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

by Dustin Stevens

  “Mhm,” she replied, nodding slightly.

  “The original plan was to take him out, but that got cut off at the airport,” I said.

  “Yes.”

  “And now it sounds like they’re forcing Farkus to become the executioner.”

  “Sounds that way,” Ela replied. It was clear she didn’t like the idea any more than Vance had.

  If the picture on the wall was any indicator, I couldn’t say I blamed them, though appearances had proved me wrong before.

  Pausing, I allowed all of that to resonate, bringing with it a host of other questions. I had assumed the plane was forced down by the CIA, but somehow somebody on this end must have figured things out and cut the attempt off before it could occur.

  Definitely explained the short timeframe the man in the warehouse had alluded to.

  “When was the attempt on Belmonte to be?”

  “Tonight,” Ela said. “He’s giving a speech at the football stadium here in town. Tens of thousands of people all expected to show up.”

  Turning to the left, I wanted nothing more than to be free to pace. To start moving back and forth, roaming as I let my mind wander.

  Unable to go more than a foot or two, I leaned against the wall. My eyes glazed as I parsed through everything I knew.

  And kept coming back to one enormous hole in the narrative.

  “And who is he, exactly? Why does everybody suddenly need this guy to disappear?”

  As if waiting for me to get there, Ela smiled slightly. “He’s the presidential opponent in the upcoming election.”

  I felt my eyebrows rise slightly. “And we’re backing the incumbent?”

  “Up until a few days ago, I don’t think we had a favorite at all,” Ela replied. “But, that was before Belmonte started burning flags and spouting anti-American hatred.”

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  Most campaign events followed a pretty standard script.

  They began two hours out with a pick up from the security team. If the engagement was to be held in Caracas, personnel would report straight to headquarters. If the event was on the road, the crew would go on to the hotel.

  Upon arrival, there would be a few minutes as Edgar Belmonte and his team finished up any last-second items. Then, as a group, everybody would pile into a vehicle and head out to the site.

  Once there, Belmonte and his inner circle would retire to a side room while the crowd assembled.

  In the very beginning, there hadn’t been much point in arriving early. Few people were familiar with Belmonte, even fewer were taking the time to show up to his events.

  Wasting time and energy on unnecessary security measures wasn’t a step anybody was really excited about.

  Over time, they had become a bit tighter. The arrival time had been pushed back some, as much to accommodate traffic and commotion as anything else.

  Even at that, never had there been the need for a pickup three hours prior to start time.

  Before tonight.

  The same group that had been assembled in the underbelly of the stadium two nights prior was clustered inside the conference room of headquarters when the call came in. Already the bulk of staff had headed out, going early to pass out programs and pamphlets, there to take advantage of the enormous momentum the last few days had generated.

  Leaving behind just a half-dozen or so people, all were seated around the table. All dressed and prepped, the group sat largely in silence.

  A quiet that was shattered by Hector Ramon’s cell phone going off, the Venezuelan presidential march sounding out as the ringtone. Eliciting a couple of smiles around the table, he snatched it up, pressing it to his face.

  “Yes?”

  He waited a moment, saying nothing else, before setting the phone down.

  “Security here?” Belmonte asked.

  “They are,” Ramon replied.

  Just an instant later, there was a knock on the door, a shadow appearing behind the frosted glass. Stepping to it, Ramon pulled it open to reveal a man in dark tactical dress, sunglasses on his face. On either hip was a sidearm, a trio of men in similar attire standing behind him.

  “Is the candidate ready?” the man asked.

  Standing on the far end of the room, Belmonte felt his brows come together. He looked at the man in the doorway – every indicator being that he was prepared to go into battle – a far cry in every way from those that usually arrived to pick him up.

  “Excuse me?” Belmonte asked. “Is all this necessary?”

  “Sir,” the man replied, offering nothing more.

  Shifting his attention to Ramon, Belmonte repeated, “Is all this necessary?”

  It was no secret what was happening at the airport across town. All six people in the room had been brought up to speed, the details still somewhat fuzzy. Beyond the initial report of a grounded plane, nobody knew who was traveling or where they now were.

  At last check, it was still impossible to get a line in or out to anybody onboard.

  The general consensus among the team was that it had to have been related to their recent surge, the burning of the American flag and the origin of the flight too much to be ignored as coincidence.

  Still, Belmonte refused to believe he was in any real danger.

  Venezuela or not, people with his level of visibility didn’t merely just disappear.

  “Sir,” Ramon replied. “Until we know what is happening, we can’t be too cautious.”

  Belmonte knew the call to bring in extra security would have been made by Ramon. He also knew his Chief of Staff was in favor of canceling the event altogether, waiting until things were a bit clearer before putting themselves out there again.

  Time and again, Belmonte and Giselle Ruiz had both refused, arguing that backing down now would show weakness, undermining everything they’d been able to build the last couple of days.

  Sighing, Belmonte gave Ramon a look that intimated he didn’t agree with what was taking place, but that he would go along with it.

