Hellfire: A Suspense Thriller (A Hawk Tate Novel Book 4)

by Dustin Stevens

  “Beautifully,” Ruiz said from her spot in the corner. “Better than we could have ever hoped for.”

  For a moment, Belmonte said nothing. He merely let the words resonate in his mind. Allowed them to pass through his body, filling it with warmth.

  The move had been calculated for sure, but it was still a bit of a risk.

  For it to have played out so well was something he never would have imagined.

  Turning back to the room, he said, “Which gives us all the more reason why we need to be sure to capitalize on it. This has given us a tremendous start, but we can’t let that energy dwindle.”

  Around the room, a couple of heads began to nod.

  Again flicking his gaze to the clock on the back wall, he said, “In exactly three hours, we will all be boarding our caravan bound for Maracay. Tonight is the second in a trio of stadium visits planned, this one slated to hold almost twenty thousand people.

  “Last night was a start, but this will be what truly puts us on the map.”

  Pausing, he again measured the people sitting before him.

  Just like the crowd the previous evening, all were leaning forward, eagerness and anticipation practically seeping from their pores.

  “Last night, we began preliminary discussions on how to best do that, but I want to take some more time here this morning to open the floor back up. Any suggestions you might have for how to proceed moving forward, how to really make a splash, throw them out there now.

  “Remember, no idea is too big or small, and nothing is off-limits.”

  Chapter Twelve

  The trio of fly boxes were snapped shut and stowed, just three more items in the jumble of equipment that was piled high beside the door in my office. Taking up the sole bit of open floor space between a bookshelf containing every book ever published on Yellowstone and the chair Kaylan had sat in earlier, the mass was quite the eyesore.

  Even if it was just for the afternoon.

  Crossing from the front half of the building – where the desk and reception area were – into the office, it was quite jarring. An immediate reminder that things were out of place, like a family portrait that had suddenly gained a few extra people.

  Holding a cup of the radiator fluid that doubled as coffee in our establishment, I scanned the jumble of equipment for the fifth time. One item at a time, I tried to determine if it was necessary.

  After each piece was indeed deemed vital, I then tried to make sure that what I had was sufficient for the trip.

  Eight days on the water, after all, was a hell of a long stretch.

  “You’re worse than a woman packing for vacation, you know that?”

  A smile came to my face, the only reaction I gave as I continued to stare at the gear. The source of the voice I didn’t need to turn to see, knowing Kaylan’s tone well enough to recognize it anywhere.

  How she had managed to appear behind me without my hearing it I wasn’t sure, chalking it up to being deep in thought on my travel checklist.

  “You realize the sum total of that heap that’s actually mine is about a third of a duffel bag, right?” I asked.

  “Great, so you’ll be the smelly guy on the plane ride back, huh?” Kaylan countered.

  The smile in place grew a bit larger. Based on the feistiness she was now unloading on me, it had been a long winter.

  Not that she was especially wrong.

  “I’ll be returning from eight days of fishing. If I come back smelling like a basket of roses, it means the trip was a failure.”

  Behind me, I could hear Kaylan snort. “Or that you’d have some serious explaining to do.”

  To that, I cocked an eyebrow and looked over my shoulder, an impish grin on Kaylan’s face.

  “And while I’m sure you have a wicked retort all lined up for me, Rembert’s on hold for you.”

  Keeping the look on my face a moment longer, I raised my coffee to her in salute. Taking a step forward, I swung the door closed behind me before heading toward the desk.

  Finishing the last of the thick sludge in my cup, I tossed it into the wastebasket and lifted the receiver from the phone. With one finger, I pressed the glowing red button letting me know a call was waiting and fell back into my chair.

  “Mr. Rembert.”

  “Hawk! Damnation, how are you, my friend?” Just as was the case when speaking in person, the volume used was several decibels louder than necessary.

  I held the phone to my ear just long enough to reply, “I’m good, and yourself?” before pulling it away.

  An instant later, it was proved to be a solid choice for the future of my auditory health.

  “I’m more wound up than a dog with two dicks,” Rembert boomed. “So damned excited to get down on the water, I can barely hold my piss.”

  Unsure how to even begin unpacking the amount of imagery packed into the two sentences, I opted to not even try.

  The last time we had spent time together had proven how futile such an attempt could be.

  As an angler, the man was passable at best. Any skill he lacked was more than compensated for by extreme enthusiasm and a willingness to lend a hand wherever he could.

  Two things that were in far shorter supply than one might expect.

  “I’m excited as well,” I replied. “First time down that way to catch fish.”

  Which was, technically, the truth. I’d spent plenty of time in Argentina and Chile over the years. As a member of one of the preeminent FAST – Foreign Deployed Advisory and Support Team – groups working out of the American Southwest, I’d been in and out of the region more times than I could remember.

  If I hadn’t decided to walk away when I did, Lord only knew what the count would be up to by now.

