by Joshua Hood
He had to economize his words. It hurt too bad to breathe.
“Don’t want to what?”
“To . . . kill . . . you.”
“You’re going to kill me? Mighty hard to do with those cuffs around your wrist and that chain holding you to the floor.” Gray smiled.
Hayes mumbled something unintelligible.
“What?” Gray leaned in. “Don’t pass out on me, boy.”
“Not . . .” Hayes muttered.
“Not what?”
Gray reached forward to slap him in the face, and Hayes suddenly looked up, his eyes clear.
“Not handcuffed,” Hayes spat.
He dropped the act so fast that it froze Gray in his tracks. Hayes drove his left hand into Gray’s groin. He grabbed his balls and twisted. Gray bellowed like an ox beneath the ax.
He doubled over, mouth wide open. Hayes shot to his feet. He kept his head down, aiming at Gray’s chin.
The impact was brutal. There was a snapping sound. Gray’s teeth exploded inside his mouth. His jawbone quickly followed. Hayes’s hands encircled the man’s head. He felt his fingers touch. Rising up to his full height, Hayes paused.
His ribs screamed in protest. The pain was a white-hot lance. Hayes flexed his muscles and yanked down with all his might.
Gray’s head hit the table so hard it left a dent in the metal. Hayes let go. The man hit the floor like a bag of trash. Blood poured from the jagged gash on his forehead.
Hayes walked over to Gray and tugged the man’s Glock from the holster at the small of his back.
“Should have taken the deal,” he said, lining up the sights on the man’s forehead and pulling the trigger.
54
PENDARE, VENEZUELA
The interrogation room was soundproof, which gave Hayes one advantage—whoever was outside would have no idea that he’d just killed Gray. He cracked the door and yelled out in Spanish, “Give me a hand with this guy.”
He quickly stepped aside.
The door opened, revealing the guard who had taken his clothes. “That was quick,” the man said, stepping into the room and freezing in place when he saw Gray’s body on the floor.
Before he could recover, Hayes pressed the Glock to the back of the man’s head and fired.
He stuffed the pain back into its box and climbed out of the orange jumpsuit. The guard’s clothes were small, but he made it work, and after cramming his feet into the man’s boots, Hayes stepped out into the hall. Every breath came with a stab of pain. His legs shook, and blood ran into his eyes.
But he kept moving, knowing that he was on the clock.
Hayes leaned against the wall, keeping himself upright by sheer force of will, leaving behind a smear of blood. Up ahead he saw the arms room. He peeked through the door, ready to kill the soldier who’d been inside. But the man was gone, and the steel cage door locked.
“Now what?”
Keep moving.
Hayes had almost reached the hangar when he saw a door he’d missed on the left. He was planning on bypassing it when a guard stepped out holding a steaming mug of coffee.
“Who are—”
Hayes shot him twice in the chest and shoved him through the door. On the other side, Hayes found a small kitchenette with a rusted sink, an ancient stove, and a filthy microwave.
He stuffed the pistol into his pants before tugging the oven away from the wall. He stomped down on the gas line, breaking it. Hayes held his breath against the rush of natural gas, ejected a round from the Glock, and set the bullet in the filthy microwave. He twisted the knob to the left and closed the door, guessing that he had sixty seconds before the makeshift bomb exploded.
He was nearing the end of his strength when he finally stumbled into the hangar. The Antonov was idling just outside the hangar door, but he had to cross at least a hundred feet to reach the plane. Hayes scanned the area around him, looking for anything he could use to get to it. But there was nothing but a set of old tools and a drip pan full of oil.
Hayes was about to give up when he saw the clipboard on top of the tool chest.
No one ever questions a man with a clipboard, he thought.
He stuffed the Glock in his waistband, grabbed the clipboard, and, summoning the last of his strength, forced himself upright. He squared his shoulders, wiped the blood from his nose with the sleeve of his camo shirt, and stepped out of the shadows.
Just act like you belong, he thought, before boldly walking across the hangar.
The short walk from the door to the Antonov seemed to take forever, and Hayes fought the urge to break into a run, knowing that it would only draw attention to him.
He’d just made it to the bottom of the ramp when a crew member appeared at the top of the cargo hold.
“We’re leaving!” the man shouted.
“Paperwork,” Hayes yelled back, “for the cargo.”
The man cursed and shook his head.
“Well, hurry up, then,” the man said.
Hayes forced himself to jog up the ramp, keeping his head low to hide the pain twisting across his face. By the time he reached the top, his vision was swimming and he felt himself close to passing out.
“Are you okay?” the crewman asked.
Hayes nodded, not trusting himself to speak as he handed the clipboard to the man.
“This is a service record,” the man shouted over the roar of the engine. “I thought you said you had the bill of lading.”
“My mistake,” Hayes gasped, jerking the Glock from his waistband and managing to pull the trigger before falling against the pallet of cash in the cargo hold.
The gunshot echoed inside the plane, and when it receded, he thought he heard someone calling his name.
“Hayes!” the voice shouted again.
“Izzy?” he asked, looking up to see the woman rushing toward him.
“Oh, my God, your face. What happened?”
