by Joshua Hood
Carlito stuffed the cash into his pocket, turning to the door as Hayes bent down and retrieved his key.
“Oh, and kid,” he called after him. “Do yourself a favor. Stop pointing guns at strangers.”
* * *
—
Twenty minutes later, Hayes was sitting in La Habana Café, a double vodka tonic sweating on the cocaine-white tablecloth before him. The money he’d given Carlito was supposed to have lasted him the rest of the month, and the gesture, while noble, had put a serious dent in his operating funds.
You’re an idiot, the voice told him.
Maybe so, he thought, lifting the drink from the table and taking a sip, but I’d rather be broke than have another body on my conscience.
The bitter mix of lime and melted ice offered a brief respite from the sweltering heat, but more important, the double shot of vodka calmed his frayed nerves. He wanted another one but resisted the urge, knowing that he’d need a clear head for the task at hand.
Hayes turned his attention to the mouth of the harbor and the Westport tri-deck streaming past the seawall. The sight of the luxury yacht was a sign of how much the city had changed since the last time he’d been here.
He sucked on the ice, admiring the captain’s skills as he worked the throttles and gracefully maneuvered the ungainly yacht into the harbor. Hayes was enjoying the show until he noticed the woman with the red hair standing on the sundeck, the young boy in her arms sending his mind racing back to the States.
Back to his wife, Annabelle, and his three-year-old son, Jack, and the promise he’d made when he left Treadstone. How he told them he would do whatever it took to break free of the violence and rage that came from the behavior modification the docs had used to turn him into an assassin.
He’d done everything in his power to keep that promise, going so far as to pack everything he owned into the back of his old Chevy and driving out to Washington State for an eighteen-month exile. He’d even swallowed his pride and started working with a shrink in Tacoma, taking the meds she prescribed, believing her when she told him that he was “making wonderful progress.”
But in the end, he knew it was only a matter of time before his past caught up with him, forced him into a situation where the only way out was to do what he did best—kill. Which is exactly what happened.
Hayes had known there would be consequences for his actions—figured there was a good chance Levi Shaw, the director of Treadstone, would send him to some dark corner of the world, lock him into a black site, and throw away the key.
But never in his wildest dreams did he imagine they’d kick him out of the country—stamp his passport with PNG.
Persona non grata.
Not fucking welcome, he thought.
The thought of leaving the United States had been a hard pill to swallow, but it was having to leave his wife and three-year-old son that had almost killed him. But it was either that or spend the rest of his short life looking over his shoulder, waiting for the day when the government sent someone to put a bullet in the back of his skull.
Hayes untangled himself from the past with a shake of his head and took a moment to clear his mind before turning his attention west.
With its white stucco façade and crimson awning, the Sky Bar was hard to miss. But with the rays of the dying sun glinting off the emerald blue of the sea, Hayes was having a hard time identifying the people who ducked through the front door, and if it hadn’t been for the loud Hawaiian shirt his contact was wearing, he might have missed him.
Hayes used the napkin to wipe the prints off the glass, grabbed his bag, and got to his feet. He moved to the door, where he paused to study the trickle of sunburned faces that streamed past him, absorbing their pace and posture, willing himself to relax.
The transformation was subtle, a softening of the tension lines at the edge of his blue eyes and a relaxed sag of his shoulders, but they were effective, and when Hayes stepped out onto the cobblestones, he was just another vacationer out for a late afternoon stroll.
He followed the street west, but while his body was at ease, his eyes never stopped moving. They probed every doorway and alley. He used the mirrors of the cars parked on the street and the glass-fronted shops to check his backtrail, and when he was sure that he was clear, ducked into the alley on the north of Sky Bar.
He stashed the bag behind a stack of empty beer crates piled next to the service door and tried the knob.
Locked.
But Hayes had come prepared.
He pulled a nylon case from his back pocket and crouched in front of the knob to get a better look into the keyway.
What are we working with here—single cylinder deadbolt? Too easy.
Using a tension wrench to apply pressure to the cylinder, Hayes stuck the pick into the lock and began manipulating the pins. Three years ago, and he’d have had the door opened before the owner could get his keys out of his pocket.
But lockpicking was a perishable skill and Hayes was out of practice.
C’mon, you son of a bitch.
The seconds seemed to stretch into hours and realizing how exposed he was to the people walking past the alleyway, Hayes was about to say to hell with it and boot the door, when the pins clicked into place and the knob turned.
Thank God, he thought, stepping inside.
He followed the service stairs up to the second floor and stepped out into the kitchen. Ignoring the curious looks from the cooks and dishwashers, Hayes crossed to the stainless-steel door and using the scarred plexiglass window looked out into the dining room.
It was early for dinner, and near the front door the raven-haired hostess stood bored behind her mahogany podium. Out on the patio a handful of older patrons picked at salads and sipped wine while watching the sun dip below the horizon.
But most of the action was at the bar, and that’s where Hayes found his contact, Vladimir Drugov, sitting with his back to the hall. His gaudy floral shirt stretched over his bulging midsection; rheumy gray eyes locked on the half-empty bottle of vodka before him.
