by Joshua Hood
He knew there was only one way to find out. But first he needed a car.
By the time he scrambled onto the cement-gray beach, Hayes was shivering, his extremities numb from the water. He unknotted his sodden pants and pulled them over his legs, and, after tightening his belt, crossed the beach to the public bathroom.
Hayes ducked into the women’s restroom and, once he was sure that he was alone, locked the door behind him. At the sink he turned on the hot water, took off the jacket, and shrugged out of the button-up.
The fabric closest to the wound had already dried, and it stuck to his skin. He knew better than to rip the scab, and while waiting for the water to heat up, he took out his knife and pried the face off the sanitary pad dispenser mounted to the wall.
Steam rolled up from the sink, and he splashed the hot water over his shirt until he was able to peel the fabric free.
The bullet had caught the top of his shoulder and the wound looked nasty, pale and wrinkled from the water. Hayes knew he had gotten lucky. If he’d been hit an inch lower, he would have been in serious trouble.
Using hand soap and paper towels, he cleaned the wound as best he could and made sure it was dry before sticking the pad to the wound.
It wasn’t his best work, but he knew the field-expedient patch job would hold until he could stitch it up later.
Hayes wiped down the sink and buried the bloody paper towels in the bottom of the garbage before gingerly pulling on the wet jacket and walking to the road. He needed a car, but with a dead deputy plus the other bodies on the ferry, Hayes knew that by now his face would be all over the news. Which meant renting one was out of the question.
Going to have to steal one, he thought, slipping across the road and ducking into the woods that separated the neighborhood from the road.
Thanks to the additional Naval Air squadrons that had come to Whidbey, the island was in the midst of a growth spurt and builders were putting up new houses just as fast as their crews could work.
Hayes hadn’t boosted a car in years and needed a vehicle with minimal security features. He remembered an article that listed the Honda Accord and Toyota Camry as the two most stolen vehicles in the U.S. According to the report, you could steal one with a tool as simple as a pair of scissors.
In the end he settled on a late-model Toyota pickup with a faded silver toolbox parked in front of a house at the end of the block.
Hayes stayed in the trees and managed to get within twenty feet of his target. The street was still and quiet, the interior of the house dark, when he bounded into the open, wet socks squishing across the pavement.
The toolbox was unlocked, and Hayes lifted the lid, wincing at the squeak of the hinges that sounded impossibly loud in the still morning air. He rifled through the contents, fully expecting to hear a nosy neighbor threatening to call the police, but his luck held and not only was he not discovered, he also found a flat-head screwdriver among the tools inside the box.
With the screwdriver in hand, he moved to the door, stripped the drawstring from the hood of his jacket, and tied a slipknot in the end. Holding the string in his left hand, Hayes jammed the screwdriver through the weather stripping at the top of the door, working the tool back and forth until he’d forced a gap.
Hayes fed the makeshift lasso through the gap and settled the loop over the lock. A gentle tug was all it took to close the loop, and when he was confident the knot wouldn’t slip free, he gave the drawstring a hard jerk and the lock popped open.
Now comes the fun part, he thought, sliding behind the wheel.
Hayes stuck the screwdriver into the ignition and twisted until the lock snapped free and the ignition rotated to the “on” position. The final step was to pop the hood, locate the starter solenoid, and use his trusty screwdriver to close the circuit between the starter post and the terminal.
The engine roared to life, and thirty seconds later he was turning out of the subdivision, the heater cranked all the way up.
13
SAN CRISTÓBAL, VENEZUELA
Jefferson Gray stood at the window of the apartment he’d rented in San Cristóbal, watching the fog clear from the jagged spires of the Cordillera de Mérida mountain range. It was a beautiful view, one that usually helped calm his mind, but today all Gray could think about was that Black still hadn’t reported in.
He moved back inside, remembering the saying the analysts at Langley liked to throw around: No news is good news. But then his eyes dropped to the satphone sitting silent on the table.
It was a routine hit; just let it play out.
It was a good thought, but every time Gray tried, his mind went back to the meeting with Vega and the way Black had challenged him in front of the men.
No. He’s been radio silent for too long. Something is wrong.
Gray turned on the television and flipped it to CNN before pulling his laptop over and logging in to the Homeland Security database. He started a Washington State query, checking the box to include police, fire, news outlets, and social media, and was about to hit enter when a banner with BREAKING NEWS flashed on the bottom of the screen and the camera zoomed in on the black-haired anchor behind the desk.
“Breaking news out of Washington State, where we have learned of a possible terrorist attack aboard the M/V Suquamish, a Washington State Department of Transportation ferry.” As the man spoke, a second window appeared on the screen, showing a live feed of a smoking ferry surrounded by rescue boats.
“According to local police, passengers called nine-one-one after hearing automatic rifle fire in the hold of the Suquamish, followed by a massive explosion, as you can see . . .”
