The Treadstone Resurrection

by Joshua Hood

  “By ‘boss’ you mean . . . ”

  “Sergeant Gustavo,” he said, nodding to the man who had hit him.

  “And did Sergeant Gustavo answer?”

  “No, señor, he was . . .” Alejandro began, but thought better of it at the last moment. “He was b-busy.”

  “Busy . . . hmm.” Vega nodded, his eyes flashing to Sergeant Gustavo. Busy doing what, Sergeant? he wondered, but decided to save the question for later.

  “Then what happened?” Vega asked.

  “A man jumped out of the plane—he had a paracaídas, a . . .” The man paused, struggling for the word.

  “A parachute,” Vega said.

  “Sí, sí, a parachute.”

  “And then?”

  “There were ten of us and only two of them, so . . .” The man shrugged, and Vega assumed he was saying the math spoke for itself. “But . . . but . . .”

  “Spit it out,” the sergeant demanded.

  “This man wasn’t normal, he didn’t run away like the others.”

  “There were others?” Vega asked.

  “A man and a woman.”

  “This other man, the one who ran away, did you see his face?”

  Alejandro gulped the rest of the liquor and hesitated before offering a nod.

  Vega went to his desk, pulled open the center drawer, and took out a photo. He set the cigar in the marble ashtray and crossed back to Alejandro.

  “Is this the man?” he asked, holding up a picture of Cole Boggs.

  “Sí, Colonel, it is not a face I will ever forget.”

  “Do you know him?”

  Instead of answering, Alejandro broke eye contact, paused to look down at the toe of his filthy shoes.

  Vega dropped the picture at the man’s feet, his right hand sliding behind his back, fingers coiling around the butt of the gold-plated .45. At the sight of the pistol the two sergeants stepped to the side, making sure they were out of the line of fire.

  “This man is an American federal agent—a sapo,” Vega said, pressing the barrel against the top of Alejandro’s forehead and pushing the man’s head back. Bringing his eyes up from his shoes. “Are you working with the gringos, Alejandro, is that why they let you live?”

  “N-no—Colonel, on my life, no.”

  “Do you have a confession to make?” Vega leaned in. “You can tell me, whisper it soft into my ear, like you would in church.”

  For a moment the only sound in the room was the low hiss of the words tumbling out of the man’s mouth. So soft and faint that despite being an inch from the man’s mouth, Vega had to strain to hear him.

  “Very good, Alejandro, very good.” He nodded approvingly while he picked up the picture.

  He carried it back to the desk, dropped it in the drawer, and pulled out a stack of banded hundred-dollar bills.

  Vega tossed the cash into Alejandro’s lap and turned to his aide. “They went to El Nula.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Help him up.” He took the cigar out of the ashtray and pressed it to his lips.

  “Yes, Colonel.” The sergeants nodded.

  “Fifty thousand dollars to the man who kills the gringo, do you hear me, Sergeant Gustavo? We reward those who are loyal,” he said, blowing a cloud of smoke toward the two sergeants.

  “Y-yes, sir.” He coughed, closing his eyes against the cloud of smoke that rolled over his face.

  “And we punish those who are not.” Vega stepped through the smoke and pressed the 1911 to Gustavo’s head and pulled the trigger.

  41

  EL NULA, VENEZUELA

  El Nula was typical of the Central American towns Hayes had visited, with low-slung buildings painted in vibrant whites and pinks. The town was built around a square with a stately white cathedral and an open grass-lined plaza.

  Boggs turned off the main road and Hayes watched as the welcoming pastels slowly shifted to the recognizable grays and weathered browns of the industrial district. He slowed in front of a two-story pillbox of a building.

  “Here we are,” Boggs said, parking the Jeep on the road.

  Hayes’s first thought when he saw the building was that Boggs couldn’t have picked a worse spot for a safe house if he’d tried. Tactically, the fact that it was on the second floor of the building should have given them the advantage of the high ground. But all it took was a quick look up at the surrounding structures to realize the safe house was the runt of the block.

