by Joshua Hood
The helo bounced into the air, but without anyone to shove the foot pedals to the left and counteract the torque of the main rotor, the helo began to spin.
That’s not good.
In the back, Black lost his footing and slammed headfirst into the doorframe. He dropped to the floor.
Hayes groaned to his feet and wiped his face across his sleeve, clearing the blood out of his eyes. Outside the canopy the spotlight showed a spinning mass of green leaves and brown trunks. He held on to the stick with his left hand and unclipped the dead pilot from his harness.
Sorry, I’m not sorry, Hayes thought, dumping the pilot unceremoniously out of his seat and climbing in.
The instrument panel was a sea of red warning lights and yellow cautions intermixed with the electronic voice repeating “Altitude—pull up. Altitude—pull up.”
Hayes pushed the pedals hard to the left, fighting against gravity and the nauseating spin of the helo. The seconds seemed to stretch into hours as Hayes fought to regain control. A glance at the altimeter showed they were fifty feet above the ground, which wasn’t high, considering the hills that dotted the landscape outside the bird.
The rush of air spraying through the bullet holes in the glass wasn’t helping, either, and when Hayes wasn’t dodging trees, he was wiping the tears from his eyes. Sweat poured down his face, scalding the laceration that adorned the bridge of his nose.
He kicked the pedals to the left and then back to the right, slaloming the Eurocopter through the stand of trees, ignoring the incessant beep of the ground-collision warning that decided to add its voice to the cacophony of chimes and whistles echoing through the cockpit.
“I know, I know,” Hayes shouted, catching a glimpse of an open area to his left.
He cut the stick and banked the Eurocopter onto its side, the blades narrowly missing a stout pine as it thundered into the clearing. Hayes was maneuvering back to level flight and paused to wipe the sweat out of his eyes when the copilot came to with a shout.
“Mother of God, we’re going to crash!” he screamed, grabbing the controls and yanking the stick in the opposite direction.
“Power lines!” Hayes yelled, catching the glint of the spotlight off the high tension wires that suddenly filled the windscreen.
“We’re going to diiiiiiiie!” the copilot screamed, letting go of the controls and covering his face with his hands.
“Fuck it. I’m not dying here,” Hayes swore, dropping the nose and kicking the pedals to the left. “But it’s going to be tiiiiiight,” he said, barely inching the rotors beneath the lines.
And then, just as fast as the chaos had begun, they were out of the trees and thundering east over open water.
Hayes’s shirt was soaked through with sweat and his muscles burned from the buildup of lactic acid when he settled back into the seat. He looked over at the copilot, who was just now lowering his hands from his face.
“Thanks for all the help, dickhe—” he began.
But before Hayes could finish cussing the man out, Black was at his shoulder.
“We aren’t done yet,” he said, launching a stiff right hand that caught Hayes square on the jaw and sent his head smashing into the seat post.
He saw the choke coming and tried to dip his chin, but Black was quick and locked his arm around Hayes’s neck and dragged him out of the chair.
“Hold it steady,” Black yelled at the copilot, locking the choke in tight. “I’ve got some trash to throw out.”
The pressure of Black’s arm against his carotid artery disrupted the blood supply to his brain and his vision started to tunnel at the edges. Hayes knew he had five seconds max before he passed out.
He brought his legs up, planted his feet against the bulkhead, and pushed off as hard as he could. The move caught Black off-balance and he stutter-stepped backward but refused to relax his grip.
Hayes thrashed back and forth, stomped down on Black’s feet, tried to butt him with his head, but he couldn’t break free.
“You ready to fly?” Black demanded, turning him toward the open left door.
25
WASHINGTON, D.C.
It was two a.m. when the black Lincoln town car pulled through the gate of the Washington Executive Airpark, the general aviation airport outside of Clinton, Maryland. In the back seat, it took every ounce of Jefferson Gray’s composure to keep the smile off his face when he saw the Gulfstream GV in the hangar.
He waited for the driver to bring the car to a halt and then stepped out, a silver attaché case handcuffed to his wrist. Gray took the stairs two at a time, knowing that he wouldn’t be safe until he was out of the United States. He carried the case to the rear of the plane and dropped into one of the oversized seats, loosening the tie that he’d been wearing since landing at eight that morning.
“Can I get you something to drink?” the steward asked.
“Blanton’s,” Gray said, “make it a double.”
While he waited for the drink, his mind slipped back to Mendez’s office.
* * *
—
The reception area was formal but warm with deep blue carpet and a pair of matching distressed leather chairs. On the wall to his right a large Texas flag hung over the secretary’s mahogany desk.
“Morning, Sarah,” Gray said, walking through the door like he owned the place.
“Mr. Gray, uh . . . good morning,” Sarah said, her bright Southern accent unable to hide the confused frown that adorned her face. Her brown eyes dropped to the calendar on the desk and Gray knew she was looking to see if he had an appointment.
“The senator is expecting me,” Gray lied, passing her desk and heading for the door on the other side.
“Mr. Gray, wait—I have to—”
But it was too late. Gray already had the door open and was stepping inside.
