW at the ready. There was a long hallway, hot, damp, and funky, leading to the rear of the building. The music was louder now, and also the sound of laughter was coming from the room Hawke had seen from the woods. The sweet stench of marijuana was almost overpowering. The heat inside the concrete building was intense, even hours after sundown.
“Okay,” Hawke said. “Harry, you’re through the door first, go in low, and show your weapon to get everyone’s attention. I’ll be right behind you with the Prince’s lookalike. Got it?”
“Got it, boss,” Harry said, smiling. He loved this stuff, lived for it. It was all over his face.
The peeling wooden hallway door was closed. From behind it came a confused roaring, laughter, and a breaking of glass. Hawke stood behind Harry, with Clifford still immobilized by his blade, and watched Harry’s right foot strike the door halfway up, blowing it inward. Harry went in low and racked the slide on the SAW, letting everybody get a good peek down the barrel, not a sight recommended for the faint-hearted. The ragged men were stunned but remained sitting in rows of chairs three deep that formed a ring in the center of the floor.
Hawke followed Harry inside, took it all in at a glance. The temperature inside the unpainted concrete-block room had to be more than a hundred degrees Fahrenheit. The smells of copious sweat, coppery blood, and spilt rum hit him like a wall. There was a rooster trapped in the center of the circle, and the men seated all around were taking great delight in hurling empty rum bottles at the bird, the cock screeching and flapping about. The bird was bloodied, had been hit a few times, and the concrete floor was covered with smeared blood and broken glass. A pile of feathery corpses lay at the feet of one of the participants.
The men’s golden smiles froze on their dark faces, and the effect was startling. Some of them still held half-empty rum bottles poised above their heads, but they lowered them as they saw the grim expression on Hawke’s face. And the second semiautomatic weapon he held in his left hand.
Hawke pushed Clifford inside in front of him and let everybody get a good look at him. Harry began patting down the party boys, looking for weapons.
“Anybody armed, Harry?” Hawke asked. “Aside from the rum bottles, I mean?”