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

by Dustin Stevens

  Vance let out a sigh. “Joon is pushing forward on the plan with Farkus.”

  My eyes narrowed slightly. “The thing kicks off in less than two hours. Can that even be called a plan at this point?”

  “Probably not, but that’s what we’re running with.”

  Hearing him be so candid, the tension the man was feeling was palpable.

  Which was good. At least I knew where he fell on things, that I wasn’t the only one appreciating the urgency of the situation.

  “And the goal is to somehow get a man that is not trained with this sort of thing to what? Sneak a high-powered rifle inside and pick off a presidential candidate onstage in a stadium full of people?”

  I didn’t bother hiding the derision in my voice. It was a ridiculous plan, and he needed to realize that.

  “I agree,” Vance said, “but right now the only other option on the table would be a drone strike, and that would be infinitely worse for a variety of reasons.”

  Chief among them being the lack of plausible deniability. Again, my hands curled into tight fists. My rear molars ground down tight.

  Even as the man was trying to do the right thing, he was still staring through the prism of political ramifications.

  “Tell me, what is the goal in all this?”

  Beside me, Ela’s eyebrows rose. Possibly attributed to either my question or the tone, I figured it was probably equal parts both.

  “The goal?” Vance asked.

  “Yeah, what is the take home for tonight? That the man is dead, or that he doesn’t give his speech and stir up any more anti-American venom in the world.”

  It seemed a simple question to me. In my mind, the most urgent issue should have been the hostages. For some reason, the people on the other end of the line seemed to think it was the speech.

  “I mean, I guess,” Vance stammered, “it’s the speech. Ultimately we need to put an end to the way he’s doing things-“

  “But we don’t necessarily need to end him,” I inserted. “At least not tonight.”

  Again, there was a pause.

  “No, not tonight.”

  I wouldn’t say I was happy with the admission, but it damned sure went a long way to improving the odds of the plan I was putting together.

  “But what does that have to do with anything?”

  “Right now,” I said, “you, and damned near everybody else, is going to be staring at that stadium to see what happens.”

  I paused, hoping he could infer where I was going with things.

  “Meaning, we won’t get a better chance at getting into that warehouse,” he finished.

  “Nope,” I agreed. “Which again, means we need to be moving. Fast.”

  There was a pause, this time Vance seeming to be considering what that would entail. “What do you need from this end?”

  Already I had a care package in mind, the list lengthy, the sort of thing that would be tough to pull off.

  I guess we were about to find out just how good the CIA really was.

  “We need a boat,” I said. “Large enough for a hundred or more people, and we need it right off the coast where Ela picked me up this morning. She can give you the coordinates.”

  At the desk beside me, her head was down, taking notes.

  “We need a plane. Doesn’t matter the size or shape, it doesn’t even have to land here. We just need it to pass through the area and make some people believe it is coming from the States.”

  “In less than two hours?” Vance asked, skepticism clear.

  I skipped right past it.

  “Like I said, it only has to be airborne. We’re going to hit these guys with so many different things at once, they’re not going to know which way to look.”

  From the desk, I heard Ela murmur something that sounded vaguely like divide and conquer.

  She was right, though I didn’t bother saying as much. I was on a roll, and I wanted to get the list out before I forgot anything.

  “I need a rifle. Something with decent range and a scope, bolt cutters, and a pair of night vision goggles.”

  Having been over the terrain once already, I would have a slight advantage over the kidnappers. Being properly armed and with the ability to see through the darkened woods would take that to the next level.

  Ela continued scribbling down what I said. Over the line, Vance muttered, “Jesus, anything else?”

  “Yeah. Have whoever drops off the weapons bring me a damn pair of jeans.”

  Part IV

  Chapter Fifty-Eight

  “President Salazar’s office called a few minutes ago and asked for a meeting in one hour,” President Mitchell Underall said. Peering intently into the video camera in his office, the angle was pulled in tight on his face.

  So tight that it was clear the strain he felt. Bags hung under each eye. His mouth was drawn back into a tight line, the ends curled downward.

  “I assume this has to do with something that has occurred on your end in the last two hours.”

  Back inside the small room in the recesses of Director Joon’s office, Charles Vance glanced over, ceding the floor.

  As a longtime employee of the CIA, he had heard all the stories. He was familiar with the Cold War legends, things like exploding cigars and video cameras hidden in ink pens. He had heard every story about their possible involvement with the JFK assassination. Every errant attempt they had made to take out Castro in Cuba over the years.

  But it was the first time he himself had ever felt like a spy.

  Three times already he had managed to steal away for quick calls to Venezuela. Each one had been met with a skeptical look from Joon, all growing in intensity.

  By the third, his return had been punctuated by, “Feeling okay, Special Director?” a not-so-subtle jab at his repeated disappearances.

  The first had been made under the guise of requiring something from his office. The next with the pretense of needing to get to the restroom.

