by Joshua Hood
Think about something else—anything else.
Hayes forced the pain and the bullshit that had run roughshod over his day from the front of his mind until there was nothing but blank space, an endless black canvas. His mind drifted like a dog let off its leash, wandering back and forth before returning to the reason Hayes was in this mess in the first place—the promise that he’d made to Dr. Karen Miles three weeks prior.
He’d been inside World Aid’s dilapidated hangar at Essaouira breaking down a fuel pump when Dr. Miles walked in, a grim frown in the place of her usual perky smile.
“Adam, I need . . .” she began.
“What’s wrong?”
“It—it’s easier if I show you,” she said.
He followed her to her office, the plywood hutch in the back of the hangar, and watched as she opened the laptop on her desk.
“This is from Camp Four in Bobo-Dioulasso,” she said, keying up the video.
After tours in Iraq and Afghanistan, Hayes had seen his share of misery, but nothing prepared him for the video he saw in that hangar. The white-shrouded bodies lying shoulder to shoulder in the trench and the hopeless eyes of the women and tear-stained faces of the children standing above, looking down at their loved ones.
“Wh-what the hell is this?” he choked.
“Cholera,” she said, “easily treated with the proper medication, but with Camp Four besieged . . .”
Hayes had heard the rumors about the militants operating in the area, surrounding the camps, refusing to let the aid workers in unless they paid an exorbitant toll. Some of the aid groups had called their bluff, tried to sneak past their blockade. As far as Hayes knew, none of them had ever made it back.
“Tell me the medicine they need, and I’ll find it and fly it in myself.”
Why in the hell did I say that?
Hayes was still trying to find the answer when his knees scraped the ground. He was spent, his legs shaking like a bowl of Jell-O, screaming against the weight of the water-filled pack that threatened to pull him back into the sea. He grunted to his feet and sloshed to shore, eyes locked on the canted palm tree peeking over the top of the sand dune ahead.
Hayes staggered across the beach, the shifting sand causing his legs to cramp.
Maybe you should stop. Take a breather, the voice suggested.
It was tempting, and while he could certainly use the break, Hayes was afraid that if he collapsed into the sand, he might not be able to get up.
Better to keep moving.
Leaning forward like a man walking against the wind, Hayes started across the beach, his eyes locked on the tree fifty yards to his front. But in his condition, it might as well have been a mile.
Just keep moving. One foot in front of the next, he urged.
By the time he made it to the sand dune he was running on fumes. He dropped to his knees and punched his hands into the sand, using them like hooks to claw his way to the top, and then he was at the apex, the sight of the dilapidated shack on the other side feeling like Christmas morning. Hayes dug his toes into the sand and, summoning the last of his strength, inched his upper body over the lip of the dune, farther and farther until gravity took over. He tumbled down the back side of the dune, closed his eyes and mouth against the rush of sand that pelted his face.
When he reached the bottom, every inch of his skin was covered in sand. He got to his feet, shook off like a dog fresh from a pond, and started for the door, legs bowed wide to lessen the sandpaper scrape of the grit between them.
Thank God I don’t wear underwear.
The shack wasn’t much to look at—a fifteen-by-twenty-foot rectangle of weather-beaten wood one of the local fishermen had once used to store his boats. While he was sure no one would ever know that he was using it as a stash spot, the idea of being a squatter didn’t sit well, so he had spent a few days tracking down the owner and offered to rent it from him.
Always have a way out. It was the first rule they had taught him at Treadstone—one that had saved his life more times than he could count. Which was why even though he wasn’t operational he kept his bags packed and guns clean—made sure he had the means to drop everything and hit the road at a moment’s notice.
Hayes stopped at the door and bent down to check the two quarters he’d stuffed into the crack—the primitive anti-intrusion device that would have alerted him if anyone had been inside. When he saw that they were there, he grabbed the lock, spun in his combination, and stepped inside, closing the door behind him and lighting the ancient Coleman lantern on the table.
The sallow light illuminated a spartan interior: a battered Land Rover in the center, a stack of bottled water, three cases of MREs, and a metal cabinet in the back corner. Hayes stripped out of his clothes and retrieved a small bucket from the cabinet, which he filled with five bottles of water. He stuffed the empties and the filthy clothes into a trash bag, took a shop rag over to the bucket of water, and did his best to clean up.
When he’d gotten as much of the grime off as possible, Hayes toweled off and dressed in a black T-shirt, jeans, and a pair of boots. He retrieved a medium-sized drybag from the bottom of the cabinet, untied the drawstring, and pulled out a backpacker’s stove.
The MSR DragonFly didn’t look like much, but Hayes had fallen in love with the miniature stove not because it was the most powerful on the market, but because, according to the manufacturer, you could pour anything remotely flammable into the fuel bottle and the MSR would burn it.
Hayes had bought the stove simply because he wanted to refute MSR’s claim, and since purchasing it he’d used everything from rubbing alcohol to diesel fuel and the little stove had never let him down. He filled the fuel bottle from a can of white gas and used the integral pump to pressurize it before connecting the bottle to the small burner and lighting the wick. After adjusting the air flow so the flame burned evenly, Hayes went back to the cabinet, retrieved an enamel mug, added two scoops of instant coffee from a pack, filled the mug with water, and set it atop the burner.
