by Joshua Hood
Which is exactly what would have happened if the swell had stayed upright, but at the last moment the wave seemed to trip and then it was falling headlong before the Mako, its once-majestic peak now a raging ramp of white water.
One second the powerboat was planing smoothly across the water and in the next instant, it was airborne. Hayes was helpless to do anything but hold on as the Mako soared clear of the waves.
For a moment Hayes was weightless, free of both land and sea. But then gravity took over and he was falling, stomach rushing into his throat as the Mako nosed over, plunging like a lawn dart toward the glassy water below.
Oh, yeah, this is going to hurt.
The Mako hit hard and bounced skyward, skipping across the surface like a stone, the impact slamming Hayes into the wheel.
There was no pain, just a flash of white followed by the copper taste of blood and the flicker of black at the edge of his vision. He tried to get to his feet but the Mako was spinning, its centripetal force pinning him to the bulkhead while the water being sucked into the intakes killed the engines.
Finally, the Mako came to rest, the silence that followed the roar of her twin Mercs deafening as Hayes shook off the blow. He crawled to the front of the boat and tried the key.
The starter clicked but failed to turn over and Hayes adjusted the choke.
“C’mon, c’mon,” he begged. But the Mako was dead in the water.
Hayes was heading aft when the wheeeeem of a small engine stopped him in his tracks.
There is no way.
He followed the sound to its source in time to see the first two-person Jet Ski arcing over a wave, flame already spitting from the muzzle of the machine pistol in the passenger’s hand.
The first burst was short and when Hayes saw the bullets splash harmlessly into the water thirty yards short of the disabled powerboat, he felt a glimmer of hope.
I’ve got time.
He dropped to a knee and reached down for the fuel line, the overwhelming odor of raw gas emanating from the engine scalding his eyes—confirming his worst fears.
Only way to get this thing running is to pull the spark plugs, clear the excess fuel from the cylinders.
Hayes glanced up at the rapidly approaching Jet Ski, knowing that he was out of time.
Fight or die, the voice warned.
Hayes jumped to his feet and raced back to the captain’s chair for his assault pack, wishing there was another way as he unzipped the large pocket. Grabbed the pistol grip of the six-and-a-half-inch Serbu “Super Shorty” shotgun.
Fight or die, the voice repeated.
“Shit,” he yelled, pulling the Serbu from the pack.
The Jet Ski arced closer, the machine pistol rattling in the passenger’s hand, the bullets kicking up a line of miniature geysers as they raced inevitably toward the Mako.
Hayes racked a 12-gauge shell into the action and brought the shotgun to bear. He centered the bead on the driver’s chest and disengaged the safety, but held his fire. Waited until the bullets were slapping so close to the Mako that he could feel the spray of water on his skin. See the determination on the shooter’s face as he lined up the kill shot. Only then did Hayes pull the trigger.
The shotgun roared like a howitzer, the spray of double-aught buck slamming into his target’s chest like a freight train—blowing both men off the Jet Ski.
Hayes racked the pump and waited for the second pair of attackers. He caught them as they were cresting a swell four feet away and dumped them with another blast from the shotgun.
Then he was alone and instead of the relief that usually came with winning a gunfight, all Hayes felt when he looked down at the smoking shotgun was disgust.
“Five months, down the FUCKING drain,” he snarled, flinging the shotgun into the sea.
Better them than you, the voice answered.
But as Hayes grabbed the toolkit from beneath the wheel and returned aft to begin work on the engines, he found there was no solace in the words—only regret.
6
CEUTA, SPAIN
The second Hayes left the bathroom, Vlad was on his feet, stumbling on rubber legs to the door. His hands shook as he pawed at the lock. The stale stench of old vodka and new fear that seeped from his pores sent his guts heaving into his throat.
Vlad retched, but stayed focused on the task at hand, knowing that if Hayes changed his mind and decided to come back and kill him, he’d have to boot the door off the hinges to get in.
There was a part of him that knew it was a fool’s errand, knew that it would take more than a flimsy door and the three-dollar latch to keep a man like Hayes out, but it was all he had.
The metallic snap of the latch sliding into place echoed off the walls and the Russian lurched to the trash can in the corner and vomited until he tasted bile.
After twelve years in the GRU—the Russian Intelligence Directorate—Vlad was no stranger to violence. He’d joined the military at eighteen and spent the first five years with the 45th Spetsnaz Airborne Brigade, gaining valuable combat experience in Chechnya and the Caucasus. But it wasn’t until Vlad was selected to join Directorate V that he learned the art of mokroye delo—wet work.
During his time with Directorate V he’d gone up against Mossad hit teams in Libya, French DGSE in Marseilles, even a member of the CIA’s Ground Branch in Iraq—and always came out without a scratch.
But as Vlad sagged against the wall, the cold tile against his fevered skin welcome as a lover’s touch, he realized that despite all the men he’d gone up against, none of them compared to Adam Hayes.
When he trusted his legs to hold him, Vlad got to his feet and went to the sink. He turned on the water, rinsed the vomit out of his mouth, and washed his face, making himself as presentable as possible before stepping out of the bathroom.
