A scene that could have been in any of a hundred cities in a dozen different countries.
Which, I guess, was the point.
A private entry ran up the right side of the building, a reinforced wooden staircase painted red to match the shutters. It was not until the top that what lay inside was even hinted at, beginning with the retinal scanner that Ela accessed for entry.
From there, a voice imprint was required, the second safeguard releasing the enormous metal tumblers in the armored door, granting us entry.
“The place has been in the family for decades,” Ela said. “The downstairs tenant has been here that entire time.”
She didn’t say anything more, but she didn’t have to. Whoever was on the first floor was on the payroll as cover.
Stepping inside, the place was essentially one open area segmented into three parts. The front portion was a living room, replete with couch, standard electronic fare, and an aquarium, the sound of bubbling water omnipresent.
Offset by a half-wall, the second part was living quarters, with a bed and dresser built into the wall. Peering through to the back, I could see a kitchen with aged appliances and a small table and chairs.
On the whole, the place was Spartan and quite clean. In a way, it reminded me of my cabin back in Montana.
Given the dimensions, I also knew there was a decent chunk of unaccounted space, the Agency no doubt having a few things stowed away that I would have never thought to bring into my home.
“Bathroom is around the corner,” Ela said, motioning with her chin. “John - the other agent here in Venezuela - keeps a few clothes in the bottom drawer for the occasional stopover.”
Glancing down at myself, I could see the last couple of hours displayed plainly across me. After riding in the Jeep, my t-shirt was dry, though my jeans were still damp. Blood and mud striped both, clinging to everything.
I could only imagine the same was true for my beard.
Despite that, there would be time to worry about my appearance soon enough. Until then, I was most concerned with the people still stuck inside those rooms in the warehouse.
“It’s already been too long since I left,” I said. “Let’s talk to your people first. I’ll shower up after we figure out what’s going on.”
It was clear that Ela didn’t especially like the decision, having wanted the extra time to check in first, but I wasn’t terribly concerned with what she wanted. The man that had greeted us as we stepped off the bus earlier made it clear he didn’t give a damn about any of the people that came off that plane.
Once he figured out that three of his men were dead, that disregard would grow to open disdain.
Taking a moment, Ela nodded her head. “Follow me.”
Moving in the same direction she had motioned earlier, Ela led me into the bathroom. Going to a vertical shelving unit on the back wall, she lifted down a stack of towels before sliding out a small wooden panel.
One at a time she repeated the process she had on the outer door, going through a retinal scan followed by a voice imprint.
Not until the two-part clearance was passed did the entire shelving unit swing inward revealing a hidden compartment.
Much larger than I had envisioned upon first entry to the apartment, the space was almost as large as each of the outer segments. Electronics of various forms lined one wall. A makeshift weapons locker covered another.
In between was a small black table, a pair of matching chairs behind it.
“Have a seat,” Ela said, sliding down into one of them. From under the desk she pulled out a small tray, going to work on a keyboard housed there.
As she worked, the screens along the wall came alive, a visual of my service record popping up before being immediately replaced with some form of online calling system.
Seeing it, a tiny flare of animosity rose up, receding as fast as it had arrived. The reason I had given my name on the first call was so that she could check me out and validate what I was saying.
The fact that they had done so and felt at least some bit of comfort with what they found was the only reason I was now standing where I was.
Easing my way down into the seat, I watched the screen. The air inside the room was cool, the faint scent of lavender present.
The only sound was Ela working on the keyboard.
Less than a minute after entering, the image onscreen shifted again. The sound of a phone ringing could be heard.
Just a few seconds after that, the line was picked up, a room full of people in stark business attire staring back at us.
“Good afternoon,” a man with silver hair said. “My name is Horace Joon, Director of the CIA. You must be Jeremiah Tate.”
Chapter Forty-Five
The name Jeremiah Hawkens was given to me by my father. He was an avid fan of the movie Jeremiah Johnson and derived the moniker from the lead character and the beloved Hawkens rifle he always carried with him.
To my knowledge, not one person outside of my mother has ever used the first name when referencing me.
To the world, I had always just been Hawk.
The fact that Joon opened by doing so didn’t bother me. It was a common error, the sort of thing many people did before I was able to correct them.
It was his demeanor – from the way he stood to the cadence of his word delivery – that irked me to no end.
The first part of the interaction had gone exactly as I would have thought. Starting at the beginning, I took them through everything that had happened since leaving Atlanta that morning.
Throughout, the handful of people I could see and the untold number sitting beyond the view of the camera sat in silence. Not once did they interject or ask a clarifying question.
More than a few times, I got the impression they already knew what I was telling them. Whether they were listening simply to get a baseline or to fact-check me as a witness, I had no way of knowing.
The entire time, Ela sat beside me, alternating her focus between me and the screen. Not once did she speak, nor did she take a note.
