War Hawk: A Tucker Wayne Novel by James Rollins, Grant Blackwood Page B

gave a sad shake of his head. “The times are changing.” He then cleared his throat. “Listen, Frank, I have a confession. I’m here for a reason.”
    “What? You mean beyond seeking out my delightful company?” Those bushy eyebrows rose higher, then settled back down. “Yeah, I figured. You all but dropped off the map after leaving the service and now you end up on my doorstep. It’s okay, man. What’s up?”
    “I’m looking for a missing friend. She was stationed at Redstone.”
    “Missing?”
    “For over a month. Her name is Sandy Conlon.”
    “Never heard of her, but that’s no surprise. Redstone’s a big place. Where’d she work?”
    Tucker smiled sheepishly. “That’s the thing—I have no idea. She never told anyone close to her. Never even mentioned the name of her command.”
    “Hmm . . . curiouser and curiouser. But if you’re here speaking with me, you’re thinking this has something to do with her post?”
    “Just trying to cover all the bases.”
    Frank slowly nodded, the gears clearly turning in his head. “And let me guess . . . you haven’t called the police or Redstone.”
    “I’d like to avoid that.”
    Those brows lifted again.
    Tucker raised a palm. “I don’t want to get you in any trouble, but I need to find her. She may not be the only one in danger.”
    Frank stared at him, studying him. A single finger tapped on the table. Tucker remembered this nervous tic of Frank’s, marking when he was in deep thought, weighing the significance of some new intelligence.
    Frank finally came to a conclusion and leaned back, a wry smile fluttering. “Let me do some poking around. If there’s any trouble, it’ll be like the old days. As you used to say: I’ll line ’em up, and you’ll knock ’em down.”
    Tucker lifted his beer and clinked it against Frank’s bottle. “Deal.”
    6:08 P . M .
    Karl Webster paced the length of the cavernous cement-block bunker, which housed the installation’s engineering lab. With the sun already down and the technicians safely back in their cabins for the night, he had the place to himself. The bunker was cordoned off into several work spaces, each assigned to explore another facet of the project. But in the center, resting on the concrete floor and hidden under a large tarp, was the latest prototype.
    He ran his fingertips along one of its shrouded wings, which spanned an efficient meter and a half. The techs called it a Shrike, named after a little bird—a stone-cold killer—that captured lizards and insects, even other birds, and impaled them on the thorns of an acacia tree to pick apart at their leisure.
    He smiled at how apt that name was. Though he only oversaw security for the project, he could not discount the flicker of pride at the accomplishment here. But now all his hard work was at risk.
    All because of one man—and his damned dog .
    He pictured the trespasser whom he had discovered skulking about Sandy Conlon’s house, and the brief firefight that had followed. The man had subsequently escaped and vanished into the shadows.
    Yet another problem to deal with . . .
    A knock drew his attention to the bunker’s main door.
    And here came another .
    The door opened and in stalked Rafael Lyon, head of security for Horizon Media. He pushed past one of Karl’s men and entered with a dark glower on his scarred face, the fluorescent light shining off his shaved scalp. The man wore black tactical gear with a rifle over his shoulder. His flight had landed in Huntsville only forty minutes ago, but he clearly was not one to let any grass grow under his boots.
    “What have you discovered about the bastard who got away?” Lyon asked brusquely, skipping any pleasantries.
    Despite the man’s thick French accent, Karl heard the accusation in his words. He also read the threat in the narrow pinch of those eyes. He knew this was no idle attempt at intimidation. Failure would not be tolerated.
    Still, Karl clenched a fist, embarrassed and