by Joshua Hood
The most effective way to achieve this was for Hayes to kill the handler. But all he had was the pistol, and he wasn’t waiting around to take a shot. He knew that distance and speed were the only things that were going to save him, but he was exhausted and wasn’t sure how much gas he had left in the tank.
Just run.
If there was a way to actually fool the Malinois’s nose, Hayes hadn’t heard of it. He knew the cartels had tried everything. Coffee, brake cleaner, oil. It didn’t matter what they used to mask the scent of their coke, a dog’s nose was just too sensitive.
The way he’d heard it explained was that a human could smell a hamburger, but a good scent dog could smell the flour the bun was made from, the plastic from the bottle of ketchup, and even the soap the cook had used to clean his hands.
He knew from experience that both the handler and the dog would be amped up. The dog would find his fresh trail, scent the blood-and-sweat mixture, and pull hard on the lead. The handler would know that his dog had a lock, and if Hayes was lucky, he would let him run.
Hayes was hoping that the handler wouldn’t be too keyed up to keep his dog calm and let it overexert itself.
Fooling the dog was out of the question. But the handler was a different story.
In the Army they had called it counter tracking, and at its core the tactic was meant to make the handler think the dog had lost the scent.
This terrain wasn’t the best place to try to pull it off, but right now, Hayes was grasping at straws.
He cut north, using a running pace count to tell him when he’d traveled fifty meters. When he reached that distance, he dropped and rolled on the ground. Once he was sure that his scent had been firmly deposited on the matted jungle floor, Hayes jumped to his feet and took a zigzagging sprint back to his start point.
Facing west, he ran a series of tight circles before arcing south and repeating the process all over again.
He repeated the process three times, and when he was done, he was covered in dirt and exhausted. His body ached to stop, but he pushed himself, knowing that he needed to make up the time lost.
The terrain rose beneath his feet, and the effort of running uphill caused a lactic burn in his legs. As he climbed higher, the air grew colder until he felt like he was breathing fire. The vegetation started to thin, the space between the trees growing more pronounced.
Hayes went internal, shutting off his brain. Converting the pain into fuel.
Bent almost double, he clawed his way toward the summit, over the thinning grass and the slabs of granite. But there was only so much his body could take, and he finally came to a halt beside a gnarled rubber tree.
He tried to hold himself up, but his shaking muscles refused to support his weight. When his arm gave out, Hayes stumbled into the tree. His legs gave out, and then he was on the ground, clothes soaked in sweat, every inch of exposed skin raw and red from the slap and scrape of the branches.
Hayes looked up at the sky. The past ten years of his life had been spent building a wall around the man he used to be. Doing everything he could to stay free of Treadstone. He’d thought that he’d never need those skills again. Believed that his enemies would just forget the man he’d once been.
He’d lied to himself. Allowed himself to get soft. Weak.
There was movement on his backtrail. A shimmer of black among the green of the woods. The snap of breaking branches and the baying of the tracking dogs, and for the first time in his life Hayes was afraid.
Hayes somehow managed to get to his feet. He was about to push himself away from the tree—
Stop.
What is it? he asked himself.
Listen.
He didn’t hear anything. Not the trackers, or the dogs, or the helicopter. Just the hammering of his heart in his ears.
The first shot snapped over his head, followed by the crack of a high-powered rifle. Hayes kept low and scrambled for the summit.
A second shot rang out and the bullet sparked off a boulder, bits of granite tearing across his skin. The gunfire came from all directions, the bullets snapping and hissing all around him.
What, did you think they were going to bring you in?
He saw a clearing off to his left and ran for it, the sound of the blood in his ears slowly replaced by the thunder of rushing water.
“He’s trapped!” a voice yelled in Spanish.
Hayes flashed out of the trees, his boots skidding across the wet granite that had replaced the bare earth. He threw his arms out and felt himself tipping forward over a ledge. Suddenly he was in freefall, tumbling toward the river thundering against its banks twenty feet below him. It was swollen and angry, the water foaming over the jagged rocks that jutted from the surface.
Every instinct telling him to reach out for something. To stay out of the river.
Don’t fight it.
Hayes hit the water, the impact knocking the breath from his lungs. Then the river had him. It pulled him under, flipped him end over end like he was in Satan’s washing machine. He ducked out of his jacket, kicked off his boots, and clawed his way to the surface.
His head broke the water and he caught a quick breath before the current dragged him under. It was an ancient and one-sided fight. Man against the elements. A truly humbling experience. Hayes wasn’t ready to die, and the fact that he was standing on death’s door gave him superhuman strength. He fought free of the current’s icy grip, somehow got his head above water a second time.
But it was a losing battle.
The river carried him downstream, bouncing him off rocks and submerged roots. His hand slapped against a boulder. He scrambled to get a grip, but the rock was slick with moss.
As he slipped under the water, he felt someone grab a fistful of his hair. A painful yank and his head broke the surface.
“Got your ass,” a gravelly voice exclaimed.