“Fucking Black,” Gray shouted, jumping to his feet. The anger was short-lived, replaced all too fast with fear. How exposed am I? Can this be traced back to me?
Gray found himself pacing the room, thinking back to the man who’d sent him to Venezuela in the first place: Senator Patrick Mendez.
* * *
—
After graduating at the top of his class from the Farm, Gray was sure he was going to be sent to the Directorate of Operations, or DO, as it was known in the CIA. Getting into the action was all he cared about. The region didn’t matter. The CIA could send him to Afghanistan, Iraq, Yemen—Gray didn’t care, as long as it was still bleeding.
When he finally got his assignment, he couldn’t believe it.
“The NR, are you sure this is right?” he asked the personnel manager. The National Resource Division, or NR, was the domestic branch of the CIA. It was where the Agency sent their burnouts and fuckups.
“Yep, the CIA doesn’t make mistakes.”
Gray rented a small apartment in Falls Church and had to drag himself out of bed every morning. He spent his days at the office, debriefing government workers about the dangers of traveling abroad. When he wasn’t doing that, he was expected to troll the local colleges, looking for foreign nationals he could recruit to spy for the U.S.
Gray wasn’t cut out for an office job and was considering resigning from the CIA when he was invited to attend a diplomatic meet-and-greet in Georgetown.
It was an invitation that would change his life.
A diplomatic ball was a great place to collect intelligence, and Gray was expected to attend. He was also warned about getting too close to politicians.
“You are going to be rubbing elbows with some powerful people; try to keep your wits about you,” his boss had advised.
Gray was following that advice, having a drink, when a tall dark-haired man in an immaculate Hugo Boss suit drifted into the bar, flashing a thousand-watt smile to a few well-wishers before locking eyes with Gray and angling over.
He sidled up next to Gray and ordered a scotch neat from the man behind the bar.
“Patrick Mendez,” he said, extending his hand.
Gray knew who he was the moment he’
d walked into the room. Everyone in the CIA knew Senator Patrick Mendez, the chairman of the Senate Actions Committee.
“Pleasure to meet you, sir,” Gray said, taking his hand. “I’m—”
“Jefferson Gray, the new man at the NR.”
“Yes, sir, how did you know?”
The barman appeared with the senator’s drink and set a napkin in front of him, followed by the scotch.
“How did I know your name?” He smiled as he raised the glass and took a sip. “A man in my position is always looking for new friends.”
Gray was intrigued. Why would an influential senator be interested in him?
“If you don’t mind me asking, how did someone who graduated cum laude from Yale and then top of your class at Langley end up at the NR?”
“I’ve asked myself that same question more times than I care to remember.”
“I’m sure it has its perks.” Mendez tipped his glass toward the pair of gorgeous socialites gliding into the bar.
What is it he wants?
“But on the other hand, it can’t be easy for a guy like you to be riding the bench when all of your classmates are in the game.”
Then it hit him. The senator was working him.
The CIA called it developing an asset, and it was the third phase of the recruiting process. Gray wasn’t sure what he was after, but he was smart enough to know when to talk and when to listen.
“Tell you what,” Mendez said, pulling a card from his pocket and handing it over. “When you get tired of riding the bench, why don’t you give me a call.”
While Gray looked at the card, the senator pulled a wad of cash from his pocket, snapped a hundred-dollar bill off the top, and placed it on the bar next to his half-finished scotch.
“Maybe we can help each other out.”
And then he was gone.
Gray waited a week before calling him. The senator told him to meet him back at the same bar.
“What do you know about Venezuela?” he said once they were seated.
Gray knew plenty about Venezuela and none of it was good.
“I know it’s a shit assignment. A fucking backwater post,” he said honestly.
“My colleagues and I have spent the last three years working tirelessly with President Diego Mateo. We have done everything in our power to shore up his regime, and what does he do?”
“Well, I know he started his own cartel, used American assistance money to help recruit high-ranking members of the Venezuelan Army to protect his dope, and then invited Hezbollah, the Iranian-backed terror group, to help transport it. Then he allowed Russia to—”
“It was a rhetorical question,” Mendez grunted. “The point is, we had an agreement, and now that he is making millions of dollars a month in profits, he pretends he doesn’t know us.”
“So what do you want me to do about it?”
“You are going to go down there and get my money,” Mendez ordered.
“And how am I going to do that?”
“I don’t care how you do it, just get it done.”
* * *
—
Gray had spent six months working on President Mateo. He’d begged, cajoled, and threatened the man, but he wouldn’t come around. His last hope came at the tail end of a state dinner when Gray was able to get five minutes of face time with Mateo.
“Sir, Senator Mendez is not happy about the current situation.”
“You mean he is not happy that I’ve decided to stop cutting him in on every oil deal I sign?” Mateo asked.
“He considers this a breach of your agreement.”
“I want you to take a message to Senator Mendez, can you do that?” Mateo asked.
“Yes, sir.” Gray nodded.
