Free What Comes Around: An Alex Hawke Novella (Alex Hawke Novels) by Ted Bell Page B

The narrow lane winding down to the village featured a precarious 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 been home to his family for centuries. It was situated amid vast parklands in the gently rolling hills of the Cotswolds, a leisurely two hours’ drive north of London on the M40 motorway.
    Hawke slid out of bed and into the faded threadbare Levis that lay puddled on the floor where he’d left them at midnight. He pulled an old Royal Navy T-shirt over his head and slipped his bare feet into turquoise-beaded Indian moccasins. They were a particular favorite. He’d bought them during a hunting and fishing expedition with his friends Ambrose Congreve and his fiancée, Lady Diana Mars, to a rustic camp near Flathead Lake, in Montana.
    On this particular spring morning, one day before his departure for far more hostile territory, the South China Sea, of all places, Hawke was full of keen anticipation. Four hundred and fifty very powerful horses that even now were stamping their hooves, waiting for him on the apron of bricks in the stable courtyards.
    “The Snake,” as his new steed was called, 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 afternoon. His primary mechanic, Ian Burns, a fine Irishman with hair and whiskers so blond they were white, gave him a knowing grin. Known forever as “Young Ian,” the lad had been going over the Cobra all night, adjusting the timing, checking the plugs, points, and carbs, making sure all was in readiness for Hawke’s maiden voyage into the surrounding countryside.
    “Quite the brute y’ve got yerself here now, m’lord,” Young Ian said as Hawke approached the car, taking long strides across the mossy brick of the courtyard. “One can see why no one could lay a finger on Dan Gurney and the old ‘Snake’ at Le Mans back in ’64.”
    “You put a few miles on her this morning, did you, Young Ian?” Hawke asked, smiling and running his hands over the sleek flanks of the beast. “I thought I heard a throaty roar wafting up through the woods earlier.”
    “Aye, I did indeed.”
    “And?”
    “Still trembling with excitement, m’lord. Can barely handle me socket wrench, sir.”
    Hawke laughed and gazed at his prize. It was truly a magnificent piece of machinery. A fine addition to his growing but highly selective collection, stored behind the long line of stable doors. A long row that featured, among others, vintage Ferraris, Jags, and Aston-Martins, a black 1956 Thunderbird convertible once owned by Ian Fleming, a spanking-new white McClaren 50, and his cherished daily driver, a steel-grey 1954 Bentley Continental he fondly called “the Locomotive.”
    “I did, sir. Topped off the petrol tank with avgas, which I highly recommend you use in the car, sir, aviation fuel having much higher octane, obviously. And runs cleaner, sir. The Weber carbs needed a bit of finesse, a couple of belts and hoses needed replacing, but otherwise it’s in perfect running order, sir, just as advertised.”
    “Let’s find out, shall we?” Hawke said, grinning from ear to ear.
    Hawke climbed behind