  “Hellfire, me too!” Rembert said. “Once I got back from Yellowstone, everybody I knew said that was the place to go.”

  “That’s what I’ve always heard.”

  “Good, good,” Rembert said, his voice trailing slightly. Already it was clear the man had called for little more reason than to have someone to share his eagerness with, though I decided not to stifle his moment.

  For the rate he was paying me, a little awkward phone time was a reasonable trade-off.

  “Welp!” he said after a moment, his voice again causing me to wince. “I will see you at Atlanta International in the morning?”

  “I’ll be there.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  The seating arrangement inside the Oval Office was an exact copy of the previous meeting. President Mitchell Underall took the chair at the head of the group, his back just a few feet from the front edge of his desk.

  Seated eight feet away was his Chief of Staff Max Hemmings. With his legs crossed and his gaze averted, it was obvious that his role was merely as an observer.

  The look on his face hinted that even that was more than he really wanted.

  Split to either side on the sofas between them were the contingent from the Central Intelligence Agency. Director Horace Joon again chose to go solo, sitting to the left. Across from him sat Charles Vance and Hannah Rowe, each looking about as comfortable as Hemmings beside them.

  The second gathering of the day thus far, it was the culmination of a sequence of events that had escalated quickly. What had started as viewing a long-distance campaign event the night before had turned into a meeting with the highest-ranking official in the country just a few hours later.

  Now, it had progressed even further, becoming an international ordeal.

  How Charles Vance felt about that, he wasn’t yet completely certain. On one hand, the events could be a serious boon for his career. If there turned out to be a real threat in the form of Edgar Belmonte, his quick and decisive action would be praised endlessly.

  It was, after all, government work. No victory, no matter how small, ever went without receiving proper recognition.

  By the same hand, if it turned out to be a false alarm, that too would be deposited at his feet. Taking the blame was not the s
ort of thing men like the Director of the CIA or the President of the United States ever did unless they absolutely had to.

  And Vance was under no illusion that his presence was for any other reason than making sure they didn’t have to.

  The only difference in the office since their prior meeting was an ovular coffee table that had been positioned between the sofas. Recently polished, it had a bright gleam and the faint smell of cleaning solution.

  On it sat a handful of water glasses and a speakerphone, a series of red lights already glowing on its face.

  Having arrived five minutes before the hour, every person sat in silence, avoiding eye contact, until the shrill sound of a paging tone was emitted. Jerking the focus of every person toward the phone, Underall reached out and pressed a single button.

  “Mr. President, I have President Salazar on hold for you.”

  The voice was female, so mechanized Vance couldn’t tell if it was real or another of the new automated phone assistants.

  Not that it mattered either way.

  “Put him right through,” Underall said. A moment later, a single ring could be heard before he again pressed the same button. “President Salazar, how are you?”

  Despite the grim look on his face, the question was asked with plenty of faux buoyancy.

  “I am quite well, my friend, and how are you?” Salazar replied.

  Despite being the Special Director for South American Operations, Vance had nothing more than a passing familiarity with Salazar. While it was true his country was in the midst of a tragic backslide, they had also done nothing prior to elevate them to the status of being an active threat.

  Had they been speaking to the President of Colombia, Vance would have been able to recite a full resume from memory.

  For this particular meeting, it had taken quite a bit more brushing up.

  “Well,” Underall said, “as I’m sure you’re aware, there was an incident down your way last night that we’re a little bit concerned with.”

  After delivering the line, Underall glanced to each of the people in the room. He didn’t bother adding anything further, a standard move to see if Salazar would seize the bait.

  To Vance’s surprise, he did.

  “I assume you are referring to my opponent Edgar Belmonte and his little display,” Salazar replied. Bitterness seemed to bely his words. “And you’re right, I was made aware of this first thing this morning.”

  “Mhmm,” Underall said. “So I don’t think I need to point out then how concerning we find this.”

  This time, a moment passed. Long enough for Vance to glance between Joon and the president before returning his focus to the speakerphone.

  “No,” Salazar eventually said, “you do not. I would feel the same way in your position. But I can assure you, this was nothing more than a campaign stunt.”

  “That may be,” Underall replied, “but we’re not so much worried about it as an isolated incident as what it could escalate to. You know as well as I that once anti-anything sentiment takes hold in a country, it’s a tough thing to reverse.”

  Beside him, Vance could see Rowe’s fingernails grow white as she pressed them into the sofa between them. It was the same reaction he’d had.

  The words were formulated carefully, delicately even, but the sentiment behind them was pretty clear.

  For a decade, groups like the Taliban or Al Qaeda had based their existence on mining hatred for the United States. In recent years, ISIS had managed to take that to an entirely different level.

  Never before had such a thing surfaced in Venezuela, but that did not mean the United States would not be proactive in keeping it that way.

  “I can understand your concern,” Salazar said, “but I assure you, no such thing exists in this country. Times are hard here right now, but my people are not the kind to point a finger or assign blame.