The sun was shining full in Hayes’s eyes and he couldn’t see the face of the man standing in front of him. The man grabbed Hayes’s belt and used it to pull him to his feet.
Hayes was already running on fumes and had no energy left to dodge a brutal punch to his stomach. The blow to the gut emptied his tank. His knees buckled, and when the man let go of his hair, Hayes dropped to the ground. A boot to the ribs sprawled him on his back.
The man loomed over him, his body eclipsing the sun.
Hayes blinked the stars from his eyes, and when his vision cleared, he was staring down the barrel of a .45.
“You fucking move,” the man said, pressing the pistol to the center of his forehead, “and I will empty your fucking skull.”
Hayes had lost count of how many guns had been held to his head. But it wasn’t the kiss of steel to his skin that made his blood run cold, it was the face of the man staring at him from over the sights.
Gray.
He heard the snap of branches and the scramble of feet behind him and turned in time to see a muzzle crashing down on his head, and then the world went black.
53
PENDARE, VENEZUELA
Hayes blinked when they took the hood off.
It smelled of bleach and standing water. And reminded him of a gym locker room. The cinder-block walls were painted an off-white. In the center was a white card table and two folding chairs.
The guards wore sterile BDUs, and Hayes could tell they weren’t soldiers.
“Strip,” the older guard ordered in Spanish. He threw an orange jumpsuit on the table.
Hayes took a seat and checked the room.
The younger guard stood by the door, holding a shotgun. The other stood a few feet behind the table. He had his hand resting on the butt of his pistol.
“I’m not putting that shit on.”
The guard shrugged.
Hayes wasn’t in any position to make a move. And since he wasn’t sure wh
ere they were taking him, he decided not to go naked.
He tugged the jumpsuit on.
“Sit,” the man said in Spanish.
One of the men brought a plastic bin over and dropped it on the table.
“What do you want me to do with that?”
“Put your shit in the bin and keep your mouth shut,” the other guard commanded.
Hayes unbuckled his watch. He was pretty sure he would never see it again, but dutifully put it in the bin.
The door opened and a thin man in a lab coat approached the table tentatively. He took a penlight from his pocket. Hayes guessed he was in his late twenties. He had a wisp of a mustache on his upper lip, and he was sweating. The penlight shook in his hands.
It made Hayes wonder what they had told the men about him.
The light hurt his eyes. His head was killing him. It felt like a tiny jackhammer was doing roadwork on his brain.
“I think he has a concussion.”
“He’s fine,” the older guard said.
The younger guard nodded and snapped a pair of handcuffs around Hayes’s wrists. “This way,” he said, pushing Hayes out the door and using the muzzle of the rifle to prod him along the hall.
It was a short walk, but it left Hayes dizzy. He felt goose bumps on his arms. Followed by a wave of nausea.
Hayes didn’t plan on sticking around and did his best to memorize the route, taking note of what looked like an arms room before the older guard shoved his pistol into his back.
“Inside,” the man commanded.
He shoved Hayes into a chair and shackled his handcuffs to a chain attached to an eyebolt drilled into the concrete floor. Before he walked out of the room, the guard took the opportunity to slap Hayes on the back of the head.
Hayes tried to get to his feet but quickly learned that while there was enough play in the chain to allow him to move his arms from left to right, there was no way he could stand up. He worked his arms back and forth, testing the bolt for play, but it was firmly anchored in the concrete, and the harder he pulled against the bolt, the deeper the metal cuffs dug into his wrists.
Finally he gave up and instead studied the room.
Like the chain, the chair was bolted to the floor above a copper drain with dried blood around the edges.
On the wall to his right was a typical backyard spigot. A green hose was coiled neatly below it.
Hayes knew the hose wasn’t for drinking. It was for spraying blood down the drain, but it made him thirsty.
“Sure am thirsty,” he said.
Straight ahead was a mirror. His reflection wasn’t looking so good.
“Hey!” he yelled. “Can I have some water, maybe some aspirin, you know, for the concussion?”
Nothing.
This is not how I saw this day going.
Hayes knew that everything depended on who walked through that door.
As if on cue, the door swung open.
Well . . . fuck.
Gray entered the room with a folder, a pair of black gloves, and a disappointed look on his face.
“You just won’t die, will you?” he asked.
“Sorry to disappoint,” Hayes said.
“Before we get started, I have to tell you something. To be honest, I didn’t have much hope for this day. Honestly, I thought you were too smart to fall into Vega’s little trap. But then it worked and . . .” He paused dramatically, arms spread wide. “Well, it was like Christmas morning.”
“Didn’t have the balls to pull the trigger, though.”
“Well, I would have shot you, but . . .”
“But what?”
“Well, I still need you, at least for a few more minutes.”
“Just so you know,” Hayes said, “I’m going to kill you.”
“I doubt it.” Gray smiled.
“That’s what Black said.”
“Yeah, well, Black was a blunt instrument, a tool to be used and thrown away.”
“Can we just get this shit over with?” Hayes asked. “I mean, either kill me or torture me or whatever the hell you are going to do, but please, shut the fuck up.”