Keeping his head down, Vlad crossed the bar and stepped out the front door, pausing to shake a Prima from the pack in his breast pocket. He stuck the cigarette between his lips and lit it using a battered Zippo. The acrid burn of the Russian tobacco and the rush of nicotine into his blood settled his nerves.
The altercation with Hayes played in his mind on an endless loop. Vlad saw himself get to his feet, heard the click of the blade snapping open in his hand. He moved around the table, heart pumping in his chest, the only thought on his mind burying the knife in the American’s gut.
But before the blade could find flesh, Hayes had him by the wrist, and then he was twisting the knife away, pulling him close.
Vlad never saw the blow that put him down, which shocked him because he’d been eye to eye with the American, close enough to feel his breath on his face, hear the snap of his shirt as his hand shot up from his waist.
His mind bounced back to the hand-to-hand training he’d received with the Spetsnaz at the Defense Ministry’s Military Academy, and the rawboned sergeant who’d taught them to kill with the knife.
“One and a half seconds. That is how much time it takes a man standing twenty-one feet away to get close enough to bury a blade in your gut.”
By the time he was done with the course, Vlad was doing it in half that.
Then how is he still alive?
The fact was, he didn’t know.
But it wasn’t for lack of trying.
The first time he met the American, Vlad had thought he’d finally found his mark, a way to get out of the trouble he was in. He had to give it to Hayes: The man hid it well, with his wide-eyed optimistic talk about helping the poor people of Africa. But slowly Vlad began to see through it. He saw the way Hayes’s eyes never stopped moving. How he would always sit with his back to the wall. The man had training. The signs were subtle and while they wouldn’t have registered with ninety-nine percent of the world’s population, Vlad picked them up in stereo, and immediately set out to find out all he could about the bearded American.
>
But despite his extensive intelligence network he could find nothing.
Now he didn’t care, and as he turned onto Avenue Playas del Duque, the only thought on his mind was getting the hell out of Ceuta, putting as much distance between him and Hayes as possible.
I need a car.
Staying in the shadows, Vlad scanned the street, looking for something that wouldn’t draw attention, like a Citroën or a Toyota, but after ten minutes of searching he realized he’d have better luck finding a virgin on prom night than an economy car near the marina. So he settled on a midnight-blue Audi RS 5.
The door was unlocked, and he slipped inside. Vlad used his knife to snap the plastic covering free of the steering column. After exposing the wiring harness, he sorted through the birds’ nests of wires until he found the battery wire and the ignition wire.
He stripped the insulation free, and using his shirt as an insulator, twisted the two wires together, jumping when the radio blared to life.
Shit.
Vlad hastily turned the stereo off, giving the street a quick scan before getting back to work. He ducked down, muttering in Russian as he searched for the starter wire.
“C’mon, c’mon.”
Finally, he found it, and after stripping off the yellow insulation, touched it to the power wire. Once the engine hummed to life, Vlad cut a U-turn, and stomped the accelerator to the floor.
The car shot forward like a sprinter from the blocks, the 2.9L V6 growling beneath the hood as the needle swept past sixty miles an hour. He lit a second cigarette off the butt of the first and thought back to his time in the GRU—the day he realized that there was only so much damage a body could take, so many times a bone could be broken and reset before you lost a step.
And then what?
As far as Vlad knew there were no retirement homes for broken spies—only desk jobs, disability stipends, and a piece-of-shit gold watch when the government decided it was time for you to pull the pin.
If there was anything he’d learned during his time abroad it was that he’d never be poor. There were too many men willing to pay top dollar for someone with his skill set.
So he left the institutional-gray walls of the FSB for the glitz and glamour of the “west.” He eventually ended up in Malta, where he set up shop as a gun for hire.
And there was no shortage of takers.
The money was great and in the span of a year Vlad had made more than he had during his ten as a civil servant. His five-year plan was to save up enough and get out. Retire and buy a place on the beach, somewhere warm to die—and he was almost there.
But then he’d gone to work for Cabot and everything had gone to shit.
He stopped at the intersection, eyes drawn to the blue sign on the side of the road, and for the first time in his life he considered running.
What to do? he thought, glancing up at the rearview mirror, an idea floating at the back of his mind as he studied the rust-colored bruise on his throat.
The plane, if I could steal the plane, I might be able to . . .
In an instant he knew what to do.
He pulled to the side of the road, grabbed his phone from his pocket, and dialed the number.
“Hello?” a voice answered in French.
“I need to talk to Monsieur Cabot.”
7
MAYOTTE
Andre Cabot sat at the conference table in Mayotte, the tiny island off the coast of Madagascar that was all that was left of France’s once vast colonial empire. He’d been sitting at the table for the past three hours. Listening to his lawyer and the bureaucrat from Paris squabble over the nuances of international law, his head was beginning to ache.
Dear God, will they ever shut up?
“So, as I was saying, since relocating your headquarters to Mayotte, all business conducted by DarkCloud is now governed by French law.”
Andre Cabot got to his feet and crossed to the cherrywood humidor perched on the edge of his desk. He opened the lid and selected a Cohiba Lancero, remembering how he’d come to Mayotte to get away—to start over.