“Tell him that Venezuela will always be appreciative of his support, but it will be a cold day in hell before he gets another cent from me.” He glared before turning and leaving the room.
That night Mendez called for an update. “How did it go?”
“It doesn’t appear that President Mateo intends to honor your deal.”
“Is that a fact?” Mendez asked, the anger in his voice clear beneath his Southern drawl. “Just what did he say?”
“He said that he appreciates all of your support, but . . .” Gray trailed off, trying to think of a way to soften the president’s words.
“Spit it out, Jefferson.”
“He said it would be a cold day in hell before you got another cent out of him.”
There was silence on the other end of the line, and Gray knew the senator was considering his options. Mendez and his cronies on the Senate Actions Committee had a sweet deal in Venezuela and had made enough money off of President Mateo to ensure their children’s children didn’t have to worry about a job. But Gray wasn’t dumb enough to think this was all about money.
This was about power, and Gray knew that his boss would eat a bullet before he went back to his peers and told them that a Third World president had just told him to fuck off.
“Well, that dog’s not going to hunt, Jefferson,” the man finally said.
“What do you want me to do?”
“Seems to me that if President Mateo doesn’t want to honor our deal, you need to find someone who will.”
“You are talking about regime change,” Gray said.
“Call it what you want, just get it done,” Mendez said before hanging up.
* * *
—
Gray had used every dirty trick in the book—falsified documents, faked assets, and massaged intel—all to make it look as though Mateo was working with the Russians. Once he had the material set, he kicked it up the chain.
He didn’t know exactly where Mendez would send the information, but he knew the outcome, which was why Gray was the only man in Venezuela not surprised when the word got out that President Diego Mateo had been assassinated.
He’d overthrown a government, brought General Díaz to power—and all he got was a bullshit title and a ten percent bump in pay.
Now you are about to lose it all.
Gray was still considering what to do when the satphone rang.
“Black, where the fuck have you been?” he demanded.
14
WHIDBEY ISLAND, WASHINGTON
Like everyone else in Treadstone, Hayes had heard about the operative who’d taken a bullet to the head and lost his memory. The problem for Hayes was that two years after his last operation, his memories were getting clearer by the day. A fact that made him wonder if not being able to remember made life easier than not being able to forget.
All the fights, and the lies. The countless apologies and unsaid words that filled up the space between them with everything he cannot say.
It seemed that when he was gone Hayes was dreaming of home, only to realize, when he got there, that he was a stranger in his own house.
That was what Treadstone did to a man. Kept him running from one shithole country to the next. Always looking over your shoulder, never knowing if you were blown. If the man standing on the corner with the phone in his hand was a lookout or just talking to his wife.
It wasn’t long before Hayes was seeing enemies everywhere, even at home. He found himself running surveillance-detection routes on the way to the grocery store.
Hayes did his best to hide what he was doing from Annabelle, but trying to run countersurveillance and pay attention while she told him why she’d bought the red flats instead of the blue ones at Bloomingdale’s proved harder than he imagined.
Always have an out. It was the first thing they’d taught him at Treadstone, and the words echoed in his head as Hayes drove north toward Oak Harbor.
He had gone into every operation thinking that he was already burned. That the enemy knew he was coming, already had his safe house, his commo, resupply, and
face. He carried his operational security over to his personal life, so much so that Annabelle used to joke that she’d married the most cautious man in the world. That caution turned into downright paranoia when his son, Jack, was born.
There was something about holding his son in his arms—seeing how defenseless he was—that fired up the protector in Hayes. Jack. The flight. Damn it.
He parked the truck behind the storage lot and walked the chain-link until he found a hole behind a bush. Hayes ducked through, followed the runoff ditch that ran under the overpass. The sounds of the cars drifted down to the concrete with the rush of wind through a canyon.
People going on with their lives with no idea what was happening in the world. It’s the American way, his old team sergeant had said after they rotated home from Afghanistan. “World War Two affected everyone; this shit has been going on so long that they just pretend it doesn’t exist.”
The sight of the rusted orange Conex box nestled behind the pylons brought his attention back to the task at hand. He’d found the box when the city was working on the drainage, before they put up the fence. It was the perfect location—invisible from the road but close enough to a junction box that Hayes had been able to pigtail into the power grid.
He lowered himself into a crouch and checked to see if the folded section of 3x5 card was still stuffed in the crack of the door. Then he checked the lock. They were simple anti-intrusion devices. The fact that it was still there, combined with the dab of wax he’d melted over the keyhole, told him that no one had disturbed the box.
He pushed the key through the wax, stepped inside, and tugged the brass chain connected to the bare bulb hanging from the ceiling. Yellow light filled the interior of the box and glinted off the windshield of a late-model Volvo station wagon.
The first order of business was to get dry. He stripped out of his wet clothes and shoved them into a black contractor’s bag with his wallet and identification. Hayes checked the patch job and saw that the wound had stopped bleeding, but the fact that the exposed skin was hot to the touch had him worried about infection.
