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

by Dustin Stevens

  “Now,” I said. Reaching out, I snapped my fingers three times. “Unless you people want to sit and wait for more guards to arrive.”

  Rembert was the first to move, lumbering to his feet. Upon his activity, others began to follow suit, the low buzz of muted conversation coming with it.

  Leaving the people to ready themselves, I moved in a quick arc for the door. With the Glock still in hand, I extracted the second one from my waistband.

  Lowering myself to a knee, I cracked the door open and peered the length of the hallway. Just as it was when I last saw it, the space was empty save the two dead bodies on either end. Between them was a tangle of bloody footprints, their impressions like macabre hieroglyphics spread across the tile.

  It was ugly, and it was unfortunate these people would be subjected to it, but it was all we had.

  The last groups had made it through. These people would as well.

  Keeping both guns trained on the door at the far end of the hallway, I sidestepped out into the hall. With my shoulders square to the door, I waited two full moments.

  Nothing moved.

  “Come. Now.”

  The first person to appear was a woman somewhere around fifty. With hair dyed an unnatural shade of cranberry, she paused on the threshold of the doorway, glancing between me and the hallway.

  “Just go,” I said. “Keep your head up and get to the stairwell. Once everybody is down on the ground together, we’ll head out.”

  A quiver passed over her features, her bottom lip trembling slightly. Once more she looked at me, uncertain.

  Not having the time or the inclination for such a thing, I could feel agitation rising.

  “Come on. I’ll walk you down there. They won’t harm you.”

  To illustrate my point, I took a step forward. I was not about to lower my weapons, the simple gesture the best I could do.

  There were fifty-some people that we still needed to get outside. Waiting on one was not something that I could abide.

  Inching her way out, I could hear a small moan as she spotted the first body. Pretending I hadn’t, I continued moving on. A quick glance over my shoulder told me she was following suit, the next in order doing the same.

  One at a time they streamed out into the hallway, reversing the exact course they had first traveled eight hours before. Moving much slower than I would have liked, they filed past as I stood at the end of the hall, alternating glances between them and the double door behind me.

  Not a single sound could be heard from within as the hostages fled. Not even as Rembert brought up the rear, passing by and disappearing down the stairs with nothing more than a nod.

  Chapter Ninety-One

  Eight minutes had passed since the last of the gunfire. Still tucked away in the office headquarters in the abandoned warehouse, General Renzo Clega had heard every shot fired.

  The initial burst that had ended the life of his staff sergeant, the young man’s blood now spread beneath the door he was staring at.

  The follow up automatic fire from the far end of the hall that had slammed into the front end of the office.

  The final rounds a few minutes later.

  If the low din of voices and the repeated pressing of the release bar on the door outside was any indicator, the hostages had been retrieved. Their plan was over.

  In the wake of everything, the world had fallen away to silence. Hidden away where he was, there was no way of knowing how large a force the Americans had brought in. Considering they had mowed right through his squad of handpicked men, he guessed it must have been massive.

  Which was why he had not made a sound. Had not even attempted to join the fight. Wanted no part of stepping out into the fray.

  There was a reason men like him were leaders. They had skills and expertise and were too valuable to be used as mere fodder.

  Only now that silence had fallen, no attempts made to breach the office, did he dare take out his cellphone. Scrolling to the most recent call, he kept it off speakerphone, setting the volume low and pressing it to his face.

  It rang just once before being snapped up.

  “Salazar.”

  “Mr. President,” Clega said.

  A moment passed, Salazar reading his tone. “There’s been a problem.”

  Nodding in the darkness, Clega said, “There has.”

  “Have the hostages been moved?”

  “In a manner of speaking.”

  Staring out into the darkness, Clega could still see assorted airport personnel dealing with the accident that had occurred earlier. The flames were extinguished, but cleanup would be a long time in completing.

  “What does that mean?” Salazar snapped.

  Just hearing his tone, Clega felt his own aggravation grow in kind. If the president had let him extinguish all of the passengers like he had originally suggested, none of this would have happened.

  Instead, he had insisted that only the agents be harmed.

  And what they were seeing now was the aftermath. In ten minutes, the transport vehicles he had ordered would arrive. Somewhere beyond the reach of town, teams were ready to eliminate every last person.

  Not that any of that mattered now.

  Yet again, Salazar’s indecision had led them astray.

  “It means the Americans came and got their people,” Clega said.

  “What do you mean...” Salazar began, his voice trailing off.

  “I mean exactly what I said,” Clega replied. “They brought a damned army in here and took back what was theirs.”

  On the opposite end, he could hear Salazar sputter. “An army...”

  “Yes,” Clega replied. “Killed every last one of my men, too.”

  How much of the narrative was true hardly mattered. It wasn’t like the president himself would be going anywhere near Bolivar for the foreseeable future.

  So much came to the front of Clega’s mind, ideas that he wanted to share, bitter retorts that he wanted nothing more than to fire at Salazar. One by one he bit them back. Unleashing them would do no good.