The senator was sprawled out on a leather couch, feet up on the table, eyes glued to the television mounted to the wall.
“Damn it, Sarah, I said that I didn’t want to be disturbed,” he barked without taking his eyes from the television.
“Sorry to intrude,” Gray said, savoring the confusion on the senator’s face when he turned to look at him.
“Gray, wh-what the hell are you doing in D.C.?”
“We have a problem,” he said, closing the door behind him.
“A problem?” Mendez quickly regained his composure and jumped to his feet. “Are you out of your fucking mind coming here?”
“Sir, you know I wouldn’t break protocol if it wasn’t absolutely necessary, but—”
“But what?” Mendez demanded, throwing the remote control on the couch before rounding the coffee table. “What is so urgent that you found it necessary to come to my fucking office?”
Gray knew in Venezuela that he was taking a big risk flying back to D.C. and confronting the senator on his own turf. But it was either that or lose everything he and Vega had been working on.
“It’s Adam Hayes.”
The name stopped Mendez in his tracks and the look on the senator’s face—the flicker of fear in the man’s eyes—shattered any doubt Gray had about his choice.
“What about him?”
“The hit team we sent, Hayes neutralized them.”
“Christ,” Mendez said, turning to the window.
“Sir, I need to know who this man is. I need to know what you know.”
Mendez turned from the window, sizing him up, and Gray felt a flicker of uncertainty. You have him on the ropes, but he isn’t down yet, he told himself.
“Sir, as you know, Colonel Vega has extensive connections in the intelligence field. It is only a matter of time before he learns that Hayes is still alive, and when that happens, he will go to President Díaz and we will be in the same position that we were before.”
Gray watched the senator’s r
esolve crumble, the look in the man’s eyes telling him that his bluff had hit home.
“Treadstone,” Mendez spat out. “Adam Hayes is from Treadstone.”
Shit.
Like the rest of the officers who staffed the ranks of covert intelligence, Gray had heard rumors of Treadstone 71 and their modified super assassins. But he’d always believed that the program was a myth, an urban legend like the UFOs out in the Nevada desert.
Mendez must have seen the skepticism on his face because he took a step closer, and when he spoke, his voice was low and urgent.
“Gray, I need you to listen to me. Treadstone is real. Everything that you’ve heard, the rumors, the crazy stories about what they do to them, it is all real.”
“Th-that’s impossible.”
“Did you really think SEAL Team 6 killed President Mateo and his entire family?”
It doesn’t matter who trained Hayes, Gray thought. It doesn’t even matter if Black can kill him. The only thing that matters is that he slows Hayes down long enough to do what you need to do.
“How do we find him?” Gray asked.
* * *
—
The Gulfstream GV raced down the runway and leapt into the sky. In the back Gray looked out the window and saw the nation’s capital lit up for the night. It was a panorama he’d seen hundreds of times from the air. One that evoked the same memories.
Gray’s eyes drifted to the 14th Street Bridge—the same road he’d taken the first time he visited D.C. fifteen years ago. He vividly remembered sitting on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial. Seeing the alabaster shine of the Washington Monument towering over the emerald-green grass of the National Mall. Knowing that less than a mile away the most powerful man in the world was sitting in the White House.
It was a potent moment for a wide-eyed boy from Iowa.
Now looking down on the nation’s capital for the last time, Gray knew that whatever patriotism the Agency had instilled in him was long gone. His time at the CIA had given him a peek behind the curtain. Shown him that in D.C., the real power lay not with the people but with senators like Mendez. Men who used their office and their secrets not to serve but to amass money and power for themselves.
Gray had used that knowledge to push Mendez into a corner, to bend him to his will, and when push came to shove, the senator had crumbled. The senator had given him everything that he’d asked for—the Treadstone files, access to the tracking program that helped Black locate Hayes, even dispatching a strike team to the West Coast.
For a moment Gray let his thoughts shift to Black. The man had every advantage. He had Hayes’s location and a highly skilled tactical team to take him down. By every account, Black should have no problem taking Hayes down. But if even half of what Mendez had said about the Treadstone operatives and their training was true, Gray wondered if it would be enough.
26
KIKET ISLAND, WASHINGTON
Wind whipped in through the open door of the chopper, buffeting Hayes and Black in their deadly embrace.
Hayes had been here before. Locked in a fight where there was no time to think and barely enough time to act. There were no time-outs or breaks, just the knowledge that the only thing separating you from death was one wrong move.
His brain was in panic mode, and the flash of neurons that carried the signals to his extremities had slowed to a crawl. The pounding buzz of his pulse in his ears and the tingle of his facial nerves signaled that he was about to pass out.
He wasn’t afraid of dying, but if today was his day, Hayes sure as hell wasn’t going alone.
By the time Hayes stripped the Glock 19 from the holster his field of view had shrunk to the size of a quarter. Lining up the front and rear sight was out of the question, and the best he could do was point the barrel at the back of the copilot’s chair and pull the trigger until the lights went out.
Hayes was aware of the Glock bucking in his hand and the yellow flash of the muzzle blast, but had no idea where the bullets were going or how many times he’d fired. All he knew was that he had to keep shooting, and then the darkness enveloped him.
