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before him and out the door.

 
    CHAPTER 7
    RAF CHICKSANDS. NIGHT.
    An hour’s drive found the three members of Section 9 and the lone SEAL Team 666 member pulling through a guarded gate and onto a military base. Ian explained that RAF Chicksands, which had once been a functioning air force base, closed in 1997 and became the Defence Intelligence and Security Centre and the Headquarters of Britain’s Intelligence Corps. Since most of Section 9’s personnel came from British intelligence, their collocation made recruitment an important tool for their success. Unlike SEAL Team 666, Section 9 was populated by civilian contractors, and to obtain the specialties they required interaction with military intelligence was important.
    Their offices were in the basement of the Chicksands Priory, a former twelfth-century Gilbertine monastery. “The entire monastery actually belongs to Section 9, but we’ve been relegated to the basement because my predecessor ran afoul of several Members of Parliament. Our funding was cut to the point we could no longer afford its upkeep, so instead of letting it fall apart and needing major construction upgrades, we turned the rest into an officers’ club and visiting VIP rooms.”
    So they passed several drunken service members as they entered the priory. Had they turned left, they would have entered a large paneled room filled with leather furniture. Had they taken the broad staircase, they could have climbed to some well-appointed rooms. But instead, they turned right and entered a door marked: “Staff Only,” which opened on to a staircase that took them down into a basement in need of a face-lift.
    “Most of the furniture is left over from World War II. With the exception of the installation of fiber optics and a fresh coat of paint, the basement hasn’t seen any improvement,” Ian said.
    A tight hallway was lined floor-to-ceiling on one side with boxes. As they squeezed past, Walker felt a buzz building in his skin. He hoped it wouldn’t get worse. The last thing he needed was to fall down and do the kickin’ chicken in front of Section 9. They turned left through the first door and entered a large room with several beat-up couches, a table and chairs, and a small kitchenette. Trev tossed himself down on one of the couches while Jerry helped himself to something that looked like cold, limp French fries in the refrigerator. Ian grabbed a bottle of scotch and two glasses. He poured two fingers into each glass, then held one out for Walker.
    Walker accepted it and sat at the table, feeling like he weighed a thousand pounds. He let his elbows support him as he took half of the golden drink, closing his eyes as the liquid left a fire trail down his throat and exploded in his empty stomach. He reminded himself that he couldn’t get sentimental. A weepy-eyed widower wouldn’t do anyone any good. He needed to keep his wits about him, especially if he was going to track down Jen’s killers.
    He opened his eyes and finished the scotch. “So, what do we know about the Red Grove?” He gestured for more and Ian obliged.
    Ian had called ahead when they were in the car. Even as Walker asked the question, a young Indian girl came into the room. She was beautiful, with black hair framing a narrow face. She wore jeans and an Indian blouse that fell to mid-thigh and tapered at her wrists. She could have been a model had it not been for the twin crutches she needed to propel her crooked legs. Hell, she could still be a model, just not on any runway Walker had ever heard of.
    “I have a preliminary report,” she said, moving both smoothly and awkwardly at the same time. She smiled at Walker. “The Red Grove is an American 501.3c, meaning it’s been classified as a tax-exempt religious organization. Their recorded headquarters is Lake Arrowhead, California, and their employee identification number indicates the Red Grove is headed by Hubert Van Dyke, who also sits on the board of the Bohemian