A long exhalation was the first response. Following it, Ramirez relayed the phone call she’d received just moments before.
As she did so, Vance lifted his attention back to the file on display on the far wall, the visual making much more sense than before.
“Jeremiah Hawkens Tate?”
“Flight manifest has him onboard via a ticket change made by Grey Rembert earlier this week,” Peter Reiff said.
“He is currently a wilderness guide working out of Yellowstone,” Hannah Rowe added. “But his backstory about being with the navy and DEA checks out.”
Lifting his gaze back to Joon, Vance fell silent. There was no need to voice the host of questions springing to mind. It was clear the director was having the same ones.
“Any reason to think he’s working with somebody?” Joon asked.
“None,” one of the men from the opposite side said. “Last year he did a couple of consultant gigs with the Southwest DEA office, but nothing since.”
“Financials are clean, too,” the woman beside him. “Nothing funny going on.”
“Where was he headed?” Vance asked.
“Punta Arenas was his final destination,” Rowe said. “He was traveling with Rembert.”
“Anything there?” Joon asked.
“No,” Dan Andrews said. “Retiree, looks like it was legitimately a fishing trip.”
Silence fell for a moment, everybody seeming to try to determine the best way to handle the information.
After a moment, it was Ramirez that broke the silence, asking, “Orders on how to proceed?”
Again, Vance and Joon shared a look. Agents were trained to never give out information. If in fact one had given away the emergency contact info, it meant that the situation was beyond dire.
At the same time, they didn’t know a damned thing about this Jeremiah Tate or what he might represent.
“Did Tate say anything else?” Joon asked.
“No, sir,” Ramirez replied. “He sounded pretty pissed by the end, told me if I could help, to get my ass up to the coast to fetch him.”
Twice over, Vance replayed the final sentence in his mind. As he did so, certain words and phrases caught his attention. Things that he was sure Joon would notice as well.
Most noticeably, those that seemed to indicate ownership in the situation.
“Tate’s record,” Vance said, turning to glance at Rowe, “was he good?”
“Very. And he’s spent time in Venezuela.”
The situation was spiraling. He and Joon knew it when they left the call with the president. Became even more aware of it when stepping into the room to find out at least one of their agents was already dead.
At the very least, this guy had some working information that could be shared.
At the most...
“Go pick him up,” Joon said, seemingly arriving at the same conclusion Vance had.
Chapter Forty-One
Grey Rembert had been married for more than thirty years. He had been with the same woman for six more than that, their courtship beginning at the tail end of their college career. Save a few rough patches that all couples experience, every bit of it had been quite happy and fulfilling.
Though, to be fair, the travel schedule did help at times.
Over the course of that time, both had developed particular tastes and habits that the other had tried to shift before eventually accepting as the quirky traits of their beloved.
Rembert liked to take fishing trips. His wife enjoyed watching true crime shows.
In total, Rembert must have seen close to a thousand of them. Ranging the full gamut, they included everything from cold case murders to attempted bank robberies.
Of them, not once had he ever even heard about something like the situation he now found himself in. Starting with the mid-air announcement from the captain, everything had seemed like it was scripted from one of the old Jack Ryan movies, Harrison Ford stowed somewhere in cargo, ready to slip off and perform his country’s dirty work.
Accept this wasn’t a movie.
And despite whatever had taken place a little while earlier, he was reasonably certain Hawk Tate wasn’t Harrison Ford.
Rembert first encounter with the man had been almost two years prior. Some basic internet research had brought him to Hawk’s Eye Views tour company, and a little further digging had shown glowing reviews of both the man and the organization.
His own trip had proven them to be correct.
Tate was a no-nonsense type for sure, especially when out in the elements. At the end of the day though, he had been just as ready as Rembert to relax and open a cold one.
He had laughed and smiled. Never did Rembert have the slightest hesitance around him. So much so that when his guide for Patagonia had backed out, there was no question who he would call to fill the gap.
Sitting now with his bottom on the cool tile and his back against the wall, Rembert had to admit, he didn’t actually know a great deal about the man. For all his willingness to enjoy the camp life, rarely did he ever say anything about himself.
If he thought hard about it, Rembert would be forced to concede that everything he knew about Hawk Tate could be counted on one hand.
Up until the part where he saw the man kill two armed guards and disappear through the roof tiles, that is.
There was no way Tate was involved in anything. Up until three days ago, the man had had no reason to be on that plane. If Rembert hadn’t called and made the arrangements, he would still be somewhere in Montana, preparing for the upcoming season.
Which meant he likely wasn’t actively involved in anything, but he damned sure had been at one point or another.
Nobody had those kinds of skills otherwise.
What that might have been, what organization he may have worked for, how it might even help them now, all floated through Rembert’s mind as the sounds of screws being removed from the front door again rang out. On cue, the people around him let out a low murmur of trepidation, many starting to shuffle back tight against the walls.
