Warlord

TWENTY-SEVEN

NO SUDDEN MOVEMENT," ALEX SAID to his friend Congreve, barely above a whisper. "Sign of weakness. He'll attack instantly if he sees it."

As Hawke said this he slowly slipped his hand inside his mac and gripped the butt of the SIG Sauer P230 holstered beneath his arm, inserting his finger inside the guard. Because of its relatively small size there was never a telltale bulge. But its magazine capacity was only seven rounds of.380 ammunition.

On an uninhabited island, this lack of firepower was highly unlikely to be a problem. Now, it had all the makings of one.

"Shoot him, Alex; look, he's getting ready to lunge for us!"

"I will only if I have to," Hawke said, his gunsight now leveled between the dog's eyes. "Raise your flashlight slowly above your head and fling it right at him. If it doesn't scare him off, I will shoot him."

"Good Lord," Congreve said, raising the heavy flashlight with a trembling hand and flinging it at the wild dog. He missed by mere inches, yet the dog didn't even flinch. He snarled viciously and suddenly leaped forward. Alex Hawke shot him in midair, a quick round to the head. The dog dropped to the ground without a sound, quite dead, barely inside the church door.

"Back to work," Hawke said, holstering his weapon.

"Good Lord," Congreve said again, staring at the dead animal as he bent to retrieve his flashlight. A dog built like this monster could rip a man to shreds in a matter of seconds. The rough seas he'd crossed were beginning to have a certain charm.

TEN MINUTES LATER, USING TWO small hand spades, they had cleared away all the soil. A wooden door, old, but hardly ancient, had been buried beneath the altar and hidden beneath a few inches of carefully tamped-down black earth. Hawke grasped the iron ring and pulled.

The door squealed loudly on its rusted iron hinges but swung open with surprising ease after all these years of disuse. The poisonous air that instantly wafted out of that centuries-old hole in the ground made both men choke and gag.

Congreve staggered back, eyes watering, kicking dirt and pebbles into the yawning black opening. Hawke leaned forward and played his light about the space below.

"What's down there?" Congreve croaked.

"No idea. But whatever it is, it's what we came here to find."

Hawke leaned deeper into the hole with his light. The only object of note was an ancient stone staircase descending darkly into God only knows what fresh hell lay below.

"I'm going down there," he said to Ambrose. "Care to join me?"

Congreve pulled a white linen handkerchief from somewhere inside his mac and clamped it over his nose and mouth. Seemingly unable to speak, he nodded his head in the affirmative. He crouched by the foul-smelling hole in the earth as Hawke descended; his nose was running and his eyes were tearing so badly he could barely see.

"You'd better come down and see this, Constable," Hawke's voice called seconds later.

Congreve, despite all his wanton misgivings, went down the worn stone staircase only to find that Hawke had not moved a foot away from the steps.

"Look at that," he said.

Congreve, who'd been busily watching his feet descend the treacherous staircase, raised his eyes and followed the beam of Hawke's light.

"Ah," he said.

The room was one large square, with an opening at the far side. It looked to be a tunnel leading off into more darkness.

"Ah, what?" Hawke said.

"A crypt." Ambrose played his light over the four walls, each completely decorated from floor to ceiling with yellowed human skulls jammed together to form a nightmare decor.

"I know it's a crypt, Ambrose. What I'm talking about is that tunnel leading off to God knows where."

"Tunnels intrigue me," Congreve said. "Always have."

"And me as well."

"This room is either Pagan or Early Christian, I'm not sure. We may find out at the end of that tunnel."

"Then let's proceed with all due haste," Hawke said, leading the way.

The tunnel was fairly wide but less than five feet in height, so both men had to stoop to pass through it.

Hawke figured they'd traveled about a hundred feet when they came into the next room.

It was round, with a domed ceiling, the entire space decorated like the first, with human skulls crammed together, floor to ceiling. In the very center of the room, directly beneath the dome, was a large circular structure.

"And what might that be?" Hawke asked, shining his light on the thing. It was a circle of stone, perhaps eight feet in diameter, and it rose about four feet from the earthen floor, which was covered with the small white pebbles. From Ambrose's vantage point, the structure looked to be empty.

"Well, it's definitely not a child's wading pool," Congreve said, advancing slowly toward the thing. It was very, very old stone, and the exterior was decorated with carvings and hieroglyphs similar to those on the obelisk in the graveyard above. Ambrose dropped to one knee and began examining the symbols carefully with his omnipresent magnifying glass.

"Have you been inside the catacombs beneath Rome?" he asked Hawke.

"No."

"You'll find similar structures there. This is a fountain, oddly enough. At one point, the room surrounding this fountain was filled with hundreds, perhaps thousands of human bones."

"That fountain is where the smell is coming from."

"I noticed that," Congreve said. "Look inside, please."

Hawke held his breath, put one hand on the rim, and looked into the fountain or whatever it was. The stink was coming from the stuff at the bottom, a foul grey sludge that stank to high heaven. Clearly the source of the foul underground air.

"Disgusting," Hawke said. "Have a peek."

Congreve rose and peered inside.

"Yes, just as I thought."