  Boggs led the way, leaving Hayes to muscle the drop bag up the stairs by himself. At least he left the door open, Hayes thought, as he lugged the bag inside the apartment, past the kitchen to his right and into the living/dining room.

  “I will make us something to eat,” Izzy said, heading to the kitchen.

  Hayes dumped the bag next to the balcony door and pulled out his cleaning kit. The Glock was filthy from the jump, and Hayes wanted to get the mud off before it dried. He carried the cleaning kit to the threadbare couch and set it on the table.

  He pulled an oil-soaked cloth from the bag and spread it out on the table before dropping the mag and ejecting the round from the chamber. After breaking the Glock down, Hayes took a brush from the bag and scrubbed away the dirt.

  “What’s her story?” Hayes asked without looking up from the pistol.

  “Her father was the minister of justice under President Mateo and one of the last honest men in the country.”

  “From what you said in the Jeep, it doesn’t sound like that worked out too well for him. What happened?”

  “While the rest of Mateo’s cabinet was robbing the country blind, Izzy’s father was working to curb the corruption. He started with the military, tried to dislodge the generals who were letting the Colombian narcos bring drugs across the border. The generals went to Vega and paid him to handle the situation and—”

  “And Vega killed him,” Hayes said.

  “Not just him, he killed Izzy’s entire family,” Boggs hissed. “She was the only one who made it out alive and, get this, now the fucker lives in their house.”

  “You’re shitting me?”

  “Nope,” Boggs said. “Blood wasn’t even dry on the floor before he started moving in. Guess he figured it would send a message.”

  Hayes turned his attention back to the Glock. He blew the last of the dirt from the slide before looking up.

  “She can’t stay here, you know that, right?”

  “Yeah.” Boggs nodded before glancing at his watch. “It’s too late to try and cross the border now, but . . .”

  “In the morning then,” Hayes said, picking up a bottle of Rem Oil and using the needle tip to distribute the contents onto the slide rails.

  “Fine.”

  Hayes set the bottle on the table and turned his attention to the balcony, leaving his hands free to reassemble the pistol. He felt Boggs’s eyes on him and turned to see the man staring at him.

  “Are you like the Rain Man of guns?”

  “What?” Hayes said, slamming the magazine into the Glock and racking the slide to the rear.

  “You’re creeping me out.”

  “Relax, I just want to be ready if anything jumps off.”

  Boggs nodded thoughtfully. “Fair enough. So, speaking of jumping off, do you have a plan or something?”

  “Where was Ford when he got hit?” Hayes asked.

  “Somewhere south of the Orinoco, I think,” Boggs replied.

  “You think? He was your asset, which makes him your fucking responsibility, Boggs.”

  “Listen, I am about tired of your shit,” Boggs spat. “You come down here with all of your spy shit, thinking you know how this works, but you don’t.”

  Easy, the voice warned. This guy might be a fuckup, but you still need what he knows, and you aren’t going to get anywhere rubbing his face in it.


  “Look, it’s been a long day,” Hayes said, “and I appreciate your help. So why don’t you fill me in on how this works?”

  Boggs nodded and seemed to calm down. “I don’t know how much undercover work you have done, but I can tell you that it is hard to get anything done when you have a leash around your neck. I spent most of my career undercover, so believe me when I tell you that there isn’t a pause button you can hit when it’s ‘report time.’ Ford and I operated under big-boy rules. I knew that he was out there doing his thing and would report in when he had the time.”

  “Fair enough.” Hayes nodded. “When was the last time he made contact?”

  “Two days before he was killed. Ford called in, said that he’d heard from one of his informants that there was a big load coming in from the south.”

  “How big?” Hayes asked.

  “Big enough that they needed an Antonov An-12 to carry it all.”

  “Plane that size would be hard to hide,” Hayes said.

  “Well, that depends.”