“No time for that, close the ramp,” he said.
“I don’t—”
“The red button to the right, just push it,” he said, pulling himself to his feet and hearing the whine of the hydraulics as the ramp began to close. “Now help me to the cockpit.”
Izzy ducked under his arm and half dragged, half carried him through the cargo hold.
You are almost there.
Hayes grabbed the knob, twisted the door open, and stumbled into the cockpit. Alerted by the movement behind him, the pilot from the bar turned to look over his shoulder, and when he saw the Glock pointed at his head, the blood drained from his face.
“Me again.” Hayes winced, dropping into the empty copilot seat.
“W-what do you want?”
“I want you to get this bitch in the air.”
55
IN FLIGHT
Izzy called her boss from the air, and by the time the An-12 crossed the border, the Colombian Air Force had scrambled a pair of A-37 Dragonflys to escort the transport to Bogotá.
In the cockpit Hayes watched the light attack jets ease into position off of both wings. “Nice and easy,” he warned the pilot. “Just follow their lead and this will be over before you know it.”
Hayes’s mind went back to the first radio call they’d made after the pilot lifted the transport into the air.
“Gray is dead, but Vega is still alive,” he’d said. “I need a team to go after him.”
“No,” Shaw had replied. “You’re done.”
“Done? What do you mean, done? You told me that they were shutting Treadstone down at the end of the month,” he said, looking at his watch. “That means I have twelve hours.”
“There has been a change in plans,” Shaw replied.
“Not for me,” Hayes said, locking eyes with Izzy. “Do you have any idea what Vega was going to use that money for? He and Gray were go
ing to use it to subsidize a coup, including bribing Senator Mendez to keep the U.S. from siding against him.”
The weariness in Shaw’s voice carried through the phone. “Adam, even if you could prove that, my hands are . . .”
There was silence on the other end of the line, and Hayes knew Levi was mulling it over. Weighing the options, seeing which one put him back on top.
“I’m pulling you out. It’s time for you to come home, see your family.”
“And what, Vega gets a pass?”
“No!” Izzy hissed, her fingers digging into Hayes’s shoulders.
“Adam, this isn’t negotiable. You are done. Pack your stuff, I’m sending a plane.”
“I can’t do that,” Hayes replied, cutting the connection.
“Does this mean Cole died for nothing?” Izzy asked, her eyes red rimmed from the tears shed for the DEA agent.
“No,” he said, looking at the pallets of cash strapped in the cargo hold, “but we are going to do this my way, which means I have to contact JT and you have to stay in Bogotá. Do you understand?”
She nodded and wiped away the tear rolling down her cheek.
* * *
—
Near Paraguachón, Colombia, Hayes was traveling sterile, his only weapon the Walther PPK tucked at the small of his back, when he limped into the train station and bought a ticket to Caracas.
The passenger train was old and well past its serviceability date. Despite the lack of air-conditioning and creature comforts such as a working restroom, the train was usually packed. But instead of the hordes of camera-laden tourists and unwashed migrants, today there were only a handful of passengers.
Hayes didn’t care what it cost him, Mendez wasn’t getting a pass, and if Shaw wouldn’t help, Hayes would find someone who would.
Izzy.
By the time the train squealed to a halt in the capital, he’d been traveling for eight hours and his sweat-soaked shirt clung to his muscled torso like Saran Wrap. The brakes squealed and the train decelerated in preparation for its arrival. Hayes could see the platform through his window; it was a jostling mass of families pulling into the station.
He got to his feet, snatched his carry-on from the floor, and ducked off the train, wading through the throng of families pressing forward. Around the edges, police in riot gear and soldiers armed with automatic rifles presided over the crowd. Hayes could see them scanning the scene, but all he could do was pray they weren’t looking for him.
Outside the station, Hayes powered on the prepaid phone and texted the number Izzy had given him.
Here.
The reply came a moment later.
Hotel Classico. Good Luck, followed by a picture of a Mitsubishi SUV in a parking stall.
Hayes flagged a taxi and gave the driver the name of the hotel.
The man eyed him for a moment, and Hayes saw a hint of concern flash across his face.
“Are you sure? There are much better hotels than the Classico.”
Hayes knew what the man was thinking. He assumed he was another Western journalist here to cover the rioters clashing with President Díaz’s troops in the streets of Caracas.
Grief and suffering were always big business, and he was sure the cabbie got a healthy tip for every customer with a fat expense account that he brought to a hotel.
“The Classico is fine,” Hayes said, and smiled.
If Hayes had been staying at the Classico, he might have taken the cabbie up on the offer to take him somewhere else the moment he pulled up at the door.
“I tried to tell you, sir,” the man said, and shrugged.
“I’m sure it’s fine,” Hayes said.
“Suit yourself.”
Hayes slung his go bag and walked through the front door.
Any worry about having to sneak past the desk clerk was alleviated by the sound of the man’s raucous snoring. With that problem out of the way, Hayes focused on the task at hand. He snatched a newspaper from the dented coffee table in the center of the lobby and followed the sign to the rear stairwell.