When I was finished, the people on the other end all sat in silence, many casting sideways glances to Joon, allowing him to take the lead.
Standing on the far end of the table, he stood with his arms folded. One hand he had raised, stroking his chin.
“Mr. Tate, do you think you could identify the man that you saw get shot?”
“Without a doubt,” I said.
Shifting to the side, Joon nodded to somebody outside the screen. A moment later, ten different pictures appeared before us, blotting the CIA room from view.
All some variation of the same thing, they depicted men in their late-thirties to early-forties. Each one was fit and seemed to have a similar haircut.
Ela had also told me already that there were four agents onboard, meaning most of the men before me were there as nothing more than a test.
Which only made my dislike for Joon grow.
“Second row, third one in,” I said.
“Are you sure?” Joon’s disembodied voice asked.
“Positive. I’m pretty sure I even have some of his blood still on my jeans if you want to run the DNA.”
Either from my passage of the test or from my remark, the grid of pictures evaporated from the screen before us. In their place was the room, the expressions on each of the people a bit more drawn than when we’d last seen them.
“Mr. Tate,” a second man asked. This one was standing like Joon, a bit younger, with hair just starting to gray combed straight back. “Charles Vance, Special Director for South American Operations.”
To him I only nodded, reserving the caustic comment I had about overcompensation and unnecessarily long titles.
“At any point did you hear the name Edgar Belmonte?”
A few feet away, I saw Joon cast him a harsh glance.
“No.”
“You’re sure?”
“Positive,” I said. “Like I said, Cruz was the only name I heard,
and he was just a guard.”
The sound dropped out for a moment. On the screen, we could see them discussing something, but couldn’t hear a word.
Which, again, made my agitation grow.
When they came back, the same man asked, “Did anybody make mention of tonight? Anything special going on?”
Blowing out a long, slow sigh through my nose, I let them see the acrimony I was starting to harbor. They were still treating this as a fact-finding matter. Not once had there been even the slightest hint of urgency.
“Special? You mean beyond the one-hundred-plus American hostages being held?” I spat, making no effort to hide the venom from my tone. “No. Just the comment in the beginning about everything being wrapped up in twelve hours or so.”
For the first time, my words seemed to truly hit home. Faces tightened. Glances were exchanged.
The volume in the room was again cut, this time the various players on the other side becoming a bit more animated. A few waved hands about while others shook their heads.
At the end of the table, Joon did both, directing things like an orchestra conductor.
For more than two minutes, the show played out in pantomime, before finally everyone fell still. Turning their attention back to the camera, the sound returned.
“Mr. Tate,” Joon said, his voice stiff and detached. “Thank you. Now, if you’ll excuse us, we need to speak with Ms. Ramirez in private.”
Chapter Forty-Six
There was no conversation to be had with Ms. Ramirez. As Charles Vance learned the moment the call was disconnected, that was nothing more than a ruse to get off the line.
Once it was cut, Director Joon hooked a finger, motioning for Vance to follow him. To everyone else, he offered only, “We’ll be back.”
Knowing that the phrase was code for another call to the White House, the others watched in silence as Joon departed. Standing a few feet away, Vance rolled everything he had just witnessed in his mind for a moment before doing the same.
In his wake, he left a slew of faces, all of them falling somewhere between irritated and confused.
Which was not too far off from what he felt.
Prior to getting on the line, he hadn’t known what to expect. He’d been prepped with the transcript of the earlier call from Jeremiah Tate. He’d had a look at the man’s navy and DEA files. Both told a pretty straightforward story of a man that was a rising star, having done the right things and done them well, before a personal tragedy abruptly ended his government career.
In short, it was the sort of resume that would have likely eventually landed him as an independent contractor for the Agency.
All that hair would have certainly had to go, but he would have gotten an invite.
In the wake of the call, two distinct impressions had popped up. The first was about Tate himself, the man seeming to bear out most of Vance’s original suppositions. He had gotten older, was a little rougher around the edges, but he still bore the same hardened visage that his file would indicate.
In short, he was a capable man. An ally, in a place where such things were in desperately short supply.
The second thing he had taken away from the conversation was much less encouraging. It rested much closer to home, and that was the general demeanor of the man now walking beside him.
Everything about the last two days had proven that Joon and President Underall were concerned with political repercussions. Given their respective positions and the two countries involved, that wasn’t too much of a surprise.
What was was the line of questioning Joon seemed to be pursuing, his focus still solely on international relations.
In silence, the two men cut a path back to Joon’s office. Walking the same route they had just minutes before, they parted through the thin foot traffic, each chewing on what had just taken place.
Five minutes later they were back inside the private lair in the rear of Joon’s office, the president up on screen before them. Much like their prior conversation, he did not seem pleased to be having it, a frown tugging both ends of his mouth down toward his jawline.
“Mr. President,” Joon opened.
