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

by Dustin Stevens

  If not, I would at least be able to clear the barbed wire on the fence. I could use the side of the building to ease my momentum, sliding down it to the ground level.

  Doing so would make things more difficult, meaning I had to work my way up and back down again, but it would be doable.

  Of course, that was the plan before I’d arrived and gotten eyes on the situation at hand.

  Scattered throughout the area surrounding the warehouse were five bodies. All shot from distance, none had even sensed I was there. More importantly, none had drawn any gunfire in their wake.

  Far less than I would have expected, I suspected that whoever was behind this was working with a much smaller team than they would like, in the rare position of being unable to call for reinforcements.

  Counting the three I had put down earlier in the day, that meant eight were already out of action. Assuming they were able to get in at least a few more bodies, I had to assume there were no more than the same still inside, plus the man in charge.

  A total of nine.

  At least three of which I could plainly see patrolling the top of the warehouse. Weapons in hand, they walked in overlapping circles, no more than two ever coming into sight at a given time.

  Tucked away at the base of the tree I had shimmied down earlier, I could peer up at them, using the very hole I had cleaved as a vantage point.

  The thick foliage covering most of the area was what had saved me thus far. It had kept my muzzle flashes hidden, had prohibited them from seeing their comrades get picked off one at a time.

  I had been lucky, but trying to continue with my original plan of going up and over would put an end to that. It would be a suicide mission, the type of thing I could ill afford with so much left to do.

  Perhaps on the extraction, if there was absolutely no other way, but definitely not with those people still trapped inside.

  Which meant my original supposition was going to have to be scrapped. I would be the one snipping through the fence.

  Resisting the urge to pull out the sat phone and check the time, I instead sighted in with the rifle. Aiming directly into the heart of the small opening, I waited, knowing the diversion I needed would be arriving at any moment.

  Chapter Sixty-Nine

  Any hope of meeting in the home locker room had been jettisoned in favor of security protocols. Unlike the previous evenings, where Edgar Belmonte and his team were free to take over the spacious player confines, they were now sequestered in a series of small offices deep in the recesses of the stadium.

  Reserved for what he could only assume was the officiating crew, the space was no more than eight feet on either end. A series of folding chairs lined both sides.

  A folding table with some light refreshments sat along the back wall.

  Also unlike the previous two nights was the mood inside. What had once been loose and upbeat, bordering on optimistic, had now been shoved aside. In its place was palpable tension, terse faces and glances to watches the standard posture.

  Seated in the corner of the room, Belmonte held a copy of the speech he was about to give. Already he’d been through it a handful of times, the words just barely sticking in his distracted trance. Never did he make it more than a few paragraphs in when his mind started to wander, a state that had gotten worse since leaving the headquarters.

  The drill with loading him into the armored SUV had been beyond ridiculous. The sort of thing he would have thought was more a training run than an actual event, he had let it pass because he didn’t want to make a scene in front of his staff.

  And because the sheer gall of it had caught him by surprise.

  Tucked in the rear of the SUV, though, he had had plenty of time to think about the absurdity of things. He might have burned a flag, may have torn off a suit coat and tie, but it was a far cry from some of the things going on in the world.

  The Taliban was lining American journalists up and broadcasting their executions to the world. ISIS was bombing sporting events and train stations.

  Every disaster that hit a first world country these days was immediately examined for ties to terror.

  What he was doing was not on that level. It was merely tapping into the angst that his countrymen felt. Nothing more than trying to put a face to their unhappiness simply so they could collectively shove it aside and focus on themselves moving forward.

  Arriving at the stadium, it seemed clear that such a hope wasn’t without merit. People lined the streets outside, trying to peer into the darkened windows to see who was inside. Many held signs voicing their support for him. Others waved the Venezuelan flag, something he hadn’t seen in ages.

  Even from the spot they now occupied deep in the underbelly, the cacophony of their support was omnipresent. Coordinated into chants and cheers, it could be heard rising and falling in even sequences, a mass of people ready for him to take his place.

  Which was exactly what he intended to do.

  The thin stack of papers was damp in his hand as Belmonte cast them aside. Snapping to his feet, he used a cloth napkin to wipe the sweat from his face before taking up his suit coat.

  “Sir?” Hector Ramon asked. “We don’t go on for ten more minutes.”

  Aware that every person in the room was watching him, Belmonte shook his head. “You hear that crowd? This is happening now.”

  As if apparated there, Giselle Ruiz appeared by Ramon’s side. “But sir, your introduction hasn’t even begun yet.”

  “We don’t need it,” Belmonte countered. “Everybody is ready, myself included.”

  He didn’t bother adding what else he felt. That he was sick of being penned up. That he hated the notion that they were doing something wrong, something that warranted the need for protection.

  “Well, at least let us alert security we’re on the move,” Ramon said.

  Even more, Belmonte hated the idea that he was a man that needed security personnel to make a simple walk through the empty bowels of a stadium.