  Certainly wouldn’t change the fact that they were still strapped in this together, no matter how much neither wanted to admit it.

  “Where are they now?” Salazar eventually asked.

  Chapter Ninety-Two

  Standing on the landing outside of the door to the second story office suite, I had time to think. To consider everything that had happened in the preceding eight hours. Going back almost a week, if I really wanted to think about it.

  Eight days ago, I had just pulled into West Yellowstone. Feeling light and free, I had arrived with the intention of opening the shop for the new season.

  I would get there first, see to some paperwork and a few lingering issues. A couple of days later Kaylan would arrive, and we would go about the process of getting the place up to speed before customers began arriving.

  All of that – and so much more – had changed with a single phone call from Rembert.

  Now I was standing on a metal landing in a warehouse in a country I never would have thought I’d enter again. Strewn about in the vicinity of the place were a dozen bodies, lives I was responsible for ending.

  Men I had never met, would have never even considered their existence, if they hadn’t felt the need to pull us into some ill-conceived political power struggle.

  As much as I wanted to believe that the return trip to the warehouse was simply about securing the hostages, I knew that wasn’t entirely true.

  The men responsible for this had taken myself and more than a hundred others and put us through hell. My body was aching, chunks of skin and tons of facial hair now left scattered in the area. Rembert’s jaw was shattered. Several others looked like they’d been battered as well.

  Four agents were dead.

  While the blame for what had happened couldn’t entirely be levied on this side of the ocean, they were the ones that had felt the need to bring us into it.

  And that was an act I could not al
low to go without recourse.

  With my backside wedged tight into the rear corner of the railing around the top landing, I waited. Glock in hand, I allowed my eyes to glaze, staring out through the open front of the building.

  In the distance, I could make out the faint shadows of people moving about, clearing the way from the destruction Manny had wrought.

  Below me, there was nothing but empty concrete, the smells of fuel and cardboard I had noticed earlier now accompanied by tinges of smoke and soot. Blood and death.

  All scents I had become far too familiar with over the years.

  Somewhere nearby, over one hundred people were moving through the woods. If Ela had done her job, the first group should be arriving, ferried onto a boat, ready to be transported out into international waters.

  Rembert and the others would be no more than a mile away, an easy gap for me to close once my work here was finished. Work I was prepared to wait all night for if necessary.

  Work that ended up taking just fifteen minutes to arrive.

  In the exaggerated silence of the warehouse, the sound of the double doors opening found their way easily to me, ripping me from my thoughts. Drawing my attention over, my grip tightened on the base of the Glock.

  All along, I had known that the fat man with the mustache was waiting inside. No way would a guard have been posted up outside otherwise.

  Which meant he had sat and listened as the fighting happened. He had even stood and watched as the hostages streamed past, disappearing around the side of the building and out through the hole I had cut in the fence.

  Not once had he tried to enter the conflict, or even help his men. He hadn’t called for reinforcements, nor had he put up the slightest opposition.

  He had simply sat and waited, now hoping to slip away. A thought that only managed to heighten my anger.

  The man had no compunction about ordering the seizure of passengers on a flight or the execution of foreign agents. Most likely wouldn’t have thought twice about ordering every last one of us to be taken out into the woods and murdered, banished to unmarked graves.

  But he damned sure couldn’t be troubled to do any of it himself.

  Recognizing the move as more of the governmental bullshit I had come to loathe over the years, my grasp on the gun grew tighter still. Tension extended from my shoulder down through my wrist, the weapon an extension of me, my psyche in metal form.

  Rage pulsated through me to the point I practically vibrated. Standing resolute, I waited as the man wrestled away the remains of his guard. I listened as he muttered gasps and feigned indignance.

  And I raised my arm as the door finally opened.

  There were no words. No witty expressions. Just a split-second passing, long enough to let him register what was about to happen, before I pulled the trigger.

  Part V

  Chapter Ninety-Three

  In the wake of the situation in Venezuela, Charles Vance wanted nothing more than to sleep. To lay down and catch up on every wink he’d missed the last few nights.

  At his age, bouncing back wasn’t quite the given it once was. His joints ached. Dehydration left him feeling weak on his feet. Every so often he had to use rewetting drops to keep his eyes moist and clear.

  But there would be no time for that.

  Not yet, anyway.

  In its stead, he was back in the small alcove in the rear of Director Horace Joon’s office. On the screen before them was one last gift from Hawk Tate, one final thing that demanded their attention before they could hand things off to the higher-ups across the Potomac to do with as they chose.

  Nothing more than an image taken from the camera on a sat phone, it was a close-up of a man lying flat on his back. Encapsulating from his upper chest to the top of his head, it showed a pudgy figure with hair and mustache both dyed a matching midnight hue.

  Through his forehead was a red dot large enough to place a pencil.

  On the ground beneath him was a glossy red amoeba, unmistakable against the white tile he was laying on.