Gray smiled, but his eyes grew hard and angry.
He was faster than Hayes gave him credit for, and Hayes barely had time to tense up. Gray’s fist came in like a sledgehammer, cracking Hayes’s rib.
“You want to get to the point, well, here it is,” Gray said, slapping a manila folder on the table with the CIA seal on the front. He opened it, pulled a paper clip off the documents, and laid them side by side.
“You know what this is?”
“I hope it’s a menu. ’Cause I’m starving.”
Gray’s face flexed upward for a moment. It was like his muscles were trying to remember how to smile, and then, without blinking an eye, he backhanded Hayes across the face.
All Hayes could do was flinch before Gray’s knuckles cracked across his nose.
“What the fuck is it with you people and my nose?” Hayes demanded, blinking away the tears as Gray grabbed a handful of his hair and slammed his face down hard on the table.
“Stop being a smartass, then, and listen up. No, this is not a menu. It’s a confession,” Gray snarled, letting go of his hair.
“Well, I’m kinda hungry,” Hayes admitted.
“Tell you what, sign on the line. And I’ll give you something to eat. Deal?”
Hayes reached across the table; the chains rattled as he pulled the papers close, but before looking at the paper, he glanced up at Gray.
“How the hell did an asshole like you make it into the CIA? I mean, don’t they have standards?”
“Because I am smarter than everyone else.”
“Then how’d you end up in this dump instead of doing something useful, like fighting the War on Terror?”
“Useful? The War on Terror, are you serious right now?”
“Hey, man, I’m just asking, because fighting a war seems a lot better than whatever the hell you and Colonel Psychopath have going on out there. I mean, what are you going to do with all that money, anyways—buy some friends?” he continued.
“Tell you what,” Gray said, glancing at his watch. “I’ll give you sixty seconds to decide if you want to sign the paper or run your mouth.”
“What exactly am I confessing to?” Hayes asked.
“For killing all the people you killed. Ford, Black . . .”
“Is that all?”
“And for being an asshole.”
“An asshole? Really?”
“Thirty seconds,” Gray said, looking at his watch.
“So that’s how we’re going to play it.”
“Yep. Twenty seconds.”
“I forgot my glasses,” Hayes said, shoving the papers off the table while palming the paper clip.
“Fine with me,” Gray said, bending down to scoop the papers off the ground before crumpling them into a tiny ball and placing it on the table. “I am really going to enjoy this.” He smiled, taking the gloves from the table and tugging them over his hands.
“Good for you,” Hayes said, and sneered.
“Still have five seconds,” Gray said, walking around the table. “Is there anything you want to add?”
“Yeah, why don’t you go—”
“Time’s up,” Gray said, driving his fist into Hayes’s mouth.
It was a meaty, wet collision that rocked him back in the chair.
His ears rang from the blow. Gray knew exactly where to hit a man. Hayes’s eyes immediately teared up. He could taste the blood. See it spatter on the table.
Gray hit like an ox. The next shot was to his solar plexus. It doubled Hayes up like a cheap folding chair.
He retched. The air rushed from his lungs in a crimson mist and speckled the front of his jumpsuit.
&n
bsp; The only reason the chair was still standing was because it was bolted to the floor. Hayes almost fell off. But Gray grabbed his jumpsuit with his right hand. His left came crashing down in an open-handed slap.
Pop.
“Woooooo!” Gray yelled, turning to face the mirror. He raised his arms above his head, like a boxer working an invisible crowd. “I tell you what—it feels gooood to be back.”
Gray rolled his head around on his shoulders and launched into a quick shadow-boxing routine before the mirror. He was back in his element and totally enjoying himself.
Hayes, on the other hand, was in agony.
His heart was hammering like a machine gun on full auto, and his lungs burned from lack of oxygen. When he went to take a breath, he choked on the blood filling his mouth. The edges of his vision began to spot, and he knew he was about to hyperventilate.
His mind was overwhelmed by the sudden amount of damage. It panicked and allowed the primal side to take over. The result was similar to a DVD skipping halfway through a movie.
“Hey!” Gray yelled, bringing him back. “That was just round one. Don’t tell me you’ve already had enough.”
“Fuck it,” Hayes croaked.
“What was that? Speak up, Alice, I didn’t hear you.”
Hayes knew what he had to do.
He leaned forward in the chair and pursed his shattered lips. A rivulet of crimson spit poured from his mouth. It hit the floor with a wet smack.
“I’ll make you a deal,” Hayes said, his voice low and defeated.
Gray cracked his knuckles and took a triumphant step closer.
“You wanna deal? I’m listening.”
Hayes lolled in the chair. His breathing was short and choppy against the pain that came with each inhalation.
Through hooded eyes he looked at the mirror. There was no fight left in his eyes.
“I’ll give you a chance to leave.”
“Leave? Shit, I must have hit you harder than I thought,” Gray said.
He was less than a foot away, and there was victory in his eyes.
“Where the hell am I goin’?”
“I don’t . . . want to . . .” Hayes panted.
