Hellfire: A Suspense Thriller (A Hawk Tate Novel Book 4)

by Dustin Stevens

  And I was in a seat that doubled as one of the more luxuriant beds I had ever been in.

  Shortly after the wheels lifted from Atlanta, I left Rembert to go back to wrestling with the satellite phone. Reclining myself to completely horizontal, I barely heard the captain give the standard welcome shtick shortly after takeoff.

  Flat on my back, I melted straight to black, not to move until a stewardess put a hand on my shoulder an indeterminate amount of time later and gave me a hearty shake. Giving no outward reaction beyond opening my eyes, I looked up to see short dark hair and too much lipstick peering down at me.

  “I’m sorry sir, but you’ll have to return to your upright position for landing.”

  As fast as she’d arrived, she was gone, leaving nothing behind but a plume of perfume.

  Pausing for just a moment to rub my hands over my face, I raised my seat back to vertical. Unable to hide the confusion I felt, I glanced at Rembert. “Sorry about that. Didn’t realize I was asleep that long.”

  “You weren’t,” he replied. “We have to make an emergency stop.”

  Feeling my eyebrows rise slightly, I shifted my attention to the window. In the distance, I could see the Atlantic Ocean, multiple shades of blue all melded together.

  “What sort of emergency?” I asked.

  “Didn’t say. Only that we would need to deplane briefly, but that we’d be on our way shortly.”

  A host of responses came to mind, but there was no point voicing any of them. It was already clear that a long trip had just gotten longer. No pointing in dwelling on the obvious.

  Given what I was looking at, and the general route from Atlanta to Punta Arenas, there was no way to definitively know where we were. All that was for certain was that we were still on the front half of our journey, almost all of that flying over the Caribbean before reaching the mainland of South America.

  Not the worst of places to be making an unscheduled visit, for sure.

  “Where are we stopping?” I asked.

  “Caracas,” Rembert replied, “Venezuela.” Beside me, he leaned forward to see out through the window. “Never been before. You?”

  Despite there being no earthly reason for it, my core tightened slightly. My breathing slowed just a bit, my body’s natural defense mechanisms stepping into action.

  In a different lifetime, my DEA team and I had made untold forays all along the northern coast of South America.

  Most of them ended as they were supposed to, but that wasn’t to say they were without their share of close scrapes.

  Compared to some of the other hellholes in the region, I wouldn’t put Venezuela at the top of the list, but I wouldn’t put them at the bottom either.

  And that was before the last few years, when it sounded like nothing good had befallen the country.

  “A few times.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Being an unexpected landing, there was no available gate for us as we landed at the airport in Caracas. I’m sure there was a fancy name given for some famous patron or historical figure, but in my previous trips to the country, we didn’t exactly fly commercial.

  To me, they were all just airports, even the tiny hubs in Montana bearing the added moniker international in their title to accommodate the fact that once a day they sent a turboprop plane over the border into Canada.

  From the tarmac, I could see the front of the building, a glass and steel structure that deserved more credit than I would have initially given it. Gleaming under the harsh light of the sun, it seemed a beacon wedged tight amongst jungle foliage to one side and dense urban landscaping on the other.

  Which likely meant that, like most cities, the airport had been originally constructed far outside of town. Over time, urban sprawl had connected the two, filling in the gap with strip malls, hotels, and anything else that might make a buck.

  Some truths being universal and all that.

  Outside, I could see a bus approaching. Constructed to be twice the length of a normal vehicle, it had a divider in the middle that expanded and contracted like an accordion.

  Long ago I had seen such a thing on the streets of Washington, D.C. Even a few other times in places like Los Angeles.

  Years had passed since I’d encountered one in person, though, most places shoving them aside in favor of public transit of more economical or environmental means.

  This one, in particular, looked like a castoff from someplace like Miami, having last seen a regular tune-up sometime during the nineties.

  “Looks like our chariot has arrived,” I whispered.

  Pushing forward a few inches to see out, Rembert said only, “Hellfire,” before dropping back against his seat.

  Well put.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” the captain announced over the PA system, drawing my attention away from the window. “As this is an unscheduled landing, air traffic has asked that we deplane here. Once they have a gate open up, they’ll be able to get us in and have their team check things over for us.

  “Nothing to worry about, just a gauge that we need to get looked at, and then we’ll be back on our way. Shouldn’t be more than a couple of hours.”

  “Nothing to worry about,” Rembert muttered. “Don’t those sound like famous last words.”

  Raising my eyebrows slightly in agreement, I said, “I thought it was originally supposed to be an hour?”

  “That’s what the man said.”

  Again, I could feel the clench in the pit of my stomach tighten slightly. Why it was there, I had no way of knowing. Perhaps it was nothing more than muscle memory, a natural reaction to being back on South American soil.

  A psychosomatic response to memories and experiences buried long ago.

  Regardless, I knew better than to completely disregard it. The body was designed to perform a particular set of tasks, automatically programmed to prioritize and handle certain functions in order.