  For the time being, anyway.

  Sliding around the table, he made it as far as the door before pulling up short. There, the man that had addressed him ordered the other three into position, the trio peeling off to the side.

  Taking a single step back, the man motioned for Belmonte to come forward. Once he had done so, creating just a bit of separation from the door behind him, the three grouped in tight, creating a diamond formation around him.

  None more than six inches away, they served to form a wall of human flesh, insulating him from every direction.

  “You all know I can’t go onstage like this later, right?”

  Not bothering to respond, the guard turned on a heel, leading the procession to the front door. Once there he stopped, turning his chin to his shoulder and speaking into a microphone.

  “The package is ready.”

  On cue the doors parted, more guards standing outside, all heavily armed. Each stared out in a different direction, searching for an enemy Belmonte was positive didn’t exist.

  Feeling his cheeks burn, he clamped his jaw shut, following the procession to the oversized SUV sitting on the curb. Much larger than the vehicles they usually employed, it was clear at a glance that the enormous tanks were armored, virtually impenetrable.

  Arriving first, the lead guard snatched the door open, practically shoving Belmonte inside. His bottom barely hit the seat before the door was shut, the vehicle speeding off into the distance.

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  The food was brought at six o’clock sharp, just as it was every evening that President Miguel Salazar wasn’t going to be making it home for dinner. Early in his term, those nights were few and infrequent, the meal being whatever could be thrown together at a moment’s notice.

  Now, the kitchen staff knew to just assume he would be eating at his desk, the dinners an exercise in decadence.

  To the point that some nights he stayed merely for the food, the chefs on hand infinitely better
than anything his wife could concoct.

  Even if he would never dream of uttering such a thing.

  Tonight was no exception, the smells of grilled steak, rice and beans, fried plantains, and homemade tortillas wafting up from the corner of his desk. A ramequin of fresh salsa sat to the side. The promise of flan for dessert had been made.

  None of it appealed to Salazar in the slightest. His stomach tied into a knot, he had pushed the tray to the side the instant the staff person delivering it had left the room.

  Across from him, Isabel sat wearing a similar expression, not so much as glancing to the food.

  “Dare I ask,” she opened, “what was meant earlier by you asking General Clega how long it would take him to round everybody up and make them disappear?”

  Knowing the question had been coming for some time, Salazar gave no reaction to it. Coming from anybody else, he might have been frustrated, or even angry.

  From Isabel, he knew it was at least partially based on needing to know how to react moving forward.

  “Just what I said,” Salazar whispered.

  He hadn’t liked asking the question. The mere notion of doing such a thing made him sick. But he had to remind himself that this was all started by somebody else, he had just become an unwitting party in things.

  And it wasn’t like they were Venezuelans in that warehouse.

  “And by disappear, you mean take them into the woods somewhere and keep them quiet, or...”

  The thought of that had never crossed Salazar’s mind. The point would be to ensure that there were no witnesses left, nobody that could finger any of the men holding them hostage.

  And to paint an especially condemning visual on Belmonte.

  Leaving behind a hundred people that would eventually be found would serve neither purpose.

  “The latter,” he said.

  “Hmm,” Isabel said. She gave a slight nod, shifting her gaze to think about that for a moment.

  Moving his focus to her, Salazar waited, watching for any outward sign. Given everything the two had been through – both to ascend to and since taking over the presidency – he was far beyond worrying over any judgment she might levy.

  They had both quit keeping score a long time ago on that front.

  “So what are you thinking?”

  It was the question he knew she would get to eventually. Staring back at her, it was hard not to feel a tiny flicker of pride at how far they’d come together, even despite the atrocity of the current situation.

  “Clega says he can activate an evacuation inside an hour,” Salazar said. “Meaning he can have transport lined up and the people out and away from Bolivar.”

  “Whatever travel time is needed on top of that,” Isabel said. She paused, and added, “Not that it would really matter, I guess.”

  “Right,” Salazar agreed.

  “Okay. And I assume the best hour would be...”

  “Exactly,” Salazar said, already knowing where she was going. “The last two nights, Belmonte has spoken for almost forty minutes each. I figure if we call Clega a half hour before he is scheduled to start-“

  “The hostages are loaded up while he is speaking, further adding to the narrative that he is the one behind it.”

  Wincing slightly at the use of the term hostages, Salazar nodded.

  Hostages were usually seen as bargaining chips. Points of leverage. These were nothing more than unfortunate souls who would accomplish more in death they many likely ever would have in life.

  Checking her watch, Isabel said, “So that gives us about an hour and a half.”

  “It does.”

  Nodding in agreement, Isabel fell silent. She leaned back in her chair, her body losing just a bit of its standard rigidness.

  “Anything else between now and then?” she asked.

  “Yes,” Salazar replied. “Call the White House and ask them for a phone conference in exactly two hours.”

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  Coming from Montana, I had seen weapons bunkers. Not the official kind, housed by the National Guard or the military bases over in Helena or Great Falls.

