by Joshua Hood
He crunched up into a sitting position and was reaching for the wheel when the driver hit him with a backhand to the face that laid him flat. The blow starred his vision, but he was quick to recover. While the driver went for the pistol holstered on the front of his kit, Hayes snatched the Microtech Troodon from his pocket.
“Too slow,” he said, pressing the thumb release on the spine of the knife.
The blade deployed with a snap, and Hayes spun the handle, flipped it into an underhand grip, and buried the blade in the driver’s thigh. The driver’s first reaction was to pull away from the blade, and he let off the gas, hand still going for the pistol.
Hayes yanked the knife free with a hard twist, brought it up to center, and spiked it through the man’s forearm with enough force to bury the tip of the blade into the PMAG on the man’s chest.
“That’ll hold ya for a second,” Hayes said, reaching down between the man’s legs and grabbing the seat adjustment bar.
He yanked up and, using his shoulder, pushed the seat toward the rear, feeling the Excursion slow as the pressure on the accelerator was relieved. He was reaching across the floorboard, trying to engage the emergency brake, desperate to stop the SUV, when Zoe’s captors recovered.
“Come here, you bastard,” one of the men shouted, grabbing Hayes by the legs and yanking him into the backseat, power-slamming him onto the floorboards, Zoe screaming in his ear.
“Heeelp meeee!”
Then the man was all over him, holding him by the throat with one hand and trying to beat his face in with the other.
Hayes ate the first punch, but when the man reared back for a second one, Hayes shrimped onto his side and coiled a leg around his torso. Grabbing the man’s forearm with his hand and pushing with his leg, he was able to shove him off balance. The move created just enough space for Hayes to hit him with an elbow to the temple.
The man sagged, and Hayes shoved him into his dazed teammate, turned onto his stomach, and scrambled for the door handle.
“Zoe, we have to jump!” he yelled, shoving the door open.
“I—I can’t!” she screamed.
She was terrified, the fear in her eyes palpable, but it was the only way.
“You can do it,” he said, grabbing her by the shoulder and inching her toward the door.
“Noooo . . . I—I can’t . . .” she wailed.
“Yes, you can,” he said, turning her to the open door.
For a moment he thought he had her, but then she looked down, saw the blurring asphalt outside the Excursion, and in the next instant she was clawing at his face, twisting against his grip like a cat over running water.
Just hit her and throw her ass out, the voice snapped.
He knew it was the right call, but growing up in the South, Hayes had been taught from an early age that there was nothing worse than a man who put his hands on a woman. And even now, with both of their lives hanging in the balance, he found himself unable to do what needed to be done.
“Just close your eyes and—”
The words were cut off by the slam of something hard against the back of his skull, followed by a pair of rough hands grabbing him by the belt. A man kicked him in the arm, breaking Hayes’s grip on Zoe’s shoulders, and then lifted him off the floor.
“You want to jump . . . then have at it,” the voice said, and then he flung Hayes out the open door.
34
LIBREVILLE, GABON
It was hot on the tarmac and Cyrus Vandal was sweating, the clothes he wore beneath the insulated flight suit wet against his skin. He dug out the tube of amphetamines he’d been issued before leaving the States thirteen hours before and popped the orange pill into his mouth, chasing it with a long gulp from the bottle of water. Only then did he start walking toward the MC-130 Talon that was idling in the darkness.
Vandal waddled up the ramp, weighed down by the rucksack hanging upside down between his legs and the bulky cargo bag in his hand.
Inside the Talon’s cargo hold, the Special Operations jumpmaster assigned to the insertion double-checked the connections on the MC-4 Ram Air parachute strapped to his back and the gear strapped to his body. It was a job he’d done thousands of times. He worked in silence, tapping each connector, tugging on each strap, his face blank in the muted glow of the red light that illuminated the cargo hold.
When he was satisfied, the jumpmaster disconnected the hose connected to the bail-out bottle on his hip and clipped the end into the Talon’s onboard O2. Vandal tested the flow and gave him a thumbs-up before lowering himself onto the nylon bench.
“Good to go. We’ll be airborne shortly,” the jumpmaster yelled over the roar of the engines.
Vandal nodded, and while the crew chief closed and secured the ramp, he leaned back and rested his helmet against the bulkhead, staring up at the exposed wires and cables that ran the length of the cargo hold.
Thirty seconds after the crew chief buckled in, the Talon was rolling, shaking like a washing machine on meth as it raced down the runway and leapt into the air.
Vandal had been up for twenty-four hours and was exhausted. His eyes were hot from lack of sleep and his throat dry as a bone from the combination of dehydration that accompanied the long flight and the flow of pure oxygen from his mask.
Just going to close my eyes for a second.
The relief was immediate, and while he waited for the chem to kick in, his mind worked to play catchup—digest the flurry of information that had consumed the previous day.
As a Marine Raider, Vandal was well aware of Special Operation Command’s long reach. Their ability to find the nation’s enemies, fix them in place, and then send in teams to finish them was unparalleled. But he was still marveling at how the techs at the Signals Intercept and Analysis Lab had been able to not only locate his target but track him during the fifteen hundred miles to Luanda.
But they had, and now the rest was up to him.