  And none had a higher natural ranking than survival.

  “Feel free to leave your carry-ons and personal items onboard,” the captain said. “A bus will now take you folks over to the terminal, and you’ll all be right back on board soon enough.”

  The feeling within grew slightly stronger. Perhaps I was just being paranoid. Maybe I was superimposing past experiences onto a current situation that didn’t call for it.

  But I’d rather be overprepared than not at all.

  Ahead of us, the front door opened. Bright light streamed in as the same stewardess that had woken me smiled and motioned for people to begin exiting.

  “Hey, you ever get that phone working?” I asked.

  Beside me, Rembert paused, his hands on either arm of his chair. “No, not yet. Damn thing is like trying to operate a nuclear surfboard.”

  Doing my best at a forced smile, I said, “Why don’t you bring it along? We’re going to have some time, might as well see if we can’t get it up and running.”

  For an instant, he simply looked at me, people filing by us in the aisleway. Eventually, a smile split his features as he lowered himself back to his seat and grabbed for his bag.

  “Damnation, that’s a good idea. One call now is one less we have to mess with while we’re out there on the water, right?”

  The smile felt awkward on my features, though I managed to keep it in place.

  That was not at all my thinking, but I’d be damned if I let him see that.

  “Right.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  At one point, the small warehouse had been used as a shipping hub. Erected and maintained by one of the small transport businesses in the country, it was tucked away into the far corner of the airfield. No longer than the average office building, it was two stories in height. Most of the first floor was an open design, meant for loading and unloading cargo.

  The second was parsed off into offices, capable of housing all the necessary personnel.

  Tucked into one of those offices, General Renzo Clega stood with binoculars raised to his eye
s. Dressed in jeans and a nondescript polo shirt, there was absolutely nothing about his appearance to denote his title or even his employer.

  An employer that was currently on the other end of the speakerphone placed on the table by Clega’s hip.

  “What is going on right now?” President Salazar asked.

  Clega gave the focusing nobs on the binoculars a slight twist. Before him, the image blurred for a moment before coming into sharp relief.

  Less than a half mile away, the bus they had commandeered just minutes before was pulled up parallel to the LATAM jumbo jet. In a steady line, people were streaming down the staircase that had been pushed up beside the plane.

  Like cattle, they moved in an endless slog, covering the few steps across the asphalt and into the bus without so much as a second thought.

  “The plane is on the ground,” Clega said. “Passengers have been told that there is no room at the gate and that they are to be shuttled to the terminal.”

  A small grunt was the first response. “So they are loading onto the shuttle now?”

  “As we speak,” Clega said. “Once they are all onboard, they will be brought to the old International Shipping warehouse in the corner of the grounds.”

  “And then what?”

  The binoculars lowered a few inches as Clega glared at the phone. Keeping the look on his face, he glanced at the young man in the room beside him, a staff sergeant dressed in similar attire that acted as his personal aide.

  Every aspect of this operation had been discussed in minute detail the night before. And again that morning. And a third time just a few minutes prior.

  Salazar wasn’t asking questions because he needed the information. He was asking because he was searching for holes that he could exploit if the need arose.

  In most instances, Clega would have shied away from spearheading such an operation. It was easy to see the various ways things could go sideways, especially for someone like him.

  If this became an ugly international hostage incident, the president would not be the one bearing the brunt of it.

  That honor would go to the military leader in charge, salacious words such as rogue and vigilante thrown around at will.

  At the same time, with an election fast approaching and an opponent that had no affinity for Clega or the military in general, Clega had no choice but to back Salazar’s play. For the time being at least, they were in things together, however they may play out.

  “And then they will be kept under surveillance by my men,” Clega said.

  Again, a grunt was the only response.

  Choosing to ignore it – or rather, not trusting what he would say in response – Clega lifted the binoculars back to his eyes. He watched as the last few stragglers made their way down the ramp toward the bus.

  His grip tightened on the plastic frames as he saw a stewardess appear at the top of the stairway and wave, a signal that everybody on board had been cleared.

  “Have you had a chance to look at the flight manifest yet?” Salazar asked.

  “Yes,” Clega replied. “It appears that just this morning, seats for four men were obtained within twenty minutes of each other. All middle-aged, they were seated throughout the cabin.”

  “Hmm,” Salazar replied. “Four, that’s more than we anticipated.”

  “It is,” Clega agreed, “but we have their pictures now. It shouldn’t be too hard to isolate and neutralize them.”

  On the last few words, he felt a smile come to his lips. For years, various American agencies had been a problem, an unwanted presence in their country, no matter how small. Finally, he had been given a chance to return some of the angst they had caused him.

  And the best part was, there would be no way for America to retaliate. Doing so would mean having to acknowledge that they were ever here.

  “Just, be careful,” Salazar said. There was a clear sigh in his voice, fatigue obvious.

  Or possibly just a deference to what it was they were doing.