  Beside the image was a second window, this one from the CIA database. Stretched the entire length of the screen, it listed out everything that was known about the man.

  “General Renzo Clega,” Joon said. With his eyes pinched slightly, he peered down the length of his nose at the file. “Ranking Commander of the Venezuelan Army. Direct report to President Miguel Salazar.”

  Nodding, Vance grunted softly.

  The news should not have come as a surprise, though he would be lying if he said he wasn’t a little shocked. In the wake of the call from Underall, he would have assumed that Salazar and his regime would want to play ball.

  After all, they were essentially offering to show up and eliminate the man’s largest political opponent.

  “Rogue leader or under direct orders?” Vance asked.

  Already he knew the answer, though like a great many things in the preceding days, he had to ask the question anyway.

  “Tate also mentioned that most of the men he killed had tattoos of the army insignia,” Joon said. “It could be possible that he had put together his own counter faction within the army-“

  “But more likely, this was a sanctioned event,” Vance finished.

  “Thinly veiled not to look like one,” Joon added.

  Again, Vance nodded. As little as a few hours earlier, the goal had solely been to shift the focus of Joon and Underall and get the hostages out of that warehouse.

  That part had been accomplished with far better results that he had any right of ever even contemplating.

  What they were looking at now was nothing short of a gift from above.

  “What do you think the angle here was?” Vance asked. “What was Salazar playing at?”

  For a moment, Joon was silent, contemplating the question. “Great question. Maybe Belmonte’s not the only one that hates us. Maybe he didn’t like someone else calling and telling him what was going to happen in his own country. Maybe he was going to try and play Belmonte’s card, stir up some anti-American sentiment in his own campaign.”

  Considering it for a moment, Vance let it settle over what he knew, had been thinking for the last few hours.

  “Hell,” he added, “maybe the idea of us taking out Belmonte wasn’t enough. He needed to show everybody how dangerous such a tact was, ride that to his next term.”

  Managing only a grunt, Joon nodded slightly. For a few moments, neither said anything.

  Glancing at the screen before them, Vance again considered the picture of Clega and the repercussions it would have before flicking a glance down to the clock in the corner of the screen.

  Five minutes until what was hopefully their final call with President Underall.

  “Director-“ Vance began. More than once he had played back the words he was about to say in his head. Gone through the apology, the supporting reasoning, everything.

  In total, he made it through but a single word.

  “No need,” Joon said. “I will say right now and unequivocally that if you ever pull something like that again, I will fire you. And it will be ugly.”

  Turning to glare at Vance, he made sure that the last sentence registered.

  Receiving the message in full, Vance bowed his head slightly in acknowledgement.

  All things considered, he was just glad it was an eventuality he didn’t have to deal with already.

  “Good,” Joon said, shifting his focus back to the screen. He minimized the photo of Clega and brought the online calling program to life, an oversized keypad on screen, waiting for him to dial. “Besides, you were right to bet on Tate. Might be someone we want to keep an eye on moving forward.”

  Chapter Ninety-Four

  The official diagnosis was a concussion. The fall straight onto the concrete floor beneath the soccer stadium had rendered Edgar Belmonte unconscious for a number of minutes. It had gashed his forehead, leaving behind bruising and a scab that would take weeks to completely heal.

>   Not to mention the most intense headache he had ever encountered.

  Back in his office at campaign headquarters, he was reclined in his leather desk chair. Not far removed from the hospital, he still wore the slacks and dress shirt from the night before.

  Bright red droplets that had dripped down his chest were now dry, dark and hardened across the cotton material.

  What had happened the night before was still being unraveled. Who or why the fireworks had gone off when they did was open to speculation. What had caused the security to overreact the way it did as well.

  Throughout the night at the hospital, both Giselle Ruiz and Hector Ramon had tried to fill the time by doing just that. One after another they had tossed out ideas, all ranging from genuinely plausible to the utterly absurd.

  One by one they had gone through everything they could think of, their continued banter doing nothing for the pounding in Belmonte’s head.

  The very same pounding that now precluded him from getting what he most needed at the moment - a glass of the strongest alcohol in all of Venezuela.

  Just the mere thought of it brought a thin smile to his face, a look that lingered even after there was a slight tapping on his door.

  An instant later it cracked open, a thin sliver of light appearing on the wall before him.

  “Mr. Belmonte,” came the familiar voice of Ramon, “you have a phone call.”

  Letting his eyes slide shut – as much to display his displeasure as for the bright light – Belmonte replied, “Take a message.”

  “Sir,” Ramon pressed, “this isn’t the kind of call you do that with.”

  Feeling his eyes crack open, Belmonte twisted his chair around. “What?”

  “Sir, you really want to take this call. And trust me in advance, this is real.”

  Saying nothing more, Ramon retreated from the room. In his wake, equal parts incredulity and confusion crept through Belmonte. He sat and stared at the closed door for a moment before slowly shifting his attention over to the phone on his desk.