As if that would do any good. Still piled in a heap at the front of the room were the two guards Tate had killed. Beside them was the passenger that had been shot, his breath lasting just barely long enough for Tate to get the ceiling tile back into place.
There was no way of hiding what had happened, and no point to even trying. Already their captors had been by once and seen the results.
The only question now was how they planned to act on it after having a few minutes to regroup.
Leaning his head back against the wall, Rembert flicked his gaze toward the door. He remained that way, watching, as the last of the barricades were pulled free from the outside and the door cracked open again.
For a moment, there was nothing. Just a pulse of cool air, the puff managing to shove around the scents of blood and death in the room.
An instant later, the fat man with a mustache they had first met when getting off the bus walked into the room. Gone was the saunter and arrogant smile he had before, replaced by a red face and quick strides.
By his side was a second man, much younger with blue-black hair, his mouth set into a scowl.
And a machete in his hands.
“Okay,” the lead man said. Moving his gaze slowly, he scanned the room, “We’re going to try this again. And this time, I will be getting the answers I’m looking for.”
Chapter Forty-Two
Best guess, I spent just over an hour in the forest. Based on what I knew my travel time to be when walking through Yellowstone and the break to call out, I’d say that put me at roughly three and a half miles from the airport.
Given that most of it had been at a downward slope, the terrain trending to sea level, maybe as much as four miles.
By the time I reached the edge of the tree line, every bit of clothing I wore was damp with sweat. The open sores on my arms were still slick, unable to even begin scabbing over.
My patience was completely gon
e.
A busted nose from my DEA days precluded me from being able to smell the ocean, though I was able to see the edge of the tree line long before I arrived there. Slowing my pace, I began to work my way from tree to tree, careful to stay out of direct sight.
There was no way of knowing what I would find there. Odds were, it would be more like I’d encountered in the woods.
Nothing but seclusion and silence, most of the country’s population clustered tight in a handful of metropolitan centers. If that wasn’t the case, I might stumble across a few wayward fishermen, locals out providing for their families.
Obviously, I would mean them no harm, but it would be difficult to try and make them understand that. Especially given my limited grasp of Spanish.
And the fact that I was armed and bloody, stumbling out of the woods like some sort of hairy beast.
Wanting to avoid that eventuality, I played it slow. I worked my way in a varied pattern, using what cover I could. The phone and the gun I both kept out and ready, hopeful that one or the other might be able to help with whatever I found.
What that might be covered a wide range of possibilities, handfuls of possibilities presenting themselves in my consciousness.
Not one was close to what I actually discovered.
The first thing that caught my eye was the glint of the sun. It refracted off a glass windshield, winking at me through the trees.
Nudging closer, the second was the form of a woman leaning casually against the front hood. A handheld device gripped in her palm, she alternated glances between the screen and the trees, squinting slightly.
If I had time, or better resources, or even the tolerance, I would have gone slow. I would have scouted the area, making sure it wasn’t a trap.
At the very least ensured she was a friendly.
I had none of the above.
Plunging straight out of the trees, my sudden emergence seemed to surprise her, her entire body going rigid as she looked my way. Raising her free hand to her chest, she stared at me wide-eyed, saying nothing.
Younger than I would have expected, she looked to be a half-decade my junior. Standing halfway between five and six feet, she had dark hair in a ponytail and wore khaki shorts and hiking boots.
The vehicle she leaned against was a Jeep with the windows zipped out, sand caked in the tires.
“Mockingbird?”
A slow nod was her first response. “Hawk?”
Closing the distance between us, I kept the phone and the gun both out. Making no effort to get too close, I turned my back and took up a position on the opposite end of the Jeep. Matching her pose, we both stared out at the trees I’d just emerged from.
“Do I even want to know what the CIA has going on down here right now?”
In my periphery, I saw her hair flash as she jerked to look my way. Heard as she forced out a laugh.
“The CIA? You watch too many movies.”
“Don’t,” I replied. “I worked for the government for over ten years, too. I know how this works. So let’s just skip ahead to the part where we both start sharing information the other one needs.”
The girl kept her gaze on me another moment before turning back to the woods.
“There are people that need to debrief you. There’s a safehouse nearby we should get to immediately.”
“I figured as much.”
Using her hips, the girl pushed herself up from the side of the Jeep. “Are our men really gone?”
“At least one is,” I said. “They put us all in separate rooms, so I can’t vouch for the others.”
Again, I played back how it had gone down in the warehouse. “But it’s likely.”
Looking at me another moment, the girl made no effort to hide her open appraisal. She turned to the Jeep and reached inside, extracting a bottle of water and extending it my way.
“Agent Manuela Ramirez. Call me Ela.”
Accepting it with a nod, I said, “Hawk.”
Chapter Forty-Three
The office was split into distinct sections. The front half of the space was the same as it had been all day. Still riding on the euphoria of the last two nights, campaign workers bustled about.
