by Joshua Hood
“Be that as it may, the cargo still needs to be delivered to Grand-Bassam.”
Fucking Vlad, he’d thought.
Should have killed him when you had a chance.
As much as it pained him to admit it, the voice had a point. His decision not to kill Vlad, to go against both his instincts and his training, had been a mistake.
“What’s in it for me?” he’d asked her.
“The mechanics here have assured me they can repair your plane, make it airworthy for the trip—”
“How in the hell is that—”
“Do not interrupt me, Mr. Hayes,” she snapped, her eyes burning hotter than the cherry at the end of her cigarette.
The rebuke had echoed off the walls and the blood had rushed to his face, leaving his skin hot, like a fuse waiting for a match.
Just take it easy, wild man, the voice had sighed. Don’t let the little lady get your panties in a bunch.
It had been good advice, and Hayes knew he should take it. The only problem was, he’d run out of patience eight hours ago.
“As I was saying, the mechanics will make the necessary repairs to get you to Grand-Bassam, and once there my employer will pay for a complete overhaul.”
“A complete overhaul, huh?” Hayes had said, not attempting to keep the incredulity out of his voice.
“That is what I said, isn’t it?”
“Lady, they stopped making that bird in 1970.”
“Do you have a point?”
“My point is that even if you could find the spare parts, do you have any idea how much that would cost?” he’d asked.
“You let me worry about that. Do we have a deal?”
Hayes had sunk every last dime into the Provider, and now that it was a thirty-thousand-pound paperweight, there was no way for him to recoup his investment. So of course he wanted it repaired, but following the mechanic around the hangar, Hayes knew that wasn’t why he’d taken it.
He’d taken the deal because it was the only way out of the situation that didn’t involve killing everyone else at Korhogo.
“There’s your answer,” the mechanic said, pointing to a concrete pad where three haggard-looking prop planes, with their faded South African Airways emblems, sat wingtip to wingtip.
Well, I’ll be a son of a bitch, he thought.
“Is that a . . .”
“Canadair North Star,” the mechanic grinned at him.
“But how?” he asked, still not believing his eyes.
“Like I said before, people used to want to come here, and someone had to fly them.”
Before he could ask any more questions, Hayes heard the squeak of the door opening followed by the clack of Mallory’s heels on the concrete.
“Well?” she asked, “are you satisfied?”
Hayes wasn’t a superstitious man and had never been one to put much stock in signs or portents. But growing up in the South, he’d met plenty who did. Old men who’d turn around and go the other way if they saw a black cat crossing the walk in front of them, or his grandmother who always kept a mirror on the front porch to scare away evil spirits.
To him it was all a bunch of nonsense, but standing there staring at those old planes, he found himself wondering. Trying to figure out the odds of landing at the one airport that happened to have the parts he needed to get back in the air.
If you need a sign, take it as a sign, the voice said, but whatever you are going to do, let’s get the show on the road before this bitch changes her mind.
“Mr. Hayes, are you flying or not?”
“Yeah, let’s get this over with,” he said.
27
BRATISLAVA, SLOVAKIA
After conducting an SSE—or sensitive site exploitation—of Malicar’s camp, Cyrus Vandal headed east to the flat he’d rented near the Medická Záhrada—the park behind the hospital. Inside the safe house he burned the clothes he’d taken off one of the dead gangsters, and after thirty minutes in the shower almost felt clean.
While he was sure the local authorities wouldn’t shed a tear over Ján Malicar’s untimely demise, the same could not be said for his associates, and Vandal knew he had to get out of town.
Using a tube of concealer, he did what he could to cover the bruises and then dressed quickly in a muted gray sports coat and blue slacks, grabbed his bag, and headed for the door. Out in the street, Vandal donned a tweed newsboy hat, pulling the brim low over the pair of wraparound shades that covered his eyes.
Twenty minutes later he arrived at Petržalka station, just another face in the crowd as he crossed the platform and climbed aboard the 11:20 to Vienna. He locked the door behind him and settled into his seat—out of danger—but was unable to relax until the train crossed the border into Austria.
Vandal felt the tension easing from his muscles and was about to open the paper when he felt the persistent buzz of his phone in his jacket pocket.
Now what?
“Go secure,” an electronically modified voice said as soon as he answered.
“Going secure,” Vandal said, activating the encryption package and waiting for the green box to appear around the edge of the screen before returning the phone to his ear.
“There is a problem in Africa you need to deal with,” the voice advised.
“What’s the problem?”
“Someone needs to go away.”
A termination order. Okay, this could be fun.
“Where is the target?”
“Last contact was in Morocco, but target is currently on the move.”
“On the move? You mean you don’t have an active location?” Vandal demanded.
“Affirmative. This is a very fluid situation, but it came from the top. All information has been uploaded to your computer and necessary assets are being moved into place. You just worry about getting there.”
Vandal glanced at his watch and saw that it was almost noon. Assuming he got a flight on the first thing smoking it would be at least sixteen and a half hours before he got on the ground. Add an hour for customs and arranging transportation, then however long it took to get on the road, and the target could have a full twenty-four-hour jump on him.