  I mean the sort of private, individualized collections that the state was famous for. The type hoarded away by people that were certain the End of Days was coming. Whether brought on by government interference or the zombie apocalypse, they were going to be prepared.

  Freeze dried food. Tactical clothing for every weather pattern. First aid supplies.

  And enough concentrated weaponry to take on the collective armies of the entire Baltic region.

  By comparison, the collection on the back wall in the hidden bunker of the safehouse was woefully lacking. Given that we were on foreign soil, and that both in-country agents were considered non-combatant, it made sense.

  But it damned sure didn’t make me feel much better.

  “You sure this is everything we’ve got?” I asked. I didn’t bother turning around as I asked it, working my way through what was present.

  “Positive.” Her voice let me know she didn’t quite appreciate the question or the underlying supposition.

  In total, there were four Glocks, split between the 17 and 19. Essentially the same weapon, both were standard government issue, the only difference being one was a bit smaller than the other, designed for a woman’s grip.

  Having carried a 19 myself for years, I was familiar with it. Lifting the closest one from the wire rack it hung on, I pulled the slide. It had been oiled recently, in good condition.

  It would be a decent enough start.

  Hanging beneath the Glocks were a couple of smaller handguns, snub nose models meant to be easily concealed.

  Again, very sensible choices given the circumstances, but nothing like what I had in mind.

  “Allow me to rephrase,” I said. “Do you have anything with some range?”

  An audible smirk was the first response. “Sorry. We keep the missile launchers over at John’s place.”

  Not appreciating the comment or the tone, I turned over a shoulder, glaring her way. Leaving the look in place long enough to make my point, I said, “What I meant was, is there a rifle here? Something that could be fired from a distance?”

  The plan that had taken shape in my head could theoretically work with only handguns, but it would be much more difficult.

  And infinitely more dangerous.

  “Oh,” Ela said. Her features fell flat for a moment as she thought about it. “No, not that I know of.”

  Turning back to the collection of small arms, I nodded. Right now in Montana, there was a gleaming Winchester 30.06 stowed in the gun safe in my office. Beside it was a Remington 7600 with a four-round magazine that I could shoot from two hundred and fifty yards into a clump the size of a quarter.

  Either would serve magnificently in the terrain I had tramped out of hours before.

  “Okay,” I said. “Going to have to do this the hard way.”

  Everything about the situation was starting to get beneath my skin. Never had I been accused of being a man that was overly patient. And that was under the best of circumstances.

  This was far from that.

  “What time does the sun go down?” I asked.

  “This time of year? Maybe an hour.”

  Giving the cluster of weapons before me one more look, I nodded. “How much ammunition do you have here?”

  “Four boxes for each,” she replied. “In the drawer at the bottom.”

  Four boxes tracked with what I’d expected. It would be enough to finish a job, while at the same time forcing the weapon to be cast away within a reasonable amount of time.

  Having twenty boxes of ammunition left behind a lot of chances for forensics. It could allow a smart investigator to match firing pins and ballistics. Keeping it around that long would be inviting trouble.

  Four boxes ensured it was destroyed by the time anybody knew to look for it. And it wasn’t like it was hard to cycle new Glocks into a country.

  “Yo
u have any experience with these things?” I asked.

  “Enough.”

  There was just a trace of defiance in the tone. I knew it stemmed from the fact that my question probably sounded misogynist, but that wasn’t how I intended it.

  I just needed to know what I could rely on.

  “Meaning that you haven’t fired since the Academy?” I asked.

  This time, there was a small sigh, air pushed out in a huff. “No, I have.”

  But not a lot. And definitely not at anybody with the ability to fire back.

  The plan I was working on was choppy as hell. It would be messy, as most things like it tended to be, and it would work better if I wasn’t the only person on our side holding a gun.

  Though right now, it appeared that’s the best that we could hope for.

  Not that it greatly mattered. All that did was those people in the warehouse and the simple fact that if we didn’t act soon, they likely wouldn’t make it until morning.

  That’s just how things like this tended to play out.

  Shifting away from the weapons, I turned to face Ela and folded my arms across my chest. “We need to get Vance on the phone again.”

  Chapter Fifty-Seven

  I didn’t know how Charles Vance kept managing to slip away from Joon and the others. I could tell he was agitated as he came back on the line, his hushed whisper having more than a little edge to it.

  I also knew I didn’t give a shit how irritated he was. I had spent most of the afternoon in his damn safehouse, getting no closer to helping any of the people in that warehouse.

  Evening was fast approaching. Dawn, not far beyond that. If any of us were going to get where we needed to be, things had to start happening.

  And sitting around waiting on some bureaucratic bullshit was not going to make that happen.

  “Yeah?” he asked, coming back on the line.

  “What’s the plan over there?” I asked.

  This time, I didn’t feign to let Ela take the lead. She might have been the local agent, but right now I had all the working knowledge of what we were up against.

  And I had a lot more experience with the type of work we were about to be undertaking.