AN: I don't own Airwolf; Mr. Bellasario and Universal do. Dialogue is taken directly from the episode, Echoes from the Past.

When Stringfellow Hawke was at home—which in recent months had been less than he liked—he made it a habit to practice with his cello for at least an hour every afternoon. He had started doing so when he first learned to play in junior high school, and the tradition had stayed with him into adulthood.

He smiled to himself; he wouldn't be playing at the Hollywood Bowl any time soon, but it was an interesting pastime. The cello seemed to have a depth to it that invited exploration, and doing so had helped him through many difficult periods of his life.

In fact, he thought absently, as the cello sighed and sang under his fingertips, returning to the instrument had become part of his rehabilitation when he returned from Vietnam. He remembered how frustrating it had been at first; his hands had been clumsy and stiff, and he had found it difficult to concentrate. However, his innate stubbornness refused to let him give up, and soon his muscles remembered the long-practiced motions. After a few months of diligent practice, he had nearly regained his pre-deployment agility on the strings. After a year, he was playing better than he had before he left.

He continued to move through the piece he was currently working on, a soulful piece by Ernest Bloch entitled 'Prayer'. The notes rose and fell in a haunting cadence that reminded him of a cantor he had once heard at the wedding of a Jewish friend. The piece was challenging, and he slowed down a fraction to make sure he was playing a particularly complicated section correctly.

Something flickered just at the edge of his range of hearing; something not connected with the music. He lifted the bow from the cello and stilled the strings, then cocked his head at the ceiling and listened intently. The rangy bluetick coonhound at Hawke's feet raised his own head, shaggy ears twitching as the sound grew louder.

It was not a helicopter; that much Hawke was sure of. He carefully put aside the cello and crossed to the front door of the cabin, and then opened the door and stepped out onto the porch as the dog slipped past him. Before he even looked up, Hawke knew what would meet his eyes: A vintage biplane, warbling its way across the pristine blue sky.

As Hawke watched, an object tumbled from the open cockpit of the biplane to land with a thump at the edge of the cleared space that acted as the cabin's front yard. Though his first instinct was to treat the unknown item as if it were about to explode, Hawke inched closer for a better look. The object turned out to be a package wrapped in rough cloth, tied to a brick with strong twine, and Hawke retrieved it from its nest of cushioning pine needles.

A tag with his name printed on it in an unfamiliar hand was tied to one end of the twine, and Hawke scowled. In his experience, items that required such a dramatic delivery were bound to bring their share of trouble.

Well, he thought, heading back into the cabin, guess I'd better find out just how much trouble.

Hawke took the brick over to the bar and carefully freed the cloth package from the twine, then undid the cloth to reveal a small jeweler's gift box. Inside the box lay a half-circle of hammered links attached to a rectangular plate.

With his heart pounding in his ears, Hawke gently took the bracelet into his hand and held it to the light. Among a myriad of scratches, he could just make out the name engraved on the plate: Saint John.

He heard himself breathe his brother's name into the stillness of the cabin. The low glow of hope that always simmered inside of him briefly flared to life, but it dwindled again just as quickly. True, the bracelet looked an awful lot like the one Dom had given to Saint John at his high school graduation, but sixteen years of following cold trails to dead ends tempered the hope with a strong dose of skepticism. The stakes were high enough that it could be a fake, part of a complex ruse perpetrated by the Firm in order to retrieve Airwolf once and for all. The thought put a sour taste in Hawke's mouth, but the possibility was there.

However, further examination of the package revealed a folded piece of paper resting beneath the square of cotton in the box. Hawke unfolded the note and scanned the words, which were written in the same hand as the tag.

What's here is a gift. Talk costs money. I'll be at the closed-down airfield over in Crofton in an hour. Come if you're interested.

Brows knitted, Hawke folded the note and placed it back in the box. It could still be a trick, but there was too little data to tell if the bracelet had been sent by the Firm or some unknown foe.

He'd told Michael that he would give Airwolf back when Saint John was found; that was the deal they'd struck after Hawke and Dom came back from Libya. If the Firm had Saint John, Hawke reasoned that Michael would jump at the chance to get his precious helicopter back. There would be no need for such time-consuming skullduggery, not when a prize such as Airwolf was in the offing.

No, Hawke thought, returning the scarred bit of jewelry to its box, this was something different. In the end, it didn't matter who brought Saint John home. Airwolf would still go back to the Firm, and if following this lead served to cut through miles of red tape, then so much the better. Michael would be happy, the Firm would be happy, and Hawke could finally get back to his life.

His decision made, Hawke put the box in his safe and went to go fire up the Hughes.