him.
“I, Victoria, take thee Alexander to my wedded husband, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish till death us do part, according to God’s holy ordinance, and thereto I give thee my troth.”
There was the exchange of rings and suddenly the organ pipes filled the church with what could only be called the sounds of heaven and he was somehow aware that he was lifting Vicky’s veil to kiss her; that Congreve having delivered the ring, stood now with eyes full of tears, and then he heard the vicar’s final volley of oratory thunder.
“Those whom God hath joined together, let no man put asunder!”
He embraced his bride, actually lifting her off her feet, to the delight of all assembled, and then he was hurrying her down the aisle festooned with white satin and lilies, through all the applause and smiling faces of their friends and towards the sunshine which filled the doorway and the future. Outside the entrance, his uniformed comrades formed two opposing lines. On the command, “Draw swords!” steel was raised, forming an arch, cutting edge facing up.
He’d meant for the two of them to quickly duck through the gleaming silver arch created by his Royal Navy Guard of Honor and race for the Bentley, but the overflow of well-wishers had spilled out onto the steps and he and Vicky were forced to stop to receive the hugs and kisses everyone seemed determined to bestow upon them amidst the clouds of white blossoms filling the air.
Out of the corner of his eye, Alex saw Vicky bend to kiss the cheek of the pretty little flower girl and he turned away from her for a moment to embrace her beaming father. Vicky was rising from the kiss, smiling up at him, extending her arms towards him, clearly wanting as much as he did to escape to the back seat of the waiting Bentley.
It was just then, when he was bending to embrace his bride, that the unthinkable happened.
Suddenly Vicky was not leaning into him, she was falling away with a breathless sigh, white petals whirling from the folds of her veil. There was a bright flower of red blooming amongst the snow-white pearls of her satin bodice. Shocked, staggered by what he saw, Alex grabbed her shoulders and pulled her towards him. He was screaming now, as he saw her gaze go distant and glaze over, feeling the gush of warm blood flowing straight from her heart. Victoria’s blood soaked through his shirtfront, and it broke his own heart into infinitely small pieces as he stared into her lifeless eyes.
Chapter Two
STOKELY JONES WAS STANDING ON THE CHURCH STEPS WITH Brick Kelly and Texas Patterson, the three of them maybe four feet away from Alex Hawke when it happened. Stokely thought he’d caught the wink of a muzzle flash. It had been high and on the outside, straight down the third baseline and up in the tree line, near the left crest of that hillside, just opposite the front of the church.
Vicky was dead. That much was for damn sure.
Only took one glance at the girl and he’d known the wound was crosshairs mortal. Then, looking at Alex, still holding his bride in his arms, his anguished face buried in her hair, Stokely heard American and British security forces inside the church shouting at everyone to get down, hit the deck. Heavily armed and flak-jacketed personnel immediately formed themselves a cordon around those standing outside on the steps, telling them to get their asses down as well.
Inside the church, everybody had heard Alex’s scream. There was screaming and confusion in there, too. Hell, man, you had the British prime minister in there, you had lots of royal folks, and you had the damn American ambassador and secretary of state. Not to mention all kinds of other foreign dignitaries and some famous Hollywood people. Lots of likely targets in the little church. But the sniper, he shot the bride.
“Get a doctor here for God’s sakes,” he heard Alex cry again and again in a broken voice, “She needs a doctor right now!”
Stokely saw the look on Alex’s face when he spoke and then he just took off running for the hills, knowing there was nothing he or anybody else could do for Vicky, but thinking there was something he could goddamn well do for Alex.
“Saw a muzzle flash,” he shouted ahead to the group of British special forces and plainclothes guys, bristling with weapons. They were forming up into a perimeter along the stone wall surrounding the churchyard. “Shooter’s up there in the trees on that hill!” The old wall was over four feet high but Stokely, still in his morning clothes, vaulted it in mid-stride and kept running. “You guys, you not too busy, you might want to give me a hand up there,” he shouted back over his shoulder. If the Brits had any brains they’d come with him. If not, he’d go catch the son of a bitch all by himself.
And when he did—
He’d entered the dark woods, the mossy ground spotted with sunlight but dark now even though it was mid-morning, and was scrambling over the roots of some of the biggest trees he’d ever laid eyes on. He saw old stone tablets sticking out of the ground at odd angles and realized he was running through a graveyard, now overgrown with underbrush. The slope of the hill angled sharply upwards and he was having a tough time keeping his footing in the fancy-ass new shoes he was wearing.
That must have been why the young plainclothes guy had been able to catch up with him, and, shit, run right alongside of him for a minute. Stoke was the fastest guy he ever knew and here was this blond-haired, freckle-faced kid matching him stride for stride. Maximum speed of a normal human being, in a short sprint, was about fifteen miles an hour. Stoke had been clocked at a shade under twenty, and this kid was pulling away. Looking at him kind of sideways, too. Hell, six-foot-six black guy in striped pants, a black cutaway and top hat probably not all that common a sight in this neck of the woods.
“Who the bloody hell are you?” the English guy said, not even breathing hard.
“Friend of the groom,” Stokely said, as the two of them leapt over a heap of fallen trees. “Who the bloody hell are you?”
“MI5. Security. Assigned to the prime minister.”
“Good. Shooter was at the top of one of those trees. Just up there on that overhanging cliff…if you—”
The guy sprinted ahead so fast that Stoke didn’t even bother to finish his sentence. For a white guy, the kid was quick. And, if they managed to get lucky, two guns were always better than one. Stoke ripped the top hat off his head and flung it away, picking up his pace and closing the distance between them. Still it was tough to run in a pair of shiny sissy shoes, especially when you had to keep your eyes looking up all the time. Chances were, the shooter had split, but he also could be sitting up there somewhere in the treetops just waiting to pick off somebody like Stoke or the plainclothes kid. Tough call.
Kind of guy who would shoot a bride just coming out of the church? Flat-ass crazy.
He looked down for a split second, having seen or sensed something, all those years in Nam kicking in, and that’s when he saw the trip wire. He managed to clear it by maybe half an inch.
Christ, Stoke thought, the asshole has mined the goddamn woods!
“Stop!” he screamed at the kid up ahead. “Mines! Fucking land mines! Stop right now!”
The kid was wide-eyed, looking back over his shoulder at Stoke when he tripped the wire.
“Aw, Jesus,” Stoke said as he watched the kid go up in a fiery reddish burst of blood and bones and smoke. “Jesus, goddamn Christ!”
The kid still had his eyes open when Stokely reached him. The big man dropped to his knees on the ground beside the boy and cradled what was left of him in his arms. Blood was pouring out of his mouth, but the kid was trying to talk.
“Tell…tell me mum that…tell her that…”
“Hey. Listen up, ’cause this is important. Ain’t nobody but you gonna tell your mum anything, son. You going to be okay, you hear me? You just take it easy, now, and old Stoke, he’s going to stay right with you till the medics get here, all right? They going to fix your ass right up, understand? Good as new. You going to make it, kid, I’m going to personally see to that.”
He sat there, waiting for the boy to die, eyes scanning the treetops, using his handkerchief to catch the blood