  “A jammer has been installed to block any attempted transmissions,” Clega said. On the far end of the tarmac, the bus looped wide, beginning its return to the warehouse. “I will be in touch as soon as they are found.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  With the exception of the few strides it took to get from my seat to the front door of the plane, the terminal of Caracas airport was always in my sight. Bright and shiny, there was no way to miss it.

  A monument rising up where there was no business being one.

  Which made the fact that once on the bus we were looping wide in the opposite direction all the more obvious.

  Starting in a lazy circle, we moved in a long arc. Instead of circling toward the terminal, we headed in the opposite direction. What should have been on my left was suddenly on my right, growing smaller as we rolled forward.

  “Something’s not right.”

  The words were low, so much so I barely even realized I had said them out loud. Just enough to cause Rembert to lean in beside me, he asked, “What was that?”

  The interior of the bus was jammed tight, more people inside than a vehicle of its design was ever intended to hold. If out on the street, there was no way a driver would have been allowed to proceed.

  I didn’t know how many people were on the plane, just that it was a large liner. I couldn’t imagine them sending such a jet that far without at least fifty percent capacity, which put us well over a hundred people in total.

  All wedged into the bus, pressing against both sides and my front.

  Casting a quick glance around, I could see a couple of folks looking my way, though nobody seemed to be too interested in our conversation.

  Not that there was a lot I could do about it anyway.

  “Something’s not right,” I repeated. Still, just loud enough to be heard by him and as few others as possible. “We’re moving away from the terminal, not toward it.”

  Lifting his chin to see past my shoulder, Rembert said, “Damnation, you are right. Where the hell are we going?”

  Raising his face another inch or two, he yelled, “Hey! Driver! The terminal is the other direction!”

  Warmth crept to my face, a veneer of sweat coming to my features.

  So much for trying to keep things quiet.

  “Driver!” Rembert called again.

  Around us, a murmur went up from the crowd. People began to twist their bodies so they could see out, many coming to the same conclusion I already had.

  More still chose to go the route of Rembert and voice their displeasure to the driver.

  Not that it mattered. Onward we went, pushing straight ahead for another couple of minutes before slowing slightly.

  From my perch in the back end of the oversized bus, I didn’t have an unobstructed view. All I had was my one window, chosen originally to keep an eye on the terminal. With that now gone, I could see just a chain link fence rising more than ten feet from the ground. A coil of barbed wire was wrapped around the top of it.

  Beyond it, nothing more than dense trees, a canopy so green it was almost black.

  Definitely not the sort of place we wanted to be going, in Venezuela or anywhere else.

  “Can you see up ahead?” I asked Rembert. “Any idea where we’re headed?”

  Leaning back at the waist, he managed to open a couple of extra inches. Straining for an angle, he rose to his toes before dropping back to flat feet beside me.

  “No,” he said. “Too many people. What do you think is going on?”

  Around us, people continued to voice their dismay. A couple had even taken to trying to force their way to the front.

  “Nothing good.”

  Beneath us, the engine slowed further, the bus decelerating down to a crawl. In a steady pace, darkness moved back over the length of the bus.

  Too dark to be merely a cloud, or even a shadow, it was clear we had moved inside some sort of structure.

  Again, the feeling in my stomach grew more pronounced.

/>   With each passing moment, it was becoming more obvious that the mechanical problem on the plane was nothing more than a ruse. An excuse to get us on the ground and nothing more.

  The only questions that remained were why, and who had the sort of juice necessary to force down an international flight exactly where they wanted.

  This time, the feeling extended clear to my face, a frown forming on my features.

  None of the people on that list were particularly appealing.

  Nor were the people standing outside my window as we came to a stop, all of them dressed in jeans and casual attire, all of them carrying automatic weapons at the ready.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  I was the first to see the weapons, but only by a split second. While my mind immediately delved deep into the recesses, searching out the places I’d spent five years trying to bury, others around me went to the most basic of human responses when seeing a firearm.

  Fear. Panic. Pure, unbridled terror.

  The first sign of it was a gasp. Second in order was a woman asking if the people outside were armed.

  Third was a shriek, a shrill, brittle sound so close to my ear it almost rattled my teeth. A noise that instantly brought about a dozen more just like it.

  By the time the door on the front end of the bus opened, the interior of the space resembled a disco. Loud noises and lots of sweaty bodies crowded in close.

  “Listen up!” a voice just barely audible over the din of the crowd called out, completely disembodied from this angle. “Hey! Quiet down!”

  The second attempt was no more effective than the first. Which meant the next move was fairly easy to forecast as well.

  Inside whatever structure we were now parked in, the gunshot sounded extraordinarily loud. Like a steel sound tunnel, the noise reverberated through the space, managing to silence the crowd instantly.

  To either side, I could see people panting. Women stood clinging to their husbands, wide-eyed.

  For me, a steady drip of adrenaline seeped into my system. Hearing gunshots where they’re not supposed to be has a way of doing that.