Hayes eased through the door, waiting until Vlad had the glass to his mouth before slipping up behind him and jamming his index finger into the back of the man’s skull.
“Ne dvigaysya.” Don’t move.
Vlad jerked in his chair, booze sloshing down the front of his shirt.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” he demanded in Russian. “Scaring me like that. I might have had a heart attack.”
Hayes flashed a smile he didn’t feel and took a seat, watched as Vlad dabbed at the front of his shirt with a napkin.
“When I was stationed in Syria, there was this annoying little koshechka—a cat that hung around the safe house. It was a pest, always showing up when it wanted to, scaring the hell out of people.”
“What did you do? Kill it?”
Vlad shot him a hard look. “No, I didn’t kill it,” he scowled. “I put a bell around its neck.”
“A bell?”
“So, I could hear it coming.”
“Never took you for a cat lover.”
“The cat was annoying, like you,” Vlad said, reaching for the bottle, “but being annoyed is better than being alone? Yes?”
Hayes stared, watched as he lifted the bottle to his lips and took a long pull.
“You know what’s annoying, Vlad? Sitting in your room for three days while your contact is out fucking off.”
The Russian came up for air, wiped the back of his hand across his mouth, and shot Hayes a frown.
“I—I, uh . . .”
Hayes held up his hand, cutting him off, not interested in his excuses.
“All I want to know is if you made contact.”
“I don’t understand you, putting yourself at risk for—”
“Where is the meet?” Hayes interrupted. “That’s all I need
to know.”
Vlad was not used to being interrupted, and his face reddened, the anger in his eyes sharp as the blade he carried at his waist.
Of all the Russians Hayes had met, Vlad was the most mellow. Or he had been before he got back on the booze. He wasn’t sure what had knocked him off the wagon, but in the last month he’d noticed that Vlad was drinking more and sleeping less. The unhealthy combination added a hair trigger to the Russian’s volatile temper.
“Mogador.”
“Morocco, that’s Luca’s territory.” Hayes grimaced.
“Is that a problem?” the Russian asked.
Hayes frowned and glanced out the window, where a black powerboat was speeding toward the marina, the guttural roar of the boat’s engines rolling loud across the emerald-blue water.
“When?” he asked.
“Eight hours.”
“Are you serious?” he asked, turning his attention back to the Russian.
“Da,” Vlad said, pulling a phone from his pocket and setting it on the table. “They will call you.”
“Then I better get going,” Hayes said, grabbing the phone and getting to his feet.
“It’s a waste of time,” the Russian said, reaching for the bottle of vodka.
Hayes stuffed the phone into his back pocket, leaned over, and snatched the bottle off the table before Vlad’s fingers could close around the neck.
“What the fuck?” he demanded.
“You’re done drinking.”
Vlad jumped to his feet, his face scarlet, the knife snapping open in his hand.
“And who are you to tell me anything?” he demanded.
Hayes glanced down at the blade, felt the heat in his guts unlimber, his eyes flashing hard as he turned to face the Russian.
“I’m the one telling you how it is,” he said.
There was murder in Vlad’s eyes, and he stepped around the table, his lips stretched tight against his teeth.
His time at Treadstone had taught Hayes the importance of blending in, and to avoid any situation that would draw attention to themselves and thereby compromise their mission. But all it took was one look at the Russian’s face and he knew that wasn’t a possibility.
Have it your way.
Hayes stepped in, clamped his right hand around Vlad’s wrist, and twisted the knife down as he pulled the Russian in close. His left hand was already screaming up from his waist, thumb and forefinger splayed, aimed at his throat.
He hit him hard, but with a practiced control that made sure the wet pop of the blow was barely audible over the voices in the bar.
Hayes had half a mind to put the Russian down right then and there, but he resisted the urge and cast a quick glance around the bar.
So far, the altercation had gone unnoticed, but Hayes had been here before and knew it wouldn’t last. Knew he couldn’t hold out against the violence rolling through his veins like lava before it consumed him. Before he gave in to the voice, pulled the pistol from his hip, and put a bullet through the center of the Russian’s forehead.
Summoning the last bit of self-control, Hayes ducked under Vlad’s arm and grabbed the back of his belt. He heaved him to his feet and half carried, half dragged him to the bathroom.
By the time he made it to the first stall, Hayes’s heart was beating like an AK on full auto, his breath coming in deep, ragged gasps. He dumped the Russian unceremoniously onto the shitter, his only thought getting the hell out of the bathroom before he lost control.
Vlad staggered backward, the thump of his body against the wall bringing him back to the land of the living.
The Russian looked up, hand curled protectively around his neck, eyes blinking like a man coming out of a trance.
“I-I don’t . . .” he began in a raspy voice.
But Hayes wasn’t listening.
He pushed off the wall, the collar of his shirt tight as a noose around his throat.
I can’t breathe.
He clawed at the button, his vision tunneling around the edges as he staggered to the sink. He turned on the faucet and splashed a handful of cold water over his face.