  “On what?” Hayes asked.

  “On who the plane belonged to.” Boggs winked.

  “Well, we know it couldn’t have belonged to Vega,” Hayes said, “because according to the official memo in your file, you were ordered to leave him alone.”

  “That dude is dirty as hell and nobody wanted to help me because he’s in bed with the CIA.”

  “Here we go again with this.”

  “I’m serious, man.” Boggs went to his bag and pulled out a camera. He thumbed the power on and brought it over to Hayes. “Check this out. This dude right here,” he said, pointing at one of the pictures, “is as American as apple pie and he is all over the place.”

  Hayes reached into his assault pack and pulled out the ashen remains of the pictures Deano had printed out for him back in the States. He compared the two photos. It was the same man.

  He remembered the conversation he’d had on the plane with Shaw.

  * * *

  —

  “The last photo, the two men in the hangar.”

  “Vega,” Shaw said, pointing to the man in uniform.

  “And the other guy?”

  “Never seen him before,” Shaw said.

  “Levi, look again,” Hayes said, pointing at the photo. “You’ve never seen this guy before. You’re sure?”

  “Yes, Adam,” Shaw replied, “I’m sure.”

  * * *

  —

  There was only one way to find out. Hayes grabbed a cylindrical case made of black nylon from his assault pack and carried it to the balcony. He unzipped the top section and carefully extracted the contents, snapping them together until he was holding what looked like an umbrella frame in his hand.

  “Not a spy, huh?” Boggs said as Izzy walked in with coffee and two plates of food.

  “What is that?” she asked in Spanish.

  “It’s a high-gain satellite antenna,” Hayes said. “The only secure way to communicate out here.”

  He lowered himself into a crouch and adjusted the antenna so it had a clear view of the sky.

  When he was satisfied, Hayes attached a coaxial cable to the base of the antenna. Back inside, he pulled out the Toughbook JT had given him and plugged the data cord into the port.

  Hayes waited for the computer to boot up, and once a secure connection was established, he logged in to his email account and accessed the photos Deano had decrypted.

  “These are the photos Ford sent me,” he said, right-clicking on the image that showed Vega and the mystery man inside the hangar. “These coordinates are the geotagged location where the pictures were taken.”

  “I’m following.”

  “Good.” Hayes stripped the lat/long from the geotag, opened a web browser, accessed Google Earth, and pasted the coordinates into the search bar.

  “Pendare,” Boggs said, nodding.

  “You know it?”

  “Yeah, I know it, but what was Ford doing there?”

  “Well, I was kinda hoping you’d tell me that,” Hayes said.

  “Are you sure you put in the right coordinates?” Boggs asked, scratching his head.

  “You saw me cut and paste them,” Hayes said, clicking back to the photos and repeating the same steps as before. “See, same place.”

  “Well, that doesn’t make a hell of a lot of sense.”

  “Why not?”

  “First off, there isn’t any narco traffic in the area.”

  “You sure?” Hayes asked.

  “Fuck yes I’m sure, I’m a drug Enforcement Agent. Pendare is a big-ass jungle—there’s nothing there but some mud huts and maybe some monkeys and shit.”

  Hayes slapped the computer shut with a curse, got to his feet, and walked to the window. He looked out at the sleepy town and felt the frustration welling up inside him. Always have a backup. Yet another lesson from Treadstone. He’d spent so much time and effort just to get down here and find the man, Hayes had never even considered what he would do if the man didn’t have the answers he was looking for.

  “You want a beer?” Boggs asked from the kitchen.

  “Shit, might as well,” Hayes said, rubbing his hand over his face and walking back to the couch.

  Boggs came back into the room with two bottles of La Polar and handed one to Hayes before settling down in the chair across from him.

  Hayes took a drink and looked around the room. Something about the place was off, but he couldn’t place it.

  “I know you spies always have contingency plans, so what was plan B?”

  “No offense, Boggs, but I don’t think you are ready for plan B.”