  “The United States has nothing to worry about.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  The night before had been beautiful. A mid-air collision of luck, timing, and perhaps even a bit of magic, it had gone so much better than Edgar Belmonte could have ever imagined.

  They key was that they had not tried to do too much too soon. They had started small. Spoon fed the crowd a concept and allowed them to come around on it by themselves before hitting them with a visual they could take back to their friends and family the next day.

  And even at that, they didn’t try to do too much.

  There were no giant video screens, no fireworks bursting in the night sky. Certainly not a bloody spectacle, or even a single human face to attach to things.

  Nothing more than a simple square of fabric and a lighter.

  And just like that piece of fabric, the country had found itself ignited. Every radio station, every newspaper, every television program was showing it on loop.

  Belmonte was even willing to bet that most of the people on the street had spent the day rehashing it.

  Which was exactly the point. His entire campaign was predicated on being a man of the people. On lifting up the native sons and daughters of Venezuela and making them realize that their plight was through no fault of their own. They were merely victims of a larger force than they could ever imagine.

  And it would have to be someone just like them to help elevate them above that influence.

  The Estadio José Pérez Colmenares in Maracay was much smaller than the previous night. Officially listed at holding just over fifteen thousand, the grounds had been opened up for seating, allowing them to cram in an additional five thousand.

  Unlike the sprawling expanse of the prior soccer facility, this one was designed for baseball, giving the entire affair a much more intimate feeling.

  Standing on the stage positioned just over home plate, Belmonte stood with his back to the home bleachers. To either side, people seemed to be looming close.

  In the air was a charge that was unmistakable, a clear response to the night before already starting to take hold. What had started as something of testing the waters was already proving to have a positive effect.

  No doubt the trajectory for their entire campaign was going to be evolving on the fly with it.

  “Sons and daughters of Venezuela,” Belmonte said. More than halfway through his talk, his brow was saturated with sweat. His eyes were beginning to burn from the glare of the overhead lights.

  Neither so much as registered with him.

  “I trust that by now many of you have seen what happened last night. Some of you might have even shown up today hoping for an encore.”

  Pausing, he assessed the crowd.

  It was clear his words were correct. Whether many of those in the audience had come wanting to support him or merely to see a spectacle was something he would concern himself with later.

  Right now, all that mattered was they were present, their energy palpable.

  “To that, I must confess I am sorry, but there will be no flag burning here this evening.”

  A slight groan could be heard. He pushed right on despite it.

  “And the reason for that is, I don’t want this to become about burning flags or outlandish behaviors,” Belmonte continued. “My point last night was not to create a scene, but to share with you all something I strongly believe.

  “The problems of our country are through no fault of our own. They are the result of outside influences, and if we are going to rise above them, we must break free from that presence.”

  A series of whoops and calls went up from the crowd in response. Enough that it sparked a few more, a swell starting to take hold.

  It was time.

  “Which is why this afternoon, as I was standing in my office, trying to figure out the best way to convey that message to you all, I had a realization. I took a good, long look at myself in the mirror, and I had an epiphany right then and there.”

  Pausing, Belmonte took a half-step back from the podium before him. He raised his right foot and peeled off his shoe. In turn,
he did the same with his left.

  Gripping them both by the heel, he held them at shoulder height for all to see.

  “I realized that the very shoes I was wearing were manufactured in New York City.”

  Spreading his fingers wide, he let the shoes fall to the stage floor.

  The gesture was rewarded with a spur of cheers as he shrugged his shoulders, the suit coat he wore sliding down over them.

  “And this suit. I checked the label and found that it was produced by a company in Los Angeles.”

  Around him, the night air became electric. People seemed to edge closer as he peeled away the garment and tossed it into a heap atop the shoes.

  Their calls became louder. The intent behind them more pointed.

  Seizing on that vigor, Belmonte grabbed for his tie, pulling the perfect knot he’d folded an hour before from his neck.

  “And I realized what I was wearing around my neck wasn’t a tie. I realized that it wasn’t even a piece of cloth. What I realized was this thing, this item made in Miami and sent down here, was nothing more than a noose.”

  Again, the crowd responded just as he had anticipated. Standing barefooted and in shirtsleeves, he had but a precious few seconds. Nothing but a few instances to make one final point before the place erupted, swallowing up any chance at him being heard again.

  “Nothing more than a symbol for us to wear around our necks every day. A visual reminder of their control over our lives.

  “Well, I say that ends now! I say no more, from this day onward!”

  Chapter Fifteen

  President Miguel Salazar’s day had started twelve hours earlier. At the time, he had had no reason to believe it was going to be anything out of the ordinary.

  His schedule was clear, allowing him to dress in his preferred attire. The morning coffee was hot and fresh, the spring sun warm without being oppressive.

  Then, Isabel had arrived with the morning paper and news that a meeting had been set with the President of the United States for later in the afternoon.