Get ahold of yourself.
When his mind had cleared, Hayes turned off the water, dried his face with a handful of paper towels, and was crossing to the door when Vlad broke his silence.
“You need me!” he shouted.
Any other time, the fact that he was leaving the Russian with his life would have been more than enough for Hayes to walk out with his conscience intact.
But this time it was different.
He’d made promises—given his word to a doctor back in Burkina Faso—and there was no way in hell Vlad was going to turn him into a liar.
Dammit.
He turned to the Russian, the voice in his head screaming like a drill sergeant.
You’re fucking up. The man’s a rabid dog. An animal. Do the world a favor and put a bullet in his head before it’s too late.
“I want you to sober up,” he said.
“Yes, yes, of course.”
“I want you to go to the airfield, get the plane fueled up, and wait for me there—you got that?”
“Yes.”
“And Vlad, the next time you pull a blade on me, I’ll kill you.”
3
WASHINGTON, D.C.
The Lincoln Town Car pulled up outside the Congressional Visitors Center and Treadstone Director Levi Shaw climbed out. He flashed his ID card to the security officer at the door and dropped his battered attaché case onto the X-ray machine. After emptying his pockets, he walked through the metal detector and started toward the elevator, where a pair of government-issued pit bulls in matching blue suits stood waiting.
“Morning, Tommy,” he said, noting the hint of a smile at the corner of the taller man’s lips.
“Director Shaw,” the man nodded, following him in and inserting his ID card into the reader.
The light blinked green and the doors hissed closed; Tommy punched the down button before keying up on his radio.
“On our way.”
“Just so you know,” Shaw said, reaching into his pocket and retrieving a hundred-dollar bill, “that last call was bullshit.”
“He was out by a mile,” Tommy grinned, plucking the bill from his hand and holding it up to the light.
“Seriously?” he asked.
“Never know with you Agency boys.”
“Now you’re hurting my feelings,” Shaw said.
Tommy shrugged and, satisfied that the bill was legit, stuffed it into his pocket.
“So, what’s going on?” Shaw asked, face turning serious.
Tommy reached for the radio on his hip and rotated the switch, waiting until it clicked and the red power light went off before answering.
“I don’t know what you did, but the council is pissed.”
“Details, Tommy.”
“It’s about your boy, that’s all I know.”
Fuck.
“Thanks, I owe you one.”
“Least I can do, sir,” he said, turning the radio back on for a second before the elevator settled on its bumper.
The doors hissed open and Shaw followed his minder down the hall, patent leather shoes squeaking off the freshly waxed floor.
To most people it was just another government basement, its bureaucratic beige walls and line of unmarked doors barely worth noticing. But to Shaw it was a reminder of how far he’d come in the last six months. A monument to his unexpected rise from the National Intelligence Program’s administrative graveyard buried deep in the bowels of the Pentagon. The purgatorial pit where Operation Treadstone had been sent to linger until its source funding ran out and it died.
Having his life’s work put to such a slow and painful death had been a hard pill to swallow, but Shaw had come to grips w
ith his fate. Prepared himself for the inevitable moment when the program slipped quietly into nonexistence. But at the final hour, Treadstone was given a reprieve. Saved from the brink of death, Shaw found himself once again standing on center stage.
But that was in the past—right now the only thing that mattered was what lay on the other side of the solid steel door at the end of the hall.
Get your head in the game, Shaw told himself as they rounded the corner, stepping into a short hall with a single door at the end.
At first glance it was just another door, the only feature that hinted at its purpose—the blood-red placard in the center with RESTRICTED ACCESS printed in one-inch letters. But the illusion faded after Tommy swiped his card over the reader. Once the magnetic lock disengaged with a tiny click, the thickness of both the frame and the door itself proved that this was not just another office.
A stern-faced man in black BDUs stood next to the X-ray machine, a second seated inside a bulletproof cube. Both were armed, but unlike the pristine pistols that glinted in the holsters of the security guards upstairs, the SIGs on their hips were battle-worn, the textured grips abraded by years of use.
“Good morning, Director,” the man at the X-ray machine said. “Please place your bag on the belt and empty your pockets in the tray.”
Shaw followed the man’s directions, repeating the same steps he had on entering the building. But this time, instead of walking through a magnetometer he was directed to a full-body scanner and advised to place his hands on his head.
“He’s good,” the man inside the cube said.
By the time Shaw stepped through, the man in the BDUs had already placed everything by his attaché case into a black bag, zipped it up, and stuffed it into a locker.
Shaw clipped the badge to his lapel, grabbed his case from the belt, and stepped to the mahogany door to his front. He took a deep breath, mentally preparing himself for whatever lay on the other side, and then grabbed the handle.
Compared to the austere antechamber, the interior of the Senate Intelligence Committee SCIF—or Sensitive Compartmented Information Facility—looked like any other meeting room in the building. Same mahogany wainscoted walls, burgundy carpet, and horseshoe table at the front of the room.