Saying nothing more, he again donned his latex gloves. Then he leaned over the edge and dipped his right index finger into the pungent muck. Quickly withdrawing it, he held it for the briefest moment under his nose.

"Hmm."

"I hate it when you say that. What the hell is that god-awful stuff?"

"Sulfuric acid. At one point this fountain was filled to the brim with it."

"But who-?"

"Our mysterious Mr. Smith. This is where he disposed of his victims. He rid himself of the bodies in this Pagan fountain. Submerged his victims in acid, hopefully postmortem. Completely destroyed the physical evidence. Bad luck."

"No remains at all?"

"No. I'm afraid we've come all this way for nothing, Alex. Every trace of those poor women's bodies is gone. I know of cases where someone is tried in the absence of any trace of a body. But they are extremely rare. Only a tiny fraction of them ever come to trial."

"Let's get out of here, then, Ambrose. The stench is unbearable."

"I agree. I think we might-Ouch! Damn it!"

Congreve stood up, rubbing his right knee.

"What happened?" Hawke said.

"One of those damned pebbles. Dug right into my knee."

He bent to brush it from his trouser leg, hesitated, then plucked it off his flannel trousers and held it to the light.

"We may be in luck after all," he said, flicking open his small gold magnifying glass and holding the thing up to his eye for closer inspection.

"Because of that damn pebble?"

"It's not a pebble, Alex; it's a gallstone. Not animal, either. A human gallstone, in fact."

"Is that proof of anything?"

"Indeed it is. Under a molecular microscope, we might determine the presence of something called Helicobacter."

"And what might that be?"

"DNA. Human DNA."

He withdrew a small Ziploc baggie from his rain gear and dropped the precious nugget of evidence inside. Hawke was already halfway through the tunnel, and Congreve quickly followed in his wake.

Considering the horrific stench underground, he was surprised to find Alex Hawke waiting patiently for him at the bottom of the stone staircase.

"What is it, Alex?" he said, joining him.

"Up there." Hawke pointed with his flashlight. "At the top of the steps."

Another feral dog, this one bigger and blacker than the first, stared down at the two men below. Its eyes shone bright red in the gleam of Hawke's light. The animal's sharp snout was smeared with red blood. The blood was dripping down, spattering the stone steps below.

"Cain has been having a go at Abel," Hawke said.

"What?" Congreve said, his focus riveted on the gleaming red eyes above.

"This one's been munching on his dead brother in the doorway," Hawke said. "The scent of blood must have drawn him in."

"Alex, consider. Would you imagine there are many more of these wild dogs on the island?"

"Yes. They breed in the wild and they tend to run in packs."

"How many more might be out there, would you suppose?"

"No idea," Hawke said, pulling out his gun.

"How many rounds do you have left in your weapon?"

"One for this major bastard above. Five more for the rest."

"I think it's high time we bid farewell to Mutton Island."

"I agree," Hawke said, raising his gun and shooting the menace at the top of the steps.

THEY WERE CROSSING ROCKY GROUND, nearing the boat when the wild dog pack began to appear. The first one came slinking out from behind the ruins of a small stone cottage. It followed them, loping along at a distance. Moments later it was joined by two more, racing up from behind. Hawke held the SIG Sauer, a round in the chamber, in his right hand. An expert marksman, he wasn't worried about hitting his targets. He was worried about having more targets than bullets.

"Alex?"

"I know. I saw them. Bummer. Walk faster but do it gradually. We're almost there."

"Bummer?"

"Slang. Harry Brock talk for bad luck. He says it all the time. California, you know."

"Ah, our old chum, Mr. Brock."

Alex was conscious of movement on both sides, shadowy figures moving ever closer, stalking them.

"Slow down," he said to Congreve. "If they see you running, they'll attack."

"You slow down if you want. I don't think we can outrun them."

"I don't need to outrun them. I just need to outrun you."

"Alex, if you think that is remotely humorous-"

A dog leaped out of the mist, directly in front of them. He launched himself at Ambrose going for his throat. Hawke fired instantly, and the dog dropped heavily to the ground, mewling in pain, literally a mere foot from Congreve's Wellies.

"Run hard for the boat," he told Ambrose. "Do it now. I'll lag behind. Dogs will go for the easy meat first, but it won't take them long to devour this one. Use this knife to slice the mooring line, then shove the boat into the surf. If another dog comes at you, go for his throat with the knife. Stab first, then rip with the saw blade, that's what it's for. But for God's sake, strike to kill. Shout when you're safely aboard."

Congreve looked at the knife and said, "I'm uncomfortable with knives, Alex. Always have been."

"You have another choice. When the dog lunges at you, simply grab each of his forelegs in midair, grip them tightly, and rip his chest apart. It works; I've done it a few times with Chinese police dogs."

"I'll take the knife."

"I thought so. Now, go!"

Congreve didn't need encouragement. He raced ahead, the saw-toothed assault knife in his hand, soon disappearing into the heavy ground fog. He quickly reached the rocky beach and made his way carefully down the slippery boulders to the shaly beach below. The boat was right where they'd left it, although the flood tide was in a bit and she was almost afloat. That would make it much easier to shove her offshore to wait for Hawke.

