He couldn’t understand what he was hearing. She got moving faster and he lagged behind. She was upset at him — for what? For getting her off a boat full of Sausa’s killers?
She stopped and spun around. He could see she was trying to calm herself, breathing deep. What the hell was happening?
“Sausa saw me last night, Hanna. I stood in the same room as him. You think he doesn’t connect you to me?” He pointed towards the bay. “You think they bought the missionary story? They were just — what? Having you along as a guest? Don’t you get what this is? That investigation at the resort, that’s nothing. That will go nowhere. Sausa’s in with the mayor. He’s part of the fucking municipality here now. He brings lots of money, so what if he brings his own rapist killers to protect his investments . . .”
She stared and shook her head.
He couldn’t take it. “What?” His voice escalated. “What are you doing?”
“You’re a liability, Will,” she said quietly.
“I’m a what?”
Her temper snapped. “It doesn’t all get fixed, okay? Alright? It doesn’t all just go away. You’re not going to solve it, William. You’re not going to stop it. This game is one move at a time. And we had to be smart. It’s over now. It’s done.”
He shoved past her and walked away, up the dirt trail. He didn’t even know where he was going.
“I’ve given my life up . . .” she said behind him.
He wheeled around, shouting, “So have I! And this is it! This is what I’m here to do.” The adrenaline was flowing. The wild events of the past couple days — the past couple years — catching up. He didn’t know what was right anymore. He couldn’t understand what anyone was thinking, what they were doing. Even Hanna.
He stepped closer. “You jumped from the boat!”
“Why? Why would I? Because you were racing over on a fucking jet-ski! They saw you and they panicked. You weren’t thinking, Will. You weren’t—”
“I took three fucking women from that cabin!” He bellowed. “Sausa’s women! Funi was bleeding from her fucking womb!”
“Don’t you think I want to save as many as I can?”
“You? You’re the one telling me about how they make their own choices!”
The remark clearly stung her. She flinched, and her eyes drew to sharp points. “William, this is not the way. We made this decision. We were going to assist with groups like the PJP, aid local law enforcement—”
He raised his arms and spun around. “Where? Where is the law enforcement? There’s two cops over on the beach. I almost spilled everything to one, but for what? They’re helpless.”
“Catarino is part of an anti-human trafficking unit. I’m not talking about local cops.” Her words echoed Isabella’s. How could Hanna know about Catarino’s unit? She’d been talking to the detective behind William’s back.
But he slapped his chest. He couldn’t stop now. “I’m the law enforcement, Hanna.”
The two of them fell silent. That look returned — like she felt sorry for him. Like he wasn’t able to see what she did. Then her eyes flitted over his shoulder.
William spun around, hearing a noise.
The man standing just up the path had a gun on them. He was dressed in a thin motorcycle jacket and leather pants.
“You two are really something.”
With his helmet removed, in the clear light day, William at last knew who was following them.
CHAPTER FORTY
“Easy,” Jason Staryles said. “Come on now. Come on up nice and easy. I’ve got a spot right back this way.”
William noticed the gun. Not something you bought on the street, or in a gun shop, but carefully assembled from parts sourced all over the world. A professional assassin’s gun, untraceable. Just the type Jeremy Staryles’ brother would have.
Staryles had once worked with Didier Lazard as an economic hitman, meaning he’d traveled the world bribing or strong-arming populist leaders. When that didn’t work and they couldn’t be persuaded to do the bidding of powerful governments and corporate interests, airplanes crashed, cars blew up, men were shot from high windows and dictators were installed in their absence.
Essentially, Staryles either worked you over or killed you. If you didn’t play ball, and then you saw him again, you were dead.
He directed William and Hanna further up the path through the trees. He looked like his brother a bit, though uglier, his nose flatter, lips thinner.
William thought Staryles wanted payback for his brother’s death.
The hitman slipped behind Hanna, pressing the barrel of the gun against her lower back. “Keep going. Up this way.”
A group of locals were on their way down the path, carrying a cooler of beer and some fruit. They sensed something amiss and hurried past, their friendly smiles wilting.
“Don’t worry about them,” Staryles whispered. “It’s not far.”
They emerged from the jungle to an inlet with narrow bridges spanning a filigree of creeks. Shanty houses abounded and the air reeked of sulfur. More locals watched as Staryles marched William and Hanna to a tiny lime-green house with a motorcycle in front.
“Open the door.”
William stopped. “We’re not going in there.”
“You’re going in there or I’m going to drop her right here. Let her bleed out.”
William stared at the door and could feel the heat emanating from within. There were no windows, the place was basically a shed.
He waited, feeling an artery pulse in his neck, sweat run down his back. Hanna moaned through clenched teeth as Staryles probably dug the gun in deep.
“Three seconds. One, two . . .”
William pushed the door open to the bare room. Two sets of heavy chains were bolted to the plank floor, each connected to a set of bracelets and anklets. It looked like something from the Dark Ages. Staryles had probably installed the shackles himself, planning this moment. Waiting to get William and Hanna in his snare.
“Sit down and put them on.”
“Tell me what you want. I didn’t kill your brother.”