  There was no way he would be able to get away again. Even less that he would find the time to put together everything that Tate had asked for.

  Which meant he was about to do something that he would never have thought possible. The sort of thing that would either launch him into the upper echelon for the foreseeable future, making him untouchable, or it would bring his career to a fiery finale long before intended.

  When he had gotten out of bed a couple days before, he would have never dreamed this would all come to pass. Monitoring the Belmonte campaign was no big deal, a perfunctory exercise on par with the sort of thing he had done scads of times before.

  Somehow, in just forty-eight hours, it had consumed his every waking thought.

  And now it had him on a potential collision course with the sitting director, one of the most powerful people in the country, and damned sure not the sort of man one crossed without making sure they were completely insulated before doing so.

  Vance had no such assurance.

  But he had no choice but to move forward anyway.

  “That I can’t speak to, Mr. President,” Joon said. “We have had no contact with Salazar’s office. That is a role we would never deign to enter into.”

  The polite way of saying that if any international relations were going to be severed, it was going to be at the hand of Underall.

  With each passing word, Vance sensed that the moment he would need to speak up grew closer. His stomach drew in tight. Sweat began to line the small of his back.

  “I see,” Underall replied. “And what is our plan on this end?”

  “The plan has evolved into a variation of what we previously discussed,” Joon said. “Agent Farkus is on the ground and is currently devising a scheme to complete the original task.”

  Everything was said in code, nobody wanting to blatantly state what was already known to the group.

  That the country was looking to perform an execution on foreign soil with an audience of tens of thousands.

  A small grunt was Und
erall’s immediate response. “Anything else?”

  Knowing this was the moment, that if ever he was going to put things out there, to even give the pretense of being above board, this had to be it, Vance drew in a sharp breath.

  His heart pounded. His pulse raced through his temples.

  “No, sir,” Joon said. “Belmonte goes on in-“

  “Well, actually,” Vance said, cutting him off. Extending a hand to his boss, he registered surprise and incredulity on the man’s features.

  Pushed past both.

  “I got a phone call a few moments ago,” Vance said, “which I think might warrant at least a minute of discussion.”

  In his periphery, he could see Joon look his way. The man’s stare was so intense, it practically burned his skin.

  “It came in so recently that I haven’t even had a chance to share it with the director yet.”

  An angry exhalation was Joon’s immediate response, a quick sign to let it be known that going off script was not appreciated. Not that he could say as much in front of the president.

  Wearing the same grim demeanor, Underall motioned for him to continue.

  Drawing in a sharp breath, feeling his every bodily function move into hyperdrive, Vance said, “Jeremiah Tate just called me.”

  It was a slight inversion of the truth, but the most Vance was willing to admit to. And the only chance he had at keeping his job.

  The veracity of his claim could of course later be checked by phone records or a host of other things. His only hope was by then, things had progressed well enough that he was secure in his position.

  “Tate?” Underall asked.

  “The man that first contacted us,” Vance said. “The one that broke out of the holding warehouse and told us our agent was dead.”

  “The cowboy,” Joon said.

  “The former sailor and DEA agent,” Vance corrected.

  Glancing over, he could see growing vitriol on Joon’s face. If this conversation was taking place between just the two of them, it would have ended already.

  His only hope was to use the audience he had to state his case.

  Or any hope of getting those hostages out was gone.

  “With a record of going outside the lines whenever he sees fit,” Joon countered.

  “And a man that has made it very clear he isn’t going anywhere,” Vance said, “not with more than a hundred people still being held as hostages.”

  “I don’t think-“ Joon shot back.

  Just as fast, he was cut off by Underall. “Made it clear how?”

  “He called and told me as much,” Vance replied.

  All the air seemed to be sucked from the room. On one side, Vance had a seething director. On the screen before him, a world leader that just wanted it all to go away.

  “He also laid out his plan for me,” Vance said. “And called because he needs our help to pull it off.”

  This time, there was no immediate response from Underall. He cupped a hand under his chin, mulling things over.

  “What about Belmonte?” Joon asked. A final gasp at trying to save his original intentions.

  “It even sort of solves that,” Vance answered. “At least, for the time being.”

  For more than a full minute, there was no further discussion. No probing questions. No biting comments.

  Just three men sitting and thinking, trying to make sense of what was being presented to them.

  “What does he propose?” Underall eventually asked.

  Chapter Fifty-Nine

  General Renzo Clega was back in the second-floor office that he had first stood in and watched the LATAM Airlines flight arrive from earlier in the day.

  His position was about the sole similarity between the two.

  The initial moment he had been inside the office, he was in an optimistic mood. The decision to move on the flight and its passengers was the first time President Salazar had made a decisive stance in quite some time.

  A marked contrast from the man Clega was fast coming to loathe, it showed that at least the president understood what Edgar Belmonte was doing and was willing to make some sort of fight before being ousted.