  “You don’t think I can handle myself? I was a Marine before I joined the DEA, did two tours in Iraq.”

  “Well, semper fi, motherfucker,” Hayes said, raising his bottle in a toast.

  “Damn straight,” he said, taking a pull from his beer. “You know, Ford told me about you. Said you served together in Afghanistan.”

  “We were in Special Forces together,” Hayes said with a nod. “Nicky was a hell of a soldier. A pain in the ass when we were in garrison, but overseas, he was fearless.”

  “Sounds like him,” Boggs said. “I used to tell him that he was the toughest son of a bitch that I’d ever met. You know what he’d say?”

  “What’s that?”

  “He’d tell me that I only thought that because I’d never met you.”

  “I don’t know about all that,” Hayes said.

  “Ford did, and here’s the deal—he was my friend, too. Man, we had some good times in this place.” He paused to take a drink. “So whatever crazy idea you got bouncing around in that head of yours, I’m in.”

  “I think it only fair that I begin with a little disclaimer,” Hayes said. “You know that Rolling Stones song about time being on your side?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Well, that song wasn’t written about this particular op. We have a very small window to make this happen.”

  “How small?” Boggs asked.

  “About thirty-two hours,” Hayes said, glancing at his watch.

  “Are you serious?”

  “As a heart attack. So before you sign up, I want to warn you that there is nothing surgical about plan B.”

  “Fair enough, but I’m still in.” The man grinned. “So, lay it on me.”

  “Tomorrow I am going to take your Jeep and I’m going to pack it with as much ammo as it will carry,” Hayes began, watching the smile on Boggs’s face start to crumble. “And then I’m going to drive up to Pendare, grab a few of these cholos, and beat the shit out of them until they tell me what we want to know.”

  “By ourselves?” Boggs asked.

  “Just you and me, padna.”

  “These guys do not play around, Hayes.”
>
  “What happened to all the rah-rah shit you were just spouting?” Hayes demanded.

  “I thought you had a plan, like a real plan.”

  “I’ve got something better than a plan.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I’ve got a bagful of guns.”

  42

  EL NULA, VENEZUELA

  It was ten p.m., and Hayes was trying to plot their route to Pendare when Boggs walked in from the bedroom.

  “She is not happy with you,” the DEA agent said on his way to the kitchen, “but I told her she can’t come.”

  Hayes heard the psst that came from Boggs popping the top on a fresh beer and bit down on his annoyance.

  “It’s for her own good,” Hayes replied.

  Boggs came back into the room, took a long pull from the fresh beer, and lowered himself to the couch.

  “Did I ever tell you about the time Ford and I—”

  “Look, man,” Hayes said, cutting him off before he could launch into another story. “I’m not your mom, but oh four hundred is going to come pretty early,” he said, looking up from the map spread out on the coffee table.

  “Yeah, so?” Boggs said.

  “How can I put this in language that you might understand?” Hayes asked, looking up at the ceiling. “Okay, let’s try this. Has La Polar revolutionized the beer industry by adding a secret ingredient that magically improves a man’s tactical proficiency?”

  “Not that I know of,” Boggs said, frowning at the bottle in his hand.

  “So you trying to finish a case of beer by yourself instead of going to bed isn’t going to help keep me alive.”

  “Uhhhh—”

  “Since I don’t want to die tomorrow, how about you take your ass to bed.”

  “Okay, okay, I get it, just let me—”

  “Now!” Hayes snapped.

  The silence that followed Boggs’s departure rolled across the room like a cool breeze in the desert. “That’s better,” Hayes said and sighed, setting the pencil on the map and getting to his feet.

  Hayes imagined that he had another hour or two of planning before he’d be able to rack out, but before he got back to work he needed to make sure the safe house was secured. He went to the drop bag, and, after a few seconds of rummaging through the guns and ordnance inside, pulled out a can of CS gas, a white-phosphorus grenade, and a length of galvanized wire.