They were unequivocally busy, given the third and largest event of the week looming just hours away, but they were happy. Smiles were abundant. Bursts of laughter were the norm.
Things were looking up. The local man that just a week earlier had been a longshot at best was surging fast. Monies would soon start rolling in. A groundswell of support was just starting.
And they were all on the leading cusp of it.
The back end of the suite was different in almost every way. Beginning with the arrival of Hector Ramon earlier in the day, not a single positive thing had been said. No smiles had been cracked.
In their stead was a somber mood that seemed to hang over everything, clinging to them like a thin mist. Having grown to encompass Giselle Ruiz, the three insiders sat tucked away in the rear conference room. On the table in front of each of them was their cell phone, ringers on high, all sitting and waiting for word back from their various contacts.
Thus far, their inquiries had been met with more surprise and curiosity than concrete responses, promises to do some digging and call back later.
The initial burst of looking into things had gone out hours before, all acutely aware of the dwindling time they had.
Seated at the head of the table, Edgar Belmonte had his fingers laced across his lap. Lightly tapping the pads of his thumbs together, he stared toward the table, focused on nothing.
What he knew thus far was that the decision to begin using an anti-American platform had been a risky - albeit necessary - gesture. In a country such as Venezuela, those in command tended to keep it. There was no such thing as equal air time. No true form of a peaceable transition of power.
It had to be wrested away.
For two months, he and his team had paid their dues. They had done as they were supposed to, meeting as many people as possible. They had said all the rights things. Stood for pictures. Kissed babies.
Everything that could be asked of a candidate, especially one presenting himself as the common everyman.
It was getting them nowhere.
Something bold had to be done. Whether it had to happen when it did was a matter of debate, as was the route they chose to take, but there was no doubt that it was effective.
And Belmonte would be damned if he was going to apologize for it.
The truth of the matter was, he held no true ill will toward America, or the western world, or much of anybody outside the boundaries of his home country.
The place he had grown up in in his youth was almost idyllic. Whatever change had occurred since wasn’t the work of some mysterious outside boogeyman. It was done by those in charge, susceptible to the pitfalls of greed and power.
Men like Miguel Salazar.
Of course, he couldn’t go out and just say such a thing. To openly condemn the president would get him locked in prison, or worse.
To criticize his own countrymen with open disdain would disenchant him from the voters in a way that he could never recover from.
In its stead, he had turned to the easiest target he could find. The famed big bad, the place that all countries lower in the pecking order liked to blame when things didn’t go their way.
Little did many of them realize – his own country included – that by and large, the Americas of the world didn’t care for them at all. Unless they had oil or labor or some other easily co-opted commodity, there was no call for the greater powers to turn their attention toward smaller fare.
Not that he could ever say that either.
“Security will be here in two hours,” Ramon said.
The sound of his voice ripped Belmonte from his thoughts. His gaze moved upward as he stared across the table. He raised his eyebrows, signaling his Chief of Staff to repeat whatever he’d just said.
“Security will be here in t
wo hours to take us over to the stadium,” Ramon repeated. “Apparently, people have already started showing up.”
To that, Belmonte nodded. He had expected as much. Early buzz was that it was taking on the same fevered excitement of a music concert or a major football match.
Which was precisely the attitude they were trying to build.
“Any word?” Belmonte asked.
Ramon replied with only a quick shake of the head. Belmonte flicked his gaze to Ruiz to see her do the same.
“Does this change anything regarding this evening?” Ramon asked.
On its face, Belmonte wanted to say no, that things would proceed as planned.
But that would just be foolish.
“I don’t see how it doesn’t, do you?” he asked.
“But-“ Ruiz began, cut off by Belmonte raising a hand toward her.
“I don’t want to, and if we don’t have to, we won’t, but...” he paused for a moment, letting his voice trail off. Again, his gaze glazed over. “The fact that this is happening now, just two days after we burned an American flag, can’t be coincidental, right?”
“Doesn’t have to mean anything,” Ruiz countered. “Lord only knows what Salazar might have done to bring on something like this.”
Belmonte again raised his eyebrows, conceding the point. It was possible that Salazar had done something, especially now that he saw their numbers surging.
But they had to be sure before going forward with what they had planned for the evening.
“Security arrives in two hours?” he asked. “That means we have a half hour. If we haven’t heard anything by then, start calling everybody you know.
“We need to get to the bottom of this before we go on tonight.”
Chapter Forty-Four
The safehouse was actually half of a house. Encompassing the top half of a yellow two-story home on the east end of Caracas, the place was as unassuming as could be.
Yellow paint. Red shutters. A porch along the front. In the backyard was a small fire pit and a chicken coop, a handful of birds scouring the thin grass.
Hellfire: A Suspense Thriller (A Hawk Tate Novel Book 4) Page 14