  Feeding off of that knowledge, Clega had stood at the window. Dressed in jeans and a polo, he had felt the warm sun on his skin. A hundred different ways the day could play out had all floated through his mind.

  None of them were even close to what they were now dealing with.

  Now, the world outside was fast darkening. Given the spring month, it would be just another half hour before the sun was completely blotted from view.

  The air was cooling fast. If not for being back in the tactical attire he was used to, he was certain he could have felt it creeping through the bank of windows behind him.

  Whatever hope he had felt that morning was gone. Getting the president to act in such a manner was the culmination of years of effort on his part. Constant prodding, trying to convince the man that a more proactive approach was necessary.

  Incessant needling that Clega and his men could handle whatever needed doing.

  In less than an hour, any trust that he had managed to build was completely destroyed.

  How the CIA had managed to sneak a fifth person onto the plane, he hadn’t a clue. An entire afternoon of threats and beatings had produced nothing. Same for relentlessly scouring through the passenger list and flight logs.

  To even consider that whoever had killed three of his men and stolen away wasn’t affiliated with the Agency was something he refused to believe. The men chosen for this operation were hand-picked for their skill and their loyalty.

  In no way could they have been bested by anyone that wasn’t equally trained or better. And probably had a large amount of help.

  However it had happened didn’t much matter now. It had, taking with it any hope he had for an active ongoing partnership with Salazar for the remainder of the campaign.

  The best he could hope for now was to hold on into the new term. Potentially then his role could in time regrow.

  The thought of such a thing, of again having to act subordinate to such a weak and ineffective leader, grated on his nerves. It brought a sour taste to his mouth. Caused him to clench his hand into a fist, tight enough that tendons stood out on the underside of his wrist.

  Holding it flexed for more than a minute, he managed to eventually release, a tiny bit of the venom he felt going with it.

  There would be time for all that later. In the interim, he had to make sure and complete every task to the fullest, starting with the one just handed to him.

  One that was on the worst end of the things his position required. A task that seemed set to begin, announced by a simple two-note knock on the door.

  Pulled from his thoughts, Clega said, “Come in.”

  Through it strode his aide, the same young man that had been by his side throughout the day. Like Clega, he had swapped out his clothing, returning to the standard tactical dress.

  “General.”

  There was no salute. Despite their clothing, there could be no other formal recognition of their respective posts. Not even a single shred of military insignia was present on either.

  To anybody with a working knowledge of such things, they would be recognized instantly as military. But that didn’t mean there was any point in stating the obvious.

  “Staff Sergeant.”

  The young man stepped inside and closed the door behind him. The overhead light shined from his blue-black hair.

  “Sir, we just received word that the three transport trucks you requested are on their way. They should be arriving within the half-hour.”

  Clega nodded. Taking the prisoners away wouldn’t have been his first choice, but it wasn’t far down the list.

  Salazar might have been pulling the plug a bit early, but at least he was seeing things through.

  “And our men?”

  “They have been instructed to begin moving their people into order in exactly twenty minutes.�
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  “Good,” Clega replied. “When the trucks arrive, we won’t have time to waste.”

  The goal was to get the trucks in and then back out in as short a window as possible. The sooner they were gone, the less likely they were to be spotted.

  “Also,” the staff sergeant said, “we heard back from the disposal team. They are moving now, will be on the ground and waiting when the trucks arrive.”

  Chapter Sixty

  After a few hours being pent up in the safehouse, it was nice to be out and moving. Just being free of the small interior space did wonders for my psyche, giving the illusion of progress again.

  Whether any of it was bringing me closer to fulfilling my promise to Rembert and the others, I had no way of knowing. What I was certain of was that I was actually doing something, and that in itself helped tremendously.

  Now I just needed to make sure whatever that was, it was worthwhile. The shortened timeframe and the frequent conversations were making it abundantly clear that we were only going to have one shot at this.

  I had built in some wiggle room. Every plan had to have some to survive first contact with the enemy.

  But what I had on this one was preciously thin.

  Our first stop was a meeting set up with us and two different men. Back in the front seat of the Jeep, Ela and I drove through the evening air. Despite the sun slipping beneath the horizon, most of the warmth had lingered behind, aided considerably by the heavy humidity in the air.

  Without the windows zipped into the Jeep, wind whipped around us. It tugged at both of our hair, keeping conversation to a minimum.

  After leaving the safehouse, we drove due east out of the city. In the distance, I could see the faint domed glow of stadium lights, where I presumed the Belmonte event would soon be taking place.

  For several miles I focused on the pale illumination, watching it work along the outer rim of my periphery. By the time it passed from our field of vision, most of the lights of Caracas had faded as well.

  Pushing fast, we made it a few miles outside of town before turning onto a smaller road. From there we took two more turns, each successive street smaller than the one before it.