He was about to use Hawke's assault knife to sever the mooring line when he heard a low growl from above. He whirled round just as the beast leaped from the rocks above, snarling like some demon out of hell. Congreve braced himself, instinctively raising the knife to protect himself, and, seeing that the animal's throat was exposed as it lunged, he thrust upward with the blade as the dog came down. Instead of withdrawing the knife, he did exactly as Hawke had instructed, almost decapitating the rabid beast in the process.

It fell to the ground at his feet, dead.

Ambrose, breathing heavily, simply stood and stared down at the corpse, hardly able to believe what he'd just done, with a knife of all things. It never failed to amaze him what human beings were capable of when they found themselves in extreme circumstances. Sheer instinct, and the will to live, had made even an overweight, middle-aged detective who smoked and drank too much a very formidable foe against a rabid dog.

HAWKE, PRAYING THAT WHAT LITTLE he remembered of canine behavior was correct, ran forward a hundred yards, turned, and dropped to one knee. He held his pistol in both hands, swinging it in a smooth arc from side to side, the adrenaline rush bringing all of his senses to the fore.

The dogs converged on the wounded animal, snarling, growling furiously, snapping at one another, all of them fighting for a piece of fresh meat and the taste of warm blood. Couldn't even count how many. Ten? Fifteen? More maybe.

It took about a minute for the first one to turn his attention away from the shredded animal on the ground and focus on Hawke. It approached cautiously at first, then broke into a lightning-fast run. Hawke waited until the beast got within twenty yards before he killed it.

He got to his feet and ran another hundred or so yards, before turning and dropping to his knee again, gun in both hands, becoming his enemy like he'd been trained to do: all eyes, all ears, all nose. Waiting. Half of the pack soon broke off and came for the freshly dead. Ignoring the man in the mist beyond, they went in for the quick feed.

Hawke made an instant decision. He had four rounds left in his weapon. He no longer had his knife, the one thing that could keep him alive. No matter what happened, he would kill three dogs as soon as they turned away and started for him. Keep that one last round in the chamber. Just in case. Run like hell for the boat as soon as he heard Ambrose's summons.

He didn't have to wait long.

Having devoured the last dead dog, the pack turned, sniffed the air, and started coming for Alex Hawke. They were cautious now, having learned something about their human prey from previous experience. They also fanned out, which made things far more difficult. The ground mist didn't help either. He flicked on his flashlight. It picked out all the red eyes.

Something about them, those terrible bobbing eyes and what they represented, death, made him feel more alive than he had felt since-since Stockholm. Since Anastasia Korsakova. Since he'd lost her. Since he'd lost his lust for life. Since he'd lost everything.

"Come on, you miserable bastards," Hawke said through his gritted teeth. "Come closer. I've got something for you."

The dogs went from hazy apparitions in the fog, to stark black silhouettes with bouncing red rubies in their heads, to ferocious snarling animals who wanted desperately to kill and eat him. He sighted in on three. One in the middle of the pack, two on either side. He aimed and shot, one, two, three rounds cooked off, and three dogs went down.

The pack hesitated, saw what had happened, and went into a renewed feeding frenzy that reminded him of shark behavior. Brutal and fascinating, a wild dance of life and death that was almost hypnotic. He tore his attention away from the blood feast at the sound of Congreve's muffled voice in the mist.

"I'm aboard the boat! Do you hear me?"

Hawke jumped to his feet and surely ran as fast as he'd ever run in his life. One of the damn dogs elected to pester him, nipping at his bloody heels until he wheeled and shot the beast dead, expending his last bullet just as he reached the beach, splashing into the surf and diving over the gunwale of the little boat, bruising his shoulder when he hit the deck.

He got to his feet, wiped the stinging saltwater from his eyes, and smiled at Ambrose.

"Ahoy, Captain. Ensign Hawke reporting for duty."

"Thank God. Start the engines and get us away from this accursed place."

"Any problems along the way, Constable?" Hawke asked, firing the engines.

"None at all, thank you."

"What about the corpse of that dog lying on the beach?"

"Oh, that? Wasn't a problem at all. Slit his throat from ear to ear."

"Shall we be off, then, do you suppose?"

"Indeed. I fancy a rather large whiskey at the Pennywhistle before turning in. Would you care to join me?"

"I should be delighted."

"Done and done."

"On our merry way, then, Constable," Hawke said, and, firing the engines, he shoved the throttle full forward and powered away from Mutton Island, glad he and his companion seemed to have all of their body parts intact.

Mutton Island had been relatively easy.

Something told him the Barking Dog Inn was going to be an entirely different matter.

Congreve, pulling his collar up against the cold, wet wind, said, "Alex, have I ever mentioned an old acquaintance of mine? Chap by the name of Bulldog Drummond?"

"No. I've heard the name, of course. He was a character in a series of mystery novels I read as a boy. By an author who called himself 'Sapper.'"

"This character is quite real, I assure you. And I think he would be of enormous help to us in this next mission. We worked the Mountbatten assassination together. Retired now."

"Fine. Where do we find him?"

"He lives in the little town of Glin on the River Shannon."