When he came to, the helo was on its side, the smell of leaking fuel and flash of yellow sparks telling Hayes it had crashed. He grunted to a sitting position and followed the pat-pat sound of dripping fluid to the crumpled cockpit.
The back of the seat was riddled with a wide group of bullet holes, and on the other side he saw the copilot’s dead body hunched over the controls.
That worked out better than I imagined, he thought, crawling painfully out of the helicopter and dropping to the ground.
Hayes was searching for a landmark when the scratch of metal on stone drew his attention to a gravel path and a pair of boots sticking out of the brush.
Black was on his stomach, dragging himself toward the pistol lying in the roadway. Both of the man’s legs were broken, and Hayes suspected at least one compound fracture from the blood slick that marked the man’s progress.
Black glanced over his shoulder, and beneath the bloody mask that covered his face, Hayes saw fear in the man’s eyes.
Black cursed and redoubled his efforts. He snatched the Sig Sauer pistol off the ground and flipped onto his back with a pained grunt.
“I’ve got you,” Black said, the pistol shaking in his hand.
“Is that a fact?” Hayes asked.
Black grinned and pulled the trigger, the triumph evaporating when the striker snapped on an empty chamber.
“Wow,” Hayes said, walking over and dropping the medical kit on the ground before easing himself into a crouch beside the man. He reached over and plucked the empty Sig from Black’s hand. “You aren’t very good at this, are you?” Hayes asked, tossing the pistol into the darkness.
“Fuck you,” Black spat.
“I’m going to level with you,” Hayes said, glancing over at the crumpled form of the Eurocopter. “If we were anywhere else in the United States, a helo crash landing in the middle of a field wouldn’t go unnoticed, but out here”—he gestured at the wide-open nothing of their surroundings—“out here, though, it might take some time.”
“What’s your point?”
“My point is,” Hayes answered, opening the medical kit and pulling out a nylon tourniquet, “time isn’t a commodity you have.”
He tore the tourniquet free from the clear package, unrolled the three-inch-wide nylon band, and wrapped it deftly around Black’s thigh. Hayes ignored the man’s screams of protest, routed the free end through the buckle, and yanked it tight.
Black bit down on the pain, cursing behind gritted teeth as Hayes spun the metal handle until the strap was tight enough to cut off the blood flow.
“Can’t have you bleeding out on me,” he said, plucking the second tourniquet from the front of Black’s plate carrier and starting on the left leg.
“Y-you trying to save my life or something?” Black moaned, sweat pouring down his ashen face.
“Shit, no.” Hayes laughed.
“Then what do you want?”
“I’ve got some questions,” he said, tugging the .38 from his ankle holster, “and you are going to answer them.”
“Not happening,” Black grunted.
“Oh, yeah?” Hayes asked, pressing the barrel of the .38 against the exposed bone sticking out of Black’s leg.
“You fuuuuucking do what you—” Black began, until the pain cut him off.
“What was that?” Hayes asked, lifting the stubby barrel away from the wound.
“Y-you . . . you do what you have to,” Black said, biting down on the pain, “but I’ve gone through the same training as you, my friend.”
“Wait, you went to SERE training?” Hayes gasped in mock astonishment.
He was referring to the survival evasion and resistance training all Special Operations soldiers went through at Fort Bragg.
The school where they taught men how to resist torture.
“Yeah.”
“Well, shit. Guess I should pack up my stuff and head on home.”
“Like I said. Do what you’ve got to do.”
“Man, you SEALs are tough as nails,” Hayes said sarcastically.
“I—”
Hayes was on him in a flash, cutting off whatever he was about to say by backhanding him across the face with the .38.
“That man you killed was a friend of mine,” he hissed, grabbing Black by the throat. “He knew the risks of the game, but his wife. His wife was a fucking civilian,” Hayes said, dropping his knee onto the man’s leg.
Black started to scream, but Hayes choked it off at the source, closing his fingers around the man’s voice box.
“Look at me,” Hayes snapped, pressing the .38 beneath Black’s chin and pushing it skyward, until they were face-to-face. “Look into my eyes and tell me that you really believe some bullshit military school that you went to back in the nineties is going to keep me from getting the answers that I want.”
He let go for a moment before Black passed out, opened the cylinder on the .38, and shook the six rounds onto the ground.
“What the hell are you going to do with that?” he asked, eyes wary.
“It’s like I said before,” Hayes answered, picking one of the rounds out of the dirt. He held it up for Black to see, before sliding it back into the chamber. “I’ve got some questions,” he said, and slapped the cylinder with the flat of his hand, letting it spin freely, “and you are going to answer them.”
“Not happening,” Black said.
“First one’s a gimme. You ready?” Hayes asked, snapping the action closed with a flick of the wrist and cocking the hammer with his thumb. “Why are you trying to kill me?” He punctuated the question by jamming the barrel into Black’s groin.
“Hey . . . Wh-what the hell are you doing?”
“That’s not the right answer,” Hayes said, pulling the trigger.
The hammer fell on the empty chamber with a metallic snap and Black startled like he’d actually been shot.