He stopped before the door that led to the parking garage and folded the paper into a tight square. After checking for an alarm, Hayes opened the door, stepped outside, and wedged the paper between the lock and jamb. He eased the door shut, and when he was confident that it wouldn’t lock behind him, he ducked into the shadows to wait for his eyes to adjust to the gloom.
If anyone knew he was coming, this is where they would hit him. While he was unarmed and away from prying eyes. From his position he saw the Mitsubishi SUV backed into its parking corral.
Everything Hayes needed to kill Vega and whoever was dumb enough to try to stand in his way was in the back of the SUV. He was exhausted and still in pain from the beating he’d taken at Pendare, but he forced himself to remain cautious—to wait, watch, and listen until he was sure that he was alone—and then he angled around the back of the SUV. Hayes snatched the keys off the rear tire, unlocked the door, and crawled behind the wheel.
The Classico might be a dump, but it still had cameras, which made it too dangerous to risk checking his cargo.
You’ve waited this long. You can wait until you get to the safe house.
In the garage, he started the engine and followed the ramp up to the street.
He drove toward José Félix Ribas, the barrio on the eastern hillside of Caracas. Hayes had seen poverty before, but never like this. He guessed the entire neighborhood was two hundred acres max, but according to Izzy, it was home to more than 120,000 people.
The house was in the barrio. The structure looked more like a brightly painted storage shed than a home, but it had a garage and running water, which was all Hayes had asked for. He pulled inside and, after locking the metal door, opened the back hatch of the SUV and dug his finger beneath the sheet of upholstered plywood that covered the spare tire well. He pushed down and felt a metallic click. Inside the hidden compartment was a low-profile ballistic vest, a satphone, GPS, a Glock 19, a plate carrier stuffed with magazines and grenades and a suppressed H&K UMP45, and a Barrett .50-cal.
But it was the suppressed Mark IV pistol in the Pelican case that sent a grim smile across his face.
Just like old times.
Inside, he took a shower, placed the phone on the side table, and lay down on the bed.
He didn’t know how long it would be until it rang. An hour, a day, a week? The only thing he knew for sure was that soon after he received the call, Vega would be dead.
The call came three hours later.
He checked his watch, silently counting the rings. On the third ring the phone fell silent.
His eyes flashed to the canvas go bag that sat packed next to the door. Everything he owned was packed inside the bag.
Hayes tugged a pair of latex gloves over his scarred knuckles and took a container of Clorox wipes from the bag. It took him five minutes to sanitize the room. When he was done, Hayes strapped the vest against his skin, slammed a fresh magazine into the Glock, and racked a round into the chamber. He shoved the pistol in the holster. He pulled a loose jacket over the top and then, after checking the room one last time, lifted the canvas go bag onto his shoulder and stepped outside.
56
CARACAS, VENEZUELA
Hayes left the barrio and took the coastal road through the hills, windows down, so he could smell the salt air breezing in from the Caribbean. There was something about Third World countries, the beauty of the landscape, that made him wonder if God knew the suffering the people would face and at least wanted them to have a good view.
He glanced south down into the Caracas Valley, saw the shimmer and glint of the buildings in the fading sun, and knew that in more capable hands the people might have had a chance.
But left to men like Vega, all they would ever know is suffering.
Well, I’
m going to do my part, Hayes thought, pulling the SUV off the road, the headlights playing over a primer-gray Nissan pickup with JT sitting on the tailgate.
Hayes cut the engine and climbed out, the squeal of the rusted hinges echoing through the night.
“You sure know how to pick them.” JT smiled, his teeth white behind the black face paint. “Vega has that place locked up tighter than a drum.”
“If it was easy, everyone would do it,” Hayes said, opening the hatch and pulling out his gear.
“You sure about this?” JT asked, handing over the latest satellite imagery of the target area.
“Don’t see how I have much of a choice,” Hayes said and shrugged, strapping the plate carrier over his chest, and shoving a new set of batteries into the FGEs. “Unless you know a way to get him to come out to us.”
“You take care of yourself,” JT said, shouldering the Barrett and disappearing into the shadows.
Hayes was under no illusions about what lay ahead, and knew the odds of making it out alive were low. But if today was his day to die, Hayes was sure of one thing: He wasn’t going alone.
Before stepping off, Hayes pulled out the black balaclava Izzy had given him and studied the subdued gray skull painted over the face. He tugged it over his head and adjusted the earpiece before conducting a radio check with JT.
“Got you five by five,” JT replied. “Ready when you are.”
Here goes nothing, he thought
Besides the balaclava, Izzy had provided a map she’d sketched from memory, but even with her insider knowledge, Hayes and JT knew the hardest part of getting inside the compound was negotiating the seven-foot walls without getting flayed by the shards of glass embedded in the top.
Luckily, Izzy had an answer for that, too. “There is a tunnel,” she’d said, pointing at the map. “Well, it seemed like a tunnel back then. Actually, it’s more of a drainage culvert where the runoff from the hacienda flows down to the valley.”
Hayes followed Izzy’s map down the hillside until he came to the culvert with the missing bottom grate. He lowered himself to his knees, but instead of lying flat and wriggling through the gap, Hayes took a breath, closed his eyes, and let the world fall away for a moment.