Vance murmured the same, nodding.
“We got a call?” Underall replied, bypassing pleasantries.
“We did,” Joon replied, “but not from one of our guys.”
In short order, he ran through the conversation with Tate. Careful to leave out nothing, he rattled the information off in rapid fashion.
He also made a point of noting that while one agent was a verified kill, there was nothing definitive on the other three as yet.
Not that it took a great deal of insight to imagine the situation Tate relayed as having played out three other times inside the secluded warehouse.
Once he was finished, Underall said nothing for a full minute. Chewing on the new data, he wore a look that denoted he might soon be ill. His skin looked pale and sallow.
It was a form Vance himself would likely have if given the option.
“Have we continued trying to reach the other three?” Underall eventually asked.
“We have,” Joon replied. “It would appear that the area is still being blanketed, no signal getting in or out.”
“And the agent onsite?”
“Agent Ramirez has heard nothing either,” Joon replied.
Folding one leg over the other, Underall adjusted himself in his seat. It was a pose similar to the one Vance had seen the day before, intimating he was uncomfortable with the situation.
Even as president, the man’s body language left something to seriously be desired.
“So what does this mean?” Underall asked.
“This means Edgar Belmonte is still slated to speak later this evening,” Joon replied. “And that our only means of neutralizing him have been removed.”
Deep within, Vance felt something tighten. Originating in his core, it squeezed so tight it threatened to take his breath from him.
Like a remembered clip from an old movie, he saw Jeremiah Tate appear before him, the angry scowl he wore on the call just minutes before.
And felt the same thing well within him.
“What about this man, Tate, that you just spoke to?” Underall asked.
Casting a glance over to Joon, Vance saw the man’s eyes narrow.
“I don’t think so, sir. He’s been out of the game for more than five years. To be honest, I think he took advantage of some prior training just to save his own hide.”
Nodding, Underall pondered the response. “We do still have two agents in the country, correct?”
Joon let out a long sigh through his nose. “We do. Ramirez is strictly observe-and-report status. Farkus has been in country much longer, would be a loss of a major asset to have him break cover.”
The tightening Vance felt grew more pronounced. Prior to the day before, Joon had never heard of either of the agents in Venezuela. They were both under the care of Vance, had been for more than a year.
Both he had met with personally.
The classifications Joon gave on both weren’t inaccurate, but the cavalier way he spoke of them rankled him in a way he couldn’t quite explain.
“But a loss worth incurring?” Underall asked. He didn’t bother finishing the thought, allowing the obvious to be inferred.
“Certainly, sir.”
Careful to say nothing, to force himself not to react in any way, Vance glanced between the two men. Each seemed to be debating how to proceed, processing the new information.
“This office has not received any word from President Salazar as yet,” Underall said. “Which means as far as they’re concerned, everything is as we previously discussed.”
“Yes, sir,” Joon said.
“And there is no way we can change such a thing without bringing them in. The court of international opinion would crucify us.”
“Yes, sir,” Joon repeated.
Sighing, Underall went back to thinking for a moment. He stared off,
again trying to wrestle the new information into place.
In a move much like the one the previous day, he eventually extended his wrist before him. Folding it back, he checked his watch, noting, “Belmonte goes on in less than four hours. Get on the horn with your man down there, see what you can do.”
Chapter Forty-Seven
It wasn’t that the call ended. By that point in the conversation, I was so pissed that I was about to storm out anyway.
It was the way that I was summarily dismissed by Director Joon, just a nuisance that had surpassed any further usefulness and was being cast aside.
The words were no more than out of the man’s mouth when I was on my feet and headed for the door. Fifteen seconds later I was stripped naked and stepping into the shower.
Inside with me were the gun I’d lifted from Gold Tooth and the sat phone, both within easy reach should Ela decide to get any ideas.
Turning the water as hot as I could stand it, I used a bar of generic soap to scrub away as much of the blood and dirt caked on me as I could. I ignored the intense burning of the open wounds as I did so, watching until the water swirling the drain ran clear before shutting it off and stepping out.
Taking the time to wash up was not something I would have done otherwise, but I didn’t have much choice. I was still acutely aware of the shortened timeframe I was under, but I was also well aware of my appearance.
There were a great many things I needed to do in the coming hours. Being bloody and filthy might be okay in the backcountry of Yellowstone, but there was no way I would have been able to pull it off in a city such as Caracas.
Stepping out of the shower, I wrapped one of the towels Ela had moved earlier around my waist. Choosing to drip dry, I went to the vanity and rifled through it, using a tube of men’s deodorant before glopping some toothpaste onto my index finger and using it as a makeshift toothbrush.
All of it I did with a speed and intensity I hadn’t used since my early days in the military, knowing that already I had wasted too much time.
Hellfire: A Suspense Thriller (A Hawk Tate Novel Book 4) Page 15
