Now he would bring revenge to those who had wronged him. If he could not be part of the world, then he would destroy it and all that was good in it.
He chose a new name: Draco—Latin for the Serpent. Those who helped him now did not work for him but worshipped him. They were pariahs like he was. Lost souls. He took them in and became their Master, the one who would show them a new way. It complicated things, but it was necessary; a man could not punish the world alone. He needed an army.
When his plan came to fruition the whole world would feel the pain, even those who devoted themselves to him. They would not understand until it was too late; such was the fate of those who followed. But the others would see and they would know who had bested them.
He wanted one group in particular to bear the brunt of his wrath. And to be sure he had the right targets, he had to know the truth, he had to see the face that had answered La Bruzca’s call.
A garage door opened on the side of the warehouse and La Bruzca’s thugs pushed a white sedan out onto the drive. It caught the sun, gleaming like polished marble.
Draco raised the binoculars and watched as one man filled the tank from a plastic can while another removed something from the trunk.
La Bruzca came out next, followed by the man in the leather jacket, who opened the sedan’s door as if he owned it. He paused with a foot on the sill of the door, one arm resting on the roof, and the other clasping the open door frame.
Focusing the eyepiece, Draco could see their lips moving and watch them laughing, all without sound or context. A smile from the man in the leather jacket breathed arrogance and stirred the bile in Draco’s heart. And then he turned and looked directly up the hill, almost right at Draco.
The truth was shown forth. The others called this man Hawker, but Draco knew his real name. And if he had come for La Bruzca’s missiles, there could be no denying whom he worked for now.
Draco had his answers. The Serpent would devour the Hawk, but not before destroying everything he might hold dear.
CHAPTER 4
Thirty minutes after leaving the meeting, Hawker pulled up in front of the Excelsior Hotel driving the gleaming Jaguar. He got out, tossed the keys to the excited valet, and walked inside.
He crossed the lobby quickly, making his way to a broad staircase that led to the second floor and a five-star restaurant that overlooked the harbor.
The view was stunning. The hotel sat on the waterfront, jutting up from the seawall and rising several stories as if it were part of the battlements that ringed the harbor. Dorade was the flagship restaurant of the hotel and included a thin balcony that ran the length of the building overlooking the harbor and the Lovrijenac fortress.
The food and service had won awards across Europe. A shame, Hawker thought, as it would honestly be wasted on him. Food was food, you ate it to survive, and if it tasted good that was a bonus, but in general he paid little attention to it.
On the other hand, he needed a place to sit and wait and watch. Departing Croatia immediately would look suspicious, but on the slim chance La Bruzca discovered his deception, Hawker wanted to see the trouble coming, and the table at the end of the balcony would give him a view of the sea and the road leading up to the hotel, all while allowing him to keep his back to the proverbial stone wall.
He would sit and eat and linger. A bottle of wine on the table would go mostly untouched and then he’d retire to his room, arrange for the Jaguar to be shipped somewhere, and take a cab to the airport, leaving his room paid for but empty during the night.
If he lasted that long it meant La Bruzca had no idea that he’d attached a transmitter to the guidance system of the Stinger missile. It meant that La Bruzca had buttoned up his crates and begun looking for another, less sophisticated buyer.
Hawker was almost certain this would be the case. It had gone well at the warehouse. And even if La Bruzca chose to check the missile in question, he or his men would have to know exactly what they were looking for. The transmitter itself was all but identical to the rest of the circuit board. A well-schooled technician might miss it.
In fact, he would have been completely certain of the operation’s success, had it not been for La Bruzca’s odd comment and vague threat regarding what he knew or believed about Hawker.
Reaching the top of the stairs, Hawker turned. He passed the host’s stand with a nod to the employees he’d paid handsomely to reserve his table and then strode down the narrow aisle of the balcony.
Evenly spaced tables sat pressed against a waist-high wall on his right. On his left a glass partition kept the remainder of the restaurant out of the ever-changing weather.
He passed a lone patron at the first table and a continental power couple dining at the second. The man wore a thousand-euro suit, while a watch that cost twice that dangled from his wrist. The woman might have walked off the runway somewhere. Dressed in couture, way too skinny, she looked entirely bored as she sipped champagne.
She flashed her eyes at Hawker as he passed, an act the man with her seemed to notice with disdain. Hawker ignored them both and continued on toward his table at the end of the row.
Halfway there, a red-haired patron turned. The man stretched out a hand and, using a cane, blocked Hawker’s path like a toll gate.
Hawker looked down at the cane and then over at the man who held it. Powerfully built, with shoulders like Olympus and steel-gray eyes that seemed out of place beneath tangled hair the color of tomato sauce, David Keegan was a former member of the British SAS and onetime agent for MI-6. Before all that and before an explosion that had torn half his guts out, Keegan had been an alternate for the British national rugby team. What he did now was anyone’s guess. Hawker had a few ideas, none of them good.
A porcelain-skinned woman sat across from Keegan, picking at some sashimi, her eyes hidden by mirrored aviators. She dressed the part, but unlike the trophy sitting at table number two, this woman might be as deadly as either of them.
Keegan smiled. “I would have sat at your table, mate, but the view is just crap from there.”
“Depends what you’re looking for,” Hawker said.
The Brit shrugged in agreement. “I suppose it does.”
Hawker glanced around. He had no reason to expect trouble from Keegan, he’d even saved the man’s life once, but Hawker didn’t believe in coincidence, and Keegan’s brash manner suggested more than a casual meeting.
La Bruzca’s words began running through his mind again. If I believed even half of what I’m told, you’d be dead. Could Keegan have known who Hawker worked for now? Could he have given that information away?
With the cane still blocking his way, and damn curious as to what Keegan might be doing there, Hawker grabbed a chair. He pulled it up and sat down in the only spot available: right between the two.
With Keegan on his left, the girl on his right, and his back to the glass wall and the goings-on in the restaurant, Hawker became painfully aware that he was now in exactly the position he didn’t want to be.
“What the hell you doing here?” he asked.
Keegan flashed a smile across the table to the girl.
“How’s that for a greeting?” he said. “We come all the way from merry old England to find him and he ain’t even got a simple hello for us.”
“We were at your place in Greece,” the girl said flatly.