Warriors: An Alex Hawke Novel (Alex Hawke Novels)
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Five years ago a brilliant American scientist, well known in high-tech military circles, suddenly disappeared without a trace off the streets of Washington, DC.
Now a professor at Cambridge University is murdered, a victim of bizarre, ancient Chinese torture methods. Counterspy Alex Hawke teams with former Scotland Yard chief inspector Ambrose Congreve to find the killer, but they soon discover that this death is merely the opening gambit in a tense and lethal game of geopolitical brinkmanship.
In the United States, the president is behaving erratically and some begin to question his fitness for leadership as hostile exchanges and new technologies ramp up tensions between China, North Korea, and the United States—threatening western military superiority.
With the situation edging closer and closer to the abyss, Hawke must face down a superb Chinese assassin and pull off his most daring mission yet: infiltrate enemy territory and neutralize their advantage . . . or risk the outbreak of World War III.
haystack on a horse-drawn cart, a lone vicar on his wobbly bicycle, and an ancient crone walking stooped beneath a heavy burden. From chimneys of little stone cottages scattered hither and yon, tendrils of grey smoke rose into the pale orange sky. He had awoken to this chilly morning in early April to watch a grey ground fog swirl up under the eaves and curl around the endless gables and chimneys of the rambling seventeenth-century manor house. Hawkesmoor, that ancient pile was called. It had
superficial, thank heaven, but he was in pain and shock. The aged man’s soft footfalls echoed on the hardwood floor. Each measured step he took toward the bird he counted as a minute victory. He came to a stop two feet before the dresser. Alexei buried his head against Pelham’s chest. The poor child was shuddering with fear. “Almost done,” he whispered. “Almost over . . .” The fire axe was leaning against the wall, just where he’d left it. With his one free hand, he reached forward, to
was a 1963 Shelby AC Cobra. It was an original, set up for racing by Carroll Shelby himself. With a highly modified 427-cubic-inch engine putting out 450 horsepower, it was capable of achieving speeds nearing 180 miles per hour. It was painted in the famous Cobra racing livery, dark blue with two wide white stripes down the centerline. It had been purchased by Hawke’s man at the Barrett-Jackson auction in Scottsdale, Arizona, and flown to England, arriving by flatbed lorry late the previous
used for illumination throughout the house. There was electricity, of course, but Chyna Moon detested artificial lighting. She detested artificial anything. Glad to be home again after an exhausting day of conferences and advising doctoral thesis candidates at her private office at Cambridge, she sighed and got down to the real business at hand. Her other life. Her secret life. There were several typed sheets stapled together and a small vellum envelope addressed to her, which she opened
quite some time, it appeared. “Oh. Sorry,” he said. “Mind was elsewhere.” “I understand you wished to see me, sir? Pelham mentioned something this evening. I hope this is not an inconvenient time, m’lord.” “Not at all. Please, do sit down. Yes, right there is fine, just fine. Bit drafty in here tonight, closer to the hearth the better. Good, good.” She settled into the wing-backed chair beside the crackling fire and smoothed her dress. Prim, too, he thought. “Thank you, sir.” “How are you