He watched the flame lick the bottom of the mug, the flicker of orange reminding him of how he’d ended up in Morocco.
Hayes hadn’t come to Africa with the intention of becoming a humanitarian. He came because he needed a plane and knew that Africa was his only chance of finding one that would accommodate his limited budget. He started in South Africa, bought the old Land Rover, and headed north through the maze of conflict zones and failed states in search of his prize. He spent the next two weeks dodging bullets and mortars, searching the shot-up airfields and military scrapyards during the day and sleeping in the truck at night; his only goal was to find anything remotely airworthy. He was about to give it up when he heard of a military arms bazaar being held in Monrovia, Liberia.
According to his source, the bazaar was run by a South African soldier of fortune named Pieter van Wyk, and while it was mostly geared toward third world warlords with dreams of mounting a coup, it was Hayes’s last shot.
The plane was a Vietnam-era C-123 Provider and not only was it the oldest plane on the tarmac, it was easily in the worst shape. But Hayes saw through the rust, the fogged windows, and dry-rotted rubber seals—seeing the plane not for what it was, but for what it had been.
“Hello, beautiful,” he said, ducking under the wing and running his hand over the skin.
Thought you were here for a plane, not a project, the voice chided.
But Hayes was in love and after spending an hour checking the plane out from top to bottom, compiling a list of broken hoses, dry-rotted seals, and busted engine parts, he spent another hour scrounging through the yards of parts on the other side of the field before making an offer.
“Deal, but just so you know, van Wyk only paid off the cops for forty-eight hours, so if you and that heap aren’t gone in the air by then, it’s off to jail with ya.”
Now you te
ll me.
It wasn’t easy, but twenty-three hours of work later, he managed to get the engines started and limp the plane north, stopping at every airfield along the way to fix busted hoses, but by the time he reached Essaouira, it was obvious she wasn’t going any farther. Hayes knew he could get the plane back into shape, but he needed the tools, equipment, and hangar space to make the repairs; the only problem was he didn’t have the cash to pay for them.
He was trying to work a deal with one of the mechanics when a pinched-face man with mischievous blue eyes came strolling over.
“You a pilot?” he asked, his British accent on full display as he mopped his bald pate with a grimy handkerchief.
“That’s right,” Hayes answered.
“Dr. Thomas Watson,” the man said, sticking out his hand. “I am the director of World Aid.”
“World Aid?”
“That’s right, we’re an NGO, like Doctors Without Borders, but without the flashy name or the accompanying money.”
“Huh,” Hayes said noncommittally.
“But while we don’t have mounds of cash lying around, we aren’t without resources,” Dr. Watson added, seeing that he was losing Hayes’s interest.
“Like what?”
“Like that,” he answered, nodding to a dilapidated hangar with a white-and-blue globe hanging over the door. “Fully stocked facility, one you would have access to if you were to come fly for us.”
“That’s it, just fly?”
“We even pay for the fuel.”
Sitting there inside the shack, the now-empty mug before him, Hayes’s mind shifted tack again, this time to his wife and son. How he’d love to show them Africa. Maybe rent a little cabin in Kenya, spend the days showing little Jack the real-life versions of the toys he loved to play with. And the nights making love to his wife.
Dreams like that will kill you faster than a bullet, the voice chided.
“What the hell do you know?” Hayes asked aloud.
Enough to know that even in Africa, a leopard can’t change its spots. You’re a killer, Adam, and that’s all you are ever going to be.
14
ESSAOUIRA, MOROCCO
The plane was loaded and ready, but instead of sitting behind the controls, Hayes was standing inside the sun-faded phone booth at the corner of the hangar. He held the phone to his ear and typed in the number, eyes drifting to the ceiling, where hornets were busily constructing a nest.
“Just making a call—no need for anyone to get excited,” he said.
Usually, his wife was quick to pick up the phone but when she hadn’t answered by the fifth ring, Hayes glanced at his watch. Realizing, too late, that it was three a.m. back in the States.
Adam, you stupid ass.
He was about to hang up when there was a click on the other end, followed by his wife’s sleep-laden voice.
“H-hello . . .”
“Shit, baby, I’m sorry . . . I didn’t realize—”
“No, it’s fine . . .” She yawned. “I was, well, we were both hoping you were going to call today.”
“Yeah, I got in pretty late last night, and . . .”
Hayes trailed off, eyes dropping to the ground, suddenly unsure what to say. He kicked at the rocks that lay inside the phone booth, sent them skipping across the tarmac.
Dammit, it shouldn’t be this hard to talk to your wife.
As usual, Annabelle was there to save him.
“Last night when you didn’t call, I was a little bummed out. You know what your son said to me?”
“I can’t even imagine,” Hayes said, a grin starting at the corner of his mouth.
“He said, ‘Don’t be sad, Mommy—Daddy’s busy helping those sick people.’”
