Footsteps of the Hawk

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You took Death all the way through the last round.

And got jobbed by the judges.

Again.

No more fixed fights for you, little warrior.

Now it's— finally— time to play.

ACKNOWLEDGMENT

To Alan Grant

a volunteer in a war not his own

to free all the Children of the Secret

FOOTSTEPS OF THE HAWK

In my business, if you're the last one to a meet you could end up being left there when it's over.

I watched the refrigerator–white Range Rover work its way around the broken chunks of concrete dotting the asphalt that used to be a parking lot. Those luxo four–bys cost big bucks— I guessed Saunders had come into some serious money since the last time we did business. The big rig nosed forward, came to a halt at the start of the pier, then reversed so its rear end was backed against the abandoned building.

I trained the binoculars on the driver's door, watching the man get out. It was Saunders all right, dressed in a suburban safari outfit, right down to a pair of gleaming black boots. The passenger door opened. Another man. Medium height, with a face too chubby for his build, wearing a camo jacket and combat boots, eyes covered with mirror–lensed aviator sunglasses. I climbed down from my perch atop a heavy crossbeam using a rope ladder dyed black. As I moved closer to the door, the ladder merged into the shadows.

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