It had the benefit of being mostly true. Another man, Russell Gide, had killed Jeremy Staryles. Gide had been there at William’s behest, but still, it hadn’t been William who’d pulled the trigger.
“I said, sit down. And wrap yourselves up.”
The room was stiflingly hot — worse than anything William had experienced so far. It felt like it could cook them alive.
Staryles was alone. He had one weapon. The shackles would be the end of everything.
William spun around and rushed him, reaching for the gun.
Staryles was agile and fast. He slipped away and pulled the trigger.
William felt the bullet tear flesh as it grazed his arm. He grabbed Staryles by the wrist, forcing the gun upwards. He hit him in the throat with his other hand.
Staryles’ eyes flew open. He made choking sounds as he stumbled back and crashed into the wall. William advanced, swung his fist, and Staryles ducked it. The throat punch had been just off-center, and he was recovering. When his head came down and bashed William in the cheek, there was no time to react. William let go, his vision blotted.
He kept his feet by falling against the wall. Dizzy, he heard more shots — soft fupp fupp noises of the custom sound suppressor.
Hanna screamed.
The world swam into focus and he saw Staryles standing over her. William pushed off the wall and tackled him to the ground. The gun clattered away.
They’d landed next to the chains, and William looped it around Staryles’ neck.
The assassin was able to get his hand between the chain and his flesh in the nick of time. William cinched but couldn’t choke him out. They grunted and wrestled together on the dusty floor as Staryles struggled to get free. Like the young Russians, he was strong, he was younger. But he was also a trained killer. He slipped the chain at last and rolled on top of William.
William kicked and flai
led, he reached up and clawed the Staryles’ face as the assassin groped for the gun. He didn’t know if Hanna had been shot. He could see her from the corner of his eye, lying on the floor.
He bent his knees and drove upward, giving it everything he had. The action drove Staryles off him, who tumbled over the planks.
William was up a second later and dove for the gun. He rolled away with it, bumping into the other wall. He scrambled his feet, pushed himself sitting, aimed across the cramped space at Staryles, who lie panting, bleeding from the torn skin of his face.
“You mother fucker,” Staryles rasped.
Hanna wasn’t moving. There was no blood, so maybe she’d just been knocked out.
Staryles started to get up.
William pulled the trigger.
The weapon failed to fire. William squeezed the trigger again, but nothing happened.
Staryles smiled, blood on his teeth. He held up his arm and jiggled his wrist. William understood now — the bracelet was a proximity token. The assassin’s gun was not only assembled from untraceable parts, one of its components was a smart sensor. The gun would only fire if it was in his hand with the bracelet on his wrist.
Staryles pushed himself off the wall and launched over Hanna’s body. He flung himself on top of William, going for the gun. By now the heat was so oppressive William could hardly breathe. Staryles was like a wild animal, crushing William’s chest with his knees as he wrested the gun free.
He swung it around and pointed it at William’s head.
“The box. Where is the—”
He was struck from behind when Hanna hit him with one of the steel shackles.
William rolled away, gained his feet, and kicked Staryles against the wall.
The assassin held his head, bleeding from the scalp, and curled into a fetal position.
William dropped to one knee, his head swimming. The smell of sulfur was stronger now, putrid, like an open sewer. Everything was red. He reached into his pocket and slipped into the brass knuckles. Then he hit Staryles in the face.
And then he hit him again.
“Stop . . .”
Her voice was muffled, distant.
“William . . .”
He hit Staryles one more time, rocking the man’s head back. The assassin’s eyes shuttered. His face was a bloody pulp. The heat cooked William’s brain, boiled his blood. His mind was nearly empty — all that was left was pain.
“Brendan,” Hanna said.
He held his fist in mid-air, the knuckleduster dripping blood. He looked up at her.
She was alright. She was alive. He grabbed her and checked her for wounds.
“Stop now.”
Her voice was serene, like an angel, her words comforting. There was a cut on her cheek, a bruise forming. She took his wrist and moved it away from Staryles, then gently pushed William out of her way.
Hanna bent over the assassin, carefully removed his bracelet and stuck it in her pocket. She found the motorcycle key and pocketed it, too. Finally, she took the gun, stood, and left the shed.
The last shred of his rational mind told him to follow her. Get moving or die. But — what of that? He stared at Staryles’ beaten body, his contorted face. There was nothing left in the world that was human.
He lumbered towards the door, fell, then crawled out into the daylight and relief of the relatively cooler air. He made it short distance away and collapsed, panting. From the ground, he watched Hanna mount the motorcycle and fire up the engine. Then she re-entered the shed.
He heard her grunting and scuffing the dirt. She was dragging Staryles out into the open.
She left the assassin in the dirt, his mouth opening and closing like a fish dying on the wharf. His face was swelling, his nose was ruptured, one of his ears oozed blood.
Hanna grabbed William. “Get up.”
He managed to get his feet beneath him and stand. The world dipped and swayed. She led him to the motorcycle and helped him swing a leg over. He felt unbalanced, but was able to stay upright.
He reached his hands around her as she dropped the bike into gear and took off.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
The jungle blurred past. The engine thrummed between his legs. William held tight to Hanna. If he lost consciousness, he’d hit pavement.