But despite being separated from Paris by two oceans, one continent, and five thousand miles, all it took was one look at the bureaucrat sitting at the end of the table to realize that he hadn’t run far enough.
Back at the table, he fished the 18-karat gold Dunhill Apex from his pocket, thumbed the striker, and twirled the end of the cigar above the flame. When it was lit, he snapped the lid closed and studied the lighter.
Cabot had purchased it in London, because he liked the timeless quality, the craftmanship, and the way it felt in his hand. It had cost him three grand and had been worth every penny.
The same could not be said for the $1,500-an-hour lawyer sitting across from the French bureaucrat. The one who was supposed to be getting him out of this shit.
“The law is quite clear on the matter,” the man said, glancing up at Cabot as he walked over, “which means besides the travel restrictions already imposed by the court, the government is filing the necessary motions to freeze all of DarkCloud’s assets.”
“Now, you listen here,” the lawyer scowled, “if you think for one minute that Mr. Cabot is going to let some third-world puppet court dictate where he can and cannot go, then you are out of your mind.”
“Be that as it may, Monsieur Cabot is a French citizen and as such is required to abide by French laws.”
Cabot puffed on the cigar, letting the smoke eddy in his mouth as he studied the lawyer, trying to remember the man’s name.
It’s one of those stupid Ivy League names, like Chip, or Skip . . .
He tried to remember but he had so many lawyers representing him, so many hotshots strutting around like cocks of the walk with their trust-fund names and their $1,500-an-hour rates—and none of them worth a shit.
“Well then, we will file the necessary motions . . . and . . .”
I’m surrounded by fucking idiots.
“You,” he said, slapping his hand on the table and pointing at the lawyer.
“Yes, Mr. Cabot?”
“Get the fuck out.”
“But I . . . I . . .”
“Now!” he snapped.
The man’s face fell. He got to his feet, pulled his shoulders back, and marched across the office. Cabot skirted the recently occupied chair and took his seat, waiting until he heard the click of the door before blowing the mouthful of smoke across the table.
“How much?” he asked.
“M-Monsieur C-Cabot,” the man coughed. “I-I don’t know what you mean!”
“You think this is my first time playing this game? Or the first time Paris has sent someone to shake me down?” he asked, voice cold as ice.
“No,” the man answered, dropping the act, “I do not.”
“Then let’s cut the foreplay, shall we? Name your price.”
“Price?” the man asked, getting to his feet and retracing the steps Cabot had taken earlier to the box on the edge of the table. “You wish to buy your way out of this? With what, this box?” he asked, bending at the waist and reading the inscription off the brass plate.
“‘May this ornament suffice as a token of gratitude from a thankful nation.’”
“Yes, that is what it says,” Cabot said, getting to his feet, the cigar in his hand shaking with rage as he walked over to the man.
“No date?” The man frowned. “No years of service, no vraiment désolé—very sorry—that your wife left you? That you were thrown out on some trumped-up charges so men in Paris could save face?”
Cabot took a deep puff, his eyes hot as the ember at the end of the cigar. “Who sent you?” he asked, blowing the mouthful of smoke into the man’s face.
The man coughed and stepped back, the smile falling from his face.
“Someone who doesn’t appreciate you
r meddling in their African affairs.”
“So, that is what this is about—money?”
“No, Monsieur Cabot, money is what we carry in our pockets. What we are talking about is power and the hundreds of millions of dollars it costs to keep it,” the man said, turning to the door. “But trust me, Andre, you will find out all about it very soon.”
When he was gone, Cabot lifted the box off the table and slammed it into the wall before rounding the desk and yanking open the drawer, revealing a silver Walther PPK.
He stared down at the pistol, debating whether he should pick it up, rush out into the lobby, and put a bullet in the man’s head, when there was a polite knock at the door.
“What?” he shouted, looking up to see Beck step inside his office, holding out a satphone.
“Qui est-ce?” Who is it?
“Vlad,” the man answered, making no attempt to mask his disdain. “He says he has a solution for getting someone into Grand-Bassam.”
Cabot took the phone and pressed it to his ear, suddenly calm despite the rage that had consumed him moments earlier.
“Yes?”
“Do you still need a pilot?”
“Why, do you suddenly have a plane?”
“Yes, and plenty of room for cargo.”
“And what is it going to cost me?” Cabot asked.
“My marker.”
Cabot had learned long ago that there was no such thing as data protection. If information was recorded, either physically or stored on a drive, it could be hacked or stolen. Which was why unlike most men in his line of work, he committed everything to memory.
He paused before answering, pictured Vlad’s file in his mind. The Russian owed him a little less than a million U.S. dollars.
Most men in Cabot’s position wouldn’t have bothered with such a paltry sum, and instead of trying to collect the money would have killed the Russian.
But not Cabot.
For him, the money was secondary; what mattered was the respect. Breaking and bending men like Vlad to his will. His strategy was straight out of Clausewitz’s On War—first Cabot bought up all the man’s outstanding debts and then put the word out on the street that no one was to do business with the Russian, knowing that it was only a matter of time before the financial isolation brought him back on bended knee.