  “No,” Belmonte snapped. His voice rising, every other sound in the room fell away. “No! This sort of thing is exactly what whoever is doing this wants. They want us to be scared. They want us slinking around.

  “Well, you know what? I don’t give a damn what they want. This is about what the people in this room, and the people in this stadium, and the people in this country, want!”

  Leaving Ramon and Ruiz both standing with jaws open, Belmonte pushed through the door and out into the hallway. At the sight of him, the same contingent of guards that had escorted him from the headquarters looked on in surprise for a moment.

  Using the opening, Belmonte pushed right by them. Striding fast, he made his way through the hallway, not bothering to look to either side as the sounds of heavy footsteps found their way to him.

  The first to arrive was the man that had done the speaking for the crew back at headquarters. Appearing on Belmonte’s shoulder, he held up a hand, trying to get him to stop. “Sir-“

  “No,” Belmonte shot back. His pace did not falter in the slightest. “I will not stop, and I will not wait for your team.”

  Again, he held back on the rest of what he was feeling. He knew that these men had been hired to do a job. That Ramon and Ruiz had done so for the purpose of protecting him.

  He appreciated everybody’s efforts, but the time had come to push past it.

  They all had a bigger goal in mind, and tonight was their chance to seize it.

  Only someone else got there first.

  Assorted thoughts were still in Belmonte’s head, spurring him forward, when the first explosion hit. Somewhere high above, it sounded like a percussion bomb, an enormous boom so close it slammed his molars against each other.

  The instant it hit, a second followed in order, followed immediately by a third.

  A moment after that, he was blasted from behind, a two-legged takedown by one of the guards. Quick and fierce, it lifted him from the ground, depositing him flat on the concrete floor.
/>   Unable to so much as raise his hands to break his fall, his face took the brunt of the landing. Stars erupted before his eyes. The warmth of fresh blood flowed over his chin.

  And the heavy weight of three men pinning him to the floor was the last thing he registered before his world cut to black.

  Chapter Seventy

  I didn’t see the fireworks go off. Not from my spot at the base of the tree, with such a narrow view of the night sky. Definitely not while peering through the end of the scope on top of the M-24.

  But I damned sure heard them, the sound like a thunderclap from a mountain cloudburst.

  And more importantly, I saw that the two guards standing in plain sight on top of the roof heard them, both jerking their attention to the east.

  In the wake of the first boom, I paused a moment. I waited to make sure their positions were fixed, their attention focused in the distance.

  Starting on the right, I went for the guard furthest west in order. Knowing that the other two wouldn’t immediately see him, I counted to three in my head.

  Timing the shot with the second firework, I eased back on the trigger. Firing from such a short distance, the power of the shot tossed him out of view, no human body able to stand up to that amount of damage.

  Shifting the front end of the gun to the side, I sighted in on the second guard. Still standing with his back to me, I fired into his center mass, his body crumpling on impact, a thin mist just visible through the goggles in his wake.

  In the distance, the second cluster of percussive beats began. Not knowing where the third guard was, or even if he had spotted his two comrades yet, I had a choice. I could either wait and hope to catch a glimpse of him, knowing that if I didn’t he would either figure out a way to spot me or call in for reinforcements.

  Both would give them the high ground, and eliminate my element of surprise.

  Conversely, I could hope that the fireworks show would give me the few seconds I needed to get inside.

  As anybody that had ever been in a gunfight before knew, that wasn’t a decision that even needed pondering.

  Always, always err on the side of aggression. Leaving the rifle where it lay, I jumped to my feet, sliding the nylon bag from my shoulders. One hand I used to extract the bolt cutters.

  The other drew one of the Glocks from my back. Holding it at arm’s length, I sprinted straight ahead, hidden beneath the cover of the tree for most of my run.

  Not until the last few yards did I step out from beneath the heavy overhang, the night sky opening wide.

  Without the added veil of the treetops, the sound of the fireworks was much stronger. Mixed with them was the faint whine of an aircraft coming in on descent, part two of our diversionary scheme.

  Knowing I had to move fast, I held the gun up high for just an instant, sweeping it the length of the rooftop, before stowing it back above my right haunch.

  The bolt cutters were a two-handed model, the sort that resembled pruning shears with much smaller blades. Starting at waist height, I snipped a random link, the razor-sharp tips making quick work of the aging metal.

  Dropping down a few inches, I went through the next as well, the adrenaline I was feeling so strong I might have been able to rip through without the aid of the cutters.

  Chancing only a couple of quick glances to the roof above, I cut down in a straight line, bits of metal shrapnel collecting in a random pile at my feet. My breathing grew short as I fought through one after another, the line somewhat jagged but doing exactly what I needed it to.

  Once the final link was cut I dropped the cutters in the dirt. Using both hands, I peeled one side away, the flap swinging back slowly, carving trenches through the dirt and sediment that had settled at the base of it.

  Veins stood out along my forearms and biceps as I leaned away, swinging the fence open into an impromptu gate.