“By the time I get in play, the target could be anywhere.”
“Just get there,” the voice said.
“Fine,” Vandal said, and then as an afterthought, asked, “who is the target?”
“Adam Hayes,” the voice answered, and then the line went dead.
28
KORHOGO, IVORY COAST
Hayes stood outside the forward entrance door, his heart hammering in his chest like the bass line of a rap song. He told himself that he was just waiting for his eyes to adjust to the gloomy interior of the plane before climbing in, but that was a lie.
The truth was, despite the patched holes and the freshly scrubbed interior, Hayes could still smell the blood beneath the pine cone reek of the disinfectants the mechanic had used to clean the plane.
According to Mallory, his passenger not only wanted to go to Grand-Bassam, she needed to go, and while Hayes was pretty sure she was full of shit, part of him wanted to believe that he was doing the right thing, to prove to Shaw—and, more important, to himself—that he was more than just a killer.
Keep telling yourself that, pal, the voice laughed.
The spurt of anger that followed the remark was enough to get him through the door and into the cockpit. He dropped into the pilot’s chair and looked out the recently repaired cockpit window. Zadi stood in front of the aircraft, nervous as a cat over water.
The mechanic pointed to the starboard engine, raised his hand into the air, and made a motion like he was twirling a lasso. In the cockpit, Hayes leaned forward to see past the sheet of cardboard duct-taped over the shattered window, and made sure the prop was clear before turning on the engines’ fuel p
ump.
Unlike the more common inline engines, the old radials were crotchety and getting one to start was more of an art than a science, which was the main reason most pilots hated the old birds and their finicky engines.
Hayes, on the other hand, had nothing but respect for the tough old engines and confidently began the start-up sequence. He began with the starboard engine, flipping the electric fuel pump to R and then pressing the start switch, which engaged the engine’s magneto: the electric motor that started the propellor spinning. He waited until the blades had completed two full rotations before hitting the ignition switch.
The engine chugged to life and he scanned the now-immaculate gauges that dotted the control panel, watching them bounce happily into the correct positions. With the starboard engine running smooth as a sewing machine, Hayes turned his attention to the mechanic.
Zadi pointed at the port engine and repeated the lassoing motion, but this time the process wasn’t quite as smooth.
Instead of jumping to life, the engine backfired and spewed black smoke from the exhaust pipe. Outside the cockpit, Zadi’s face went white. His earlier nervousness gave way to genuine fear, and he immediately held up a closed fist—the signal to shut the engine down.
It was the right call, but knowing how much Zadi had riding on a clean start, Hayes ignored it, and instead of shutting the engine down made minute adjustments to the air and fuel mixture, babying the engine until he had it running smooth.
And that, ladies and gentlemen, is how it’s done, he thought.
Outside the plane, the color had returned to Zadi’s face, the consternation that had clouded the mechanic’s proud visage replaced by an ear-to-ear grin.
“Très bon!” he shouted. Very good.
Hayes wanted to keep the engines running, and after signaling to Zadi that he was going to pull the plane out of the hangar, he disengaged the brakes and inched the throttle forward. The Provider started forward, out of the shadows and into the sunlight.
Out on the tarmac, he could see a mirage shimmering off the runway fifty yards to his front.
Go for it, the voice urged.
Hayes used the mirrors to check behind the plane and saw a group of soldiers lounging in the shade of the hangar, their eyes closed against the sun, weapons lying on the ground next to them.
Even if they realized what he was doing and opened fire before he made it to the runway, there was no way they could stop him. Nothing but the fact that he’d given his word. He cursed and reached for the throttles, but instead of shoving them forward, he pulled them back to idle and reengaged the brake.
Before getting out of the pilot’s seat, Hayes reached under the instrument panel and retrieved the Beretta 92f from its hiding place. He got to his feet, clipped the holster to his waistband, press-checked the pistol to make sure there was a round in the chamber, and stepped out of the cockpit.
With the engines running, it wasn’t safe to use the pilot’s door, so with the reassuring feel of the pistol on his hip, Hayes dropped the ramp and headed back to the cargo hold.
Out on the tarmac, he saw Mallory waiting for him at the door of the hangar, his assault pack sitting on the ground next to her feet.
“Everything to your satisfaction?” she asked.
He nodded, eyes darting to the far corner of the hangar where Wikus and the rest of his goon squad held a tight perimeter around a blond-haired girl.
“Excellent,” Mallory said, handing him the pack.
Hayes opened the main compartment and glanced inside, finding the gear he’d arrived with, plus a satellite phone and a thick manila envelope.
“What’s this?” he asked, taking out the envelope.
“To cover any incidentals you might encounter along the way.”
“Incidentals?” he frowned, not liking the sound of the word.
Hayes opened the flap, and when he saw the fresh one hundred-dollar bills packed inside, let out a low whistle.