The sun was low as they pulled into the Grand Roatán Resort. As soon as the motor quit, William fell from the bike. People lifted him up and took him inside.
He blacked out.
He awoke on the bed in his room. For a moment, he watched through the open terrace as an airplane tracked a white trail over the ocean.
It must’ve been the next morning.
Reaching for the water bottle on the bedside table brought the pain blasting through his arm, his ribs, his neck. He felt like he’d been through the wringer, mangled and spat out.
It was a struggle to remove the cap and get the spout to his lips. The water ran from the corners of his mouth and down his chin.
Exhausted, he lay back.
He heard muffled voices coming from outside the room. The coffee maker bubbled in the kitchen, the aroma filling the air. His bag rested on the table between couches. He wondered if the box was inside.
The goddamned black box.
Jason Staryles had surely been trying to find them for some time. At first, William and Hanna had been on the move, hard to follow, but William’s brash actions in Russia might have helped Staryles to zero in.
Staryles wanted more than payback for his brother. If he’d wanted them dead, there were easier methods than roasting them alive. Maybe Staryles had torture in mind, but there was an ulterior motive.
He wanted the box. He’d asked for it in the hot hell of the shed.
Lazard’s database of multi-national corporations, illicit dealings, corruption around the globe. A “Panama Papers” of geopolitical destruction; a map of money — where it was going, what and whom it was feeding. If Lazard and Staryles had had some kind of falling out, that box sourced unlimited work for Staryles. It promised leverage, money and power.
And there was more to add to its contents now, William thought.
Sausa, a businessman from the States, was funding a private army in Honduras. The aim was security, sure — to shore up investments, keep the tourists spending money on holiday cruises and weekend getaways to the Bay Islands. But more, Sausa was involved in both human and drug trafficking. He aimed to take out his competition — he’d informed on the Nicaraguan drug trafficker busted the day William had arrived. That meant he was dealing with the DNIC.
Ramón Sabillón had been recently fired as head of the national police and Pacheco installed. Sabillón had been wary of the growing influence of the military in domestic affairs.
The whole thing had shades of a conspiracy William had been embroiled in before, and why he had to flee the States. Too much power becoming concentrated, hierarchic control enforced with militaristic precision.
But Sabillón was still making noise now that he was out, stirring up the citizens who wanted Pacheco gone. It was a revolt in the making.
So it was possible Staryles had dovetailing interests — he might also be in Honduras to get rid of the populist Sabillón, or persuade him to change his tune.
Whatever was driving him, Staryles had followed William and Hanna to Roatán and nearly succeeded in killing them.
The door to the room opened and Hanna came in with a bagful of groceries. She glanced at William, shut the door, and set the groceries on the island.
William sat up, wincing at the pain in his abdomen. When he spoke, his voice was hoarse. “Who were you talking to out there?”
She started putting the groceries away. “Cohen.”
“How’s he doing?”
“He wanted to tell me about his meeting with Samaritan’s Purse. He wanted to tell you, actually, but I said you needed your rest.”
“Who fixed me up?”
“Mateo and I got you into bed, took care of you. Half th
e place saw you come in. Cohen wants us out by tonight. He’s afraid the DNIC are going to trace us here.”
William squinted at the bright daylight. Déjà vu — they were getting kicked loose again.
“What time is it?” His watch was gone.
“Almost nine a.m. You slept through the night. Well, you know, you were in and out. You talked in your sleep.”
“Hanna . . . thank you for what you did.”
She had developed a nice shiner around her eye, and wore a bandage where she’d been cut. She was starting to look like he usually did. William felt nauseous. He needed more water but realized he’d dropped the bottle.
She finished packing, put her hands on the counter and lowered her head.
“What did Samaritan say?” William asked.
She raised her head, keeping her back turned. “They were very nice. But they said they would deny any association with us at this point.”
He knew what she was thinking — and she was right. They’d lost control again. Their cover, thin as it was, had been blown. Was it his fault? Hanna thought so. It was written all over her.
“You kept my bag. The drive is in it?”
“It is.”
“How did you get it out?”
At last she turned. “After you left Royal Playa I got rid of the rifle. I buried it. And I stashed the black box in the jungle where I could find it. Like a kid with a secret treasure.” It was good to see her smile, even if her eyes weren’t laughing along. “I told Mateo where it was and he went and got it last night.” The smile dissolved as she stared at the bag. “Staryles wanted that fucking box . . .”
“Yeah. Were you ever able to talk to Lazard?”
She shook her head as she came into the room. She had trouble meeting his eyes.
He watched her sit down on one of the couches, the bright outdoor light framed her face, tracing the edges in gold. She looked at the table, she looked at the plants, but not at him.
“I’m going to the mainland,” she said. “I’m going to work with Catarino.”
He tried to sit up straighter, triggering fresh pain. His mind resisted what she was saying, but she continued.
“Isabella and I have spoken. I’m going to stay, and I’m going to testify against Sausa when this gets to trial. Catarino is overseeing that the women — Nicole, in particular — have evidence collected. Nicole is willing to do what it takes.”
Titan Trilogy 3.5-Black Soul Page 19