“That boy is smart as a whip—he must have got that from you,” he laughed. “He’s not giving you any trouble, is he?”
“Nope. But he misses you . . . we both do.”
“I know, baby . . .”
There was so much that he wanted to say. So much that he wanted to tell her, but the emotion that came from hearing her voice and the thought of their son expanded inside his chest like a balloon.
“I miss you guys, too. More than I’ll ever be able to tell you.”
“I know,” she said.
“Do you?”
There was a momentary pause between his question and her answer, a hiccup in the conversation caused by the signal having to be bounced from Africa to the States and back again. It was less than a second, not even long enough to take a full breath, but it was enough to send his mind back to the previous summer.
Back when they were on the verge of a divorce, even this stilted conversation wouldn’t have been possible.
“Yes, I do. You’re my husband, and I love you . . . I just wish you were home.”
“Me, too.”
“H-have you thought about it . . . about what you are going to do?”
“Sometimes it feels like that’s all I think about,” he said.
“Well, whatever you decide, we support you. Now, let me get back to sleep. Jack and I have an early morning at the zoo.”
“You guys have fun. Be safe and tell the little man I love him.”
He waited until she’d hung up, used his index finger to hang up, double-checked the hornets, and then dialed the number Shaw had given him.
This time the line connected after the first ring, but instead of a person, Hayes got a recorded message in Cantonese.
“Thank you for calling Sterling Mercantile and Trust,” it said. “If you know your account, please enter it at any time.”
He typed in his twelve-digit PIN, and a moment later, Shaw’s voice came over the line.
“Hayes, my boy, how’s the dark continent treating you?”
“It’s fucking hot, Levi.”
“You’re breaking my heart,” Shaw replied. “Any other man in your shoes would be lying in the sand drinking something with an umbrella in it, but not Adam Hayes.”
Here we go with this shit again.
“The sand is overrated.”
“Yeah, I imagine it wouldn’t be much fun lugging that cross of yours around. When are you going to stop playing Mother Teresa and come back—do what God put you on this earth to do?”
“God didn’t make me this way, you and that psycho Dr. Saddler did this to me.”
“Son, you were a killer when I recruited you; all we ever did was make you better at it.”
“Look, as much fun as I’m having listening to your bullshit, I’ve got things to do.”
“Fine, where are you going this time? The Congo, Uganda, or some other third world hellhole no one gives a shit about?”
Hayes squeezed the receiver until his knuckles popped and was about to slam the phone into the wall when he remembered the hornets.
Just take a breath, tell the old man where you’re going, and get off the phone.
“Burkina Faso,” he said.
“Where in Burkina Faso?” Shaw replied.
“Bobo-Dioulasso.”
Then there was silence.
The calls were part of the amnesty agreement he’d made a day after Levi Shaw was reaffirmed as the director of Operation Treadstone. Hayes had hoped they would get easier, but so far, it hadn’t happened.
“Adam,” Shaw said, his voice suddenly tired, “there is something I need to tell you.”
15
GEORGETOWN, WASHINGTON, D.C.
From the street, there was nothing untoward about 2908 North Street NW—nothing that separated the two-story red-brick row house from the rest of the eighteenth-century Federals that lined Georgetown’s exclusive East Village. In fact, with its freshly painted window boxes, snow-covered cornice, and the pair of wrought-iron greyhounds flanking the fire-engine-red door, the house looked downright suburban.
But it was all a lie, carefully constructed urban camouflage orchestrated by the man in the office on the second floor.
Director Levi Shaw had spent most of the night mulling over his meeting with Carpenter, finally giving up on sleep around four-fifteen and heading into the office. After putting on a pot of coffee, he’d built a fire in the old-world fireplace and waited until the shadows of the flames were dancing merrily across the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves lining the cherrywood-paneled walls before filling his stained CIA mug to the brim.
Properly armed, he took a seat behind his massive oak desk and, while waiting for the coffee to cool, turned his attention to the blast-resistant window and the snowfall outside.
What the hell am I going to do about Hayes?
Twenty minutes later, Shaw was on his second cup and still no closer to an answer when Hayes called in.
Might as well get it over with.
“Adam, there is something I need to tell you.”
“What now, Levi?” Hayes answered, his voice ice-cold, void of any emotion.
In many ways, Shaw knew Adam Hayes better than the man knew himself, which wasn’t surprising, considering the fact that he’d not only recruited him but personally oversaw every aspect of his training.
During his tenure as director, Shaw had spent hours combing through the DoD databases searching for men with specific skill sets, certain psychological traits, and while he’d recruited hundreds of men, he’d never met anyone like Hayes.
“They want you back,” he said.
“I still have thirty days left.”
“Not anymore,” Shaw said.
“What the hell happened?”
Shaw filled him in, told him about being called before the Senate Intelligence Committee, his sparring match with Senator Miles, and his subsequent “meeting” with Carpenter.
“Mike Carpenter?” he asked. “What the hell does the deputy director have to do with any of this?”
“Listen, son, things are happening around here. Things I can’t control . . .”