“There’s got to be ten grand in here,” he said, running his thumb over the cash.
“Yes, there has been a slight change in plans.”
Of course, he thought.
The deal he’d agreed to in the detention room was that he’d fly his passenger to Grand-Bassam, where an escort would meet them at the airport. Mallory had assured him that General Dábo had already spoken to the commander on the ground and that Hayes would be allowed to land, refuel, and depart without being bothered.
So what had changed?
Guessing his thoughts, Mallory was quick with an answer.
“The ground team has been delayed, and instead of meeting you at the airport, they will be waiting for you at the Hôtel la Commanderie.”
“What about transportation?”
“A vehicle will be waiting for you when you land,” she answered. “Any more questions?”
“Yeah, who is she?” he asked, nodding toward the blond-haired girl.
“A passenger, Mr. Hayes,” she said, motioning for Wikus to bring the girl.
Yeah, right, he thought.
Wikus escorted the girl across the hangar, giving Hayes his first clear look at his passenger. She was pretty, with ash-blond hair and smooth, sun-bronzed skin that from a distance made it difficult to determine her age. But as she drew near Hayes guessed that she had to be in her early twenties.
Old enough to know what she’s getting into, he told himself.
“One more thing,” Mallory said, leaning in. “Zoe is a Type 1 diabetic.”
“You’re just telling me this now?” he hissed. “What if . . .”
“It won’t, she has an insulin pump. The only reason I mention it is because like all girls her age, she is self-conscious about it.”
“Well if she is self-conscious about it, I don’t imagine she’s going to like some stranger knowing about it.”
“Just make sure she doesn’t leave her insulin in the plane,” she whispered before turning to the approaching girl. “Zoe, this is the pilot I was telling you about. His name is Adam Hayes and he is going to fly you to Grand-Bassam,” Mallory said by way of introduction.
Not sure what else to say, he stuck out his hand.
“Nice to meet you.”
“An American?” she asked Mallory in French, her eyes never leaving Hayes’s.
“It was last-minute,” the lawyer said with a Gallic shrug.
Hayes wasn’t used to taking shit off someone he’d just met, but he clung to his pretense of not speaking the language and bit down on the smartass comment he wanted to hurl at the two women, figuring that if he could keep his mouth shut for a few more minutes, he might just get the hell out of here alive.
“Just pretend he is one of your dogs and you’ll be fine,” Wikus added in his guttural French.
Stay cool, you can do this, he told himself.
Mallory suppressed a smile and switched back to English.
“Well, now that you two have been introduced, I suggest you get in the air.”
“Best thing I’ve heard all day,” Hayes said, turning to the plane.
“Hey, asshole,” Wikus said, stepping up behind him, “you let anything happen to her and there’s not a place in the world where you’re going to be able to hide. Get me?”
“You aren’t going to have to look for me,” Hayes said.
“Oh, yeah, and why’s that?”
“Because when this is over, I’ll be coming back for my property,” he said, nodding to the 1911 stuck in Wikus’s waistband.
Zoe was halfway to the plane, but with his anger stuck on simmer, Hayes ended up beating her to it. He stomped into the cargo hold, went to the control box, and shoved the lever into the up position.
Seeing the ramp lift free of the ground, Zoe broke into a run, whatever names she was calling him drowned out by the engines.
“W
hat was that?” she demanded in English, when she made it inside.
“You know how these American planes can be,” he said.
Zoe pulled off her sunglasses and looked around the bare cargo hold, scowling at the nylon troop seats. “Where am I supposed to sit?”
“That’s up to you,” he said, already heading to the cockpit.
Hayes had already strapped himself in and was contacting the tower when Zoe’s head appeared over his shoulder.
“Can I . . . ?”
He leaned over and grabbed the pair of headphones from the copilot’s seat and handed them to her, not noticing the blood until Zoe had pulled them on.
Oops.
“Better take a seat,” he said, waiting for her to comply and then showing her how to strap in.
“Comfortable?”
“Yes, thank you.”
“Good, now let’s get the hell out of here.”
Hayes contacted the tower, more out of habit than anything else, and after receiving clearance, maneuvered the Provider to the end of the runway.
Let’s get the hell out of here, he thought, shoving the throttles to full power.
29
GRAND-BASSAM
Hayes leveled off at twenty thousand feet, his mind racing as he double-checked his heading. It was a little more than three hundred miles to Grand-Bassam, and while he would have preferred to spend the time in silence, he had questions—questions that needed to be answered before they landed.
He glanced over at Zoe and found her sitting with her eyes shut, arms folded tight across her chest, the iPhone she’d produced shortly after takeoff plugged into her ears. Hayes had no idea what she was listening to and was pretty sure that even if she told him he wouldn’t have recognized the artist.
Her posture, on the other hand, was an entirely different story.
Like all married men, Hayes had been on the losing end of enough arguments to know that nothing good ever came from disturbing a woman sitting like that.
But it was either talk or spend the next three hours in silence.
Well, here goes nothing, he thought.