  And apparently making a hell of a lot of noise in the process.

  The first round hit less than six inches from my boot. Slamming into the ground with an audible thud, it sent a plume of dust up, my body seeing and registering the shot within a split second.

  The next round struck against the fence two feet above it, a spark flashing as it scraped the metal.

  Knowing I couldn’t count on a third miss, I tucked my body through the narrow gap, feeling the sharp edges of the freshly cut metal against my skin. Fueled by adrenaline, I shoved my body through, the jagged links scratching my exposed arms. Fresh cuts opened the length of both, blood sliding along my skin as I hurtled myself forward, pressing my back tight against the base of the warehouse.

  Reaching to the small of my back, I pulled both Glocks free, holding them high above me, every focus on the straight line of the roof. There I stayed, waiting, until the first red glow of the guard’s head appeared through the goggles, peering out over the side to check my position.

  Firing in tandem, I squeezed off a pair of shots from each hand, the man disappearing as fast as he had arrived, not to be seen again.

  Chapter Seventy-One

  Director Horace Joon quite literally slid into the back of the room. Opening the door no more than just wide enough to push his shoulders through, he took a lateral step in before shutting it behind him.

  In his wake, there was a slight hiccup in the cadence of the conversation, each person looking over. Unsure how to respond, they fell silent for an instant, glancing from him to Charles Vance.

  Sensing what was going on, Vance looked to see what was the source of concern, his core seizing tight as he saw Joon standing there.

  “Director.”

  “Special Director,” Joon replied. “How are things progressing?”

  If given the choice, Vance wasn’t sure which would be preferable. Having the Director stand in the corner watching over his shoulder, or remaining in his office, steaming, leaving Vance to wonder where things stood.

  Forced to answer in an instant, he would give the edge to this option, but only by the thinnest of margins.

  “Everything is going according to schedule,” Vance replied. “Agent Farkus has ignited the fireworks and our cargo plane just made a pass by the airport.”

  On the screen across from them were maps and schematics, a detailed itinerary for how the night should progress. Planned down to the minute, everything was done with as much precision as could be mustered from a different continent.

  The rest would have to ride on a man that they had never even met in person.

  “The final piece – the activity from the baggage handler on the ground – is set to begin any moment.”

  Leaving it vague, Vance was not about to mention that as yet, nobody knew exactly what that would entail.

  “Any word from Tate?” Joon asked, bypassing the last statement.

  “Only the preliminary report telling Agent Ramirez he was in position and to alert the others,” Vance replied. “Two more confirmed kills at that point.”

  The last bit wasn’t necessary, but it did lend a bit of credence to the sequence of events.

  The man might not be one of their agents, but thus far he had put down five enemy combatants. That would have to count for something in earning the director’s trust.

  Accepting the information, Joon gave the slightest nod. Not quite one of approval, it at least ceded the floor to Vance.

  It was his operation to sink or swim.

  Returning the gesture, Vance turned back to the room, the faces of everybody present looking to feel exactly the way he did.

  Chapter Seventy-Two

  The chair General Renzo Clega had been seated in was on its side at the base of the far wall. On his feet at the first thundering boom moments before, Clega had cast it aside, pressing himself as close to the windows as he could.

  With his heart pounding, he had raised the binoculars, not drawing in a single breath until he saw the colorful explosions occurring across town.

  Keeping the optical device in place, he allowed a small smile to form, his enormous
mustache shifting under the movement.

  “Belmonte,” he muttered, lowering the binoculars back into place.

  He should have known the man would pull some such stunt. Everything he had done in the previous days was nothing more than for show, a lot of unnecessary glitz to try and cover his shortcomings in other areas.

  “Enjoy it now, because in an hour or two...” Clega added, letting his voice tail away.

  What had potentially been an ugly day was starting to look up. He had lost a couple of able men earlier on, but it appeared whoever it was that got away had managed to do that and nothing more.

  Slip away and disappear, never to be heard from again.

  Which still left their original plan of blaming it on Belmonte and submarining the only real opposition they had in place.

  If forced to think about it, things did make sense. All four of the men that had boarded at the last moment were accounted for, their bodies soon to be in shallow graves that would never be found.

  All some variation of the same look and dress, they were as clearly American agents as if they had been wearing signs around their necks saying as much.

  Beyond them, there might have been one or two rouge people in the bunch, former military types or such, but nothing that warranted any real consideration.

  The fact that so many hours had now passed in the meantime only served to prove that.

  America was not known for subtlety. If they knew their agents were dead, or had contingency plans in place, they would have already made an effort to launch them.

  That he was now staring out at a firework display in honor of the man that was believed to be the cause of all this proved that no disparate word had gotten out yet.

  Given the sound of the rockets exploding across town, Clega didn’t hear the knock at the door behind him. He barely even noticed as it cracked open.

  Not until his aide slid inside did Clega see the young man’s reflection in the window beside him, the smile falling from his face as he shifted his focus to the side.