The chems kicked in shortly after takeoff and the initial dump of amphetamines hit his flagging nervous system like kerosene to a fire. One second Vandal could barely open his eyes and in the next instant he was wide awake and focused—ready to take on the world.
* * *
—
Fifty minutes later he was standing at the open ramp, watching the horizon pitch through the night-vision goggles attached to his helmet as the pilot rolled the Talon into its final approach. Vandal braced himself against the strut, the weight of his gear threatening to bend him double, the wind cutting at him like an icy flail.
At thirty thousand feet the air was negative forty degrees and even with the insulated jumpsuit and the speed rushing through his blood, Vandal was shivering. His hands were numb inside his Gore-Tex gloves.
He pushed all the discomfort from his mind and turned his attention to the red jump light and began counting the seconds in his head until it was go time.
One one thousand. Two one thousand. Three one thousand. Now.
Right on time, the light blinked green and Vandal took three steps forward and flung himself into the abyss. He locked his body into position—arched his back, held his arms and legs tight while ducking his head, and was soon falling at one hundred and twenty miles an hour. Rocketing through the slate-gray clouds like a demon cast down from heaven.
Four seconds after exiting the aircraft, his chute deployed and caught air, jerking him to a halt. He looked up, checked the canopy for holes, and grabbed the steering toggles, before checking the compass on his tac board.
Seeing that he was off his azimuth, Vandal pulled down on the toggle, steered back on course, and after using the GPS strapped to his wrist to check his ground speed, settled in for the ride.
At four thousand feet he came out of the clouds and got his first glimpse of the ground: the Bondo-gray earth to his front and the India ink shimmer of the Atlantic Ocean off to his right.
He activated the remote infrared beacon that had been inserted before him and spent the next twenty seconds searching the mass of green ahead.
Then he saw it, a persistent yellow blink from a clearing five degrees to his right. Vandal gave the toggle a gentle tug, centering up on the beacon.
At higher altitudes it had been impossible to judge exactly how fast he was falling, but as he broke a hundred feet the ground came rushing up at him, forcing him to yank down hard on the toggles to slow his descent.
Then he was down, the canopy collapsing around him as his feet touched the ground.
He worked fast, disconnecting the riser straps and releasing the gear clips—the canopy billowing like a dying jellyfish as he ripped the suppressed H&K MP7 from his gear bag and scanned his surroundings.
But the only sign of life was the yellow blinking of the infrared strobe attached to the roof of the Toyota 4Runner waiting for him in the tree line.
When he was sure that he was alone, Vandal pulled off his gloves and stepped out of the insulated suit. Using a collapsible shovel, he buried his chute and jump gear, and after loading his pack and gear bag into the back of the SUV, it was time to go hunting.
35
GRAND-BASSAM
An hour after being thrown from the Excursion, Hayes parked in the shadows at the edge of the convenience store lot and cut the engine. He climbed out of the Mitsubishi SUV he’d carjacked on the highway and gingerly shifted some of his weight onto his left.
Son of a bitch, he thought, biting down on the pain that rolled up from his damaged knee.
When he was sure the leg would hold, Hayes started across the parking lot, the sole of his shredded boot slap-slapping against the pavement as he angled toward the phone booth sitting outside the store. He was almost there when he noticed the pair of thugs drinking beer on the curb.
You’ve got to be shitting me.
After being shot at, blown up, and thrown from a moving vehicle, the last thing Hayes wanted to deal with was a pair of thugs trying to roll him up.
Determined to avoid an altercation, Hayes kept his eyes forward and prayed that they would leave him alone. But the predatory smiles that slid across their faces when they got to their feet told him that it wasn’t going to happen.
“Need to use the phone, do ya?” the first thug asked after posting up in front of the booth.
“That’s right,” Hayes answered.
“Gonna cost ya.”
“How much?” he asked, reaching for his wallet—then remembering he’d lost that, too. “Great.”
“What, lost your wallet?”
“Yeah, something like that,” he said.
The second man leaned in and whispered something into the leader’s ear, gesturing toward his wrist with a machete he had just pulled from behind his back.
“You’re right, that is a nice watch,” he grinned. “I think it will go perfect with the others.”
“The others?” Hayes asked.
“You see, this here is our phone, and anyone wants to use it has to pay a toll,” he said, nudging a plastic sack that sat on the ground.
Hayes glanced down at it. The phones, wallets, and watches packed inside told him that it had been a busy night. Hayes could tell where this was going but he wasn’t sure he had the energy to try and stop it.
“So, what’s it gonna be?” The man took a swig from his half-empty beer bottle.
“Listen, junior, you’re not getting my watch, so why don’t you and your buddy grab your loot and fuck off before someone gets hurt.”
“What the fuck ya say to me?” the tough demanded, upending the bottle.
“You heard me.”
The kid was fast, Hayes had to give him that. Before the words were out of his mouth the punk was swinging the bottle at his head, but Hayes was ready for it. He ducked beneath the blow and slammed a left hook into the kid’s gut.
The punch blasted the air from his attacker’s lungs. He folded in half, his mouth open wide in a silent scream. Before Hayes could finish him off, Machete Man waded in, the blade hissing through the air.
Hayes stepped inside, got a two-handed grip on the man’s wrist. He pulled his arm straight, torquing the wrist around until the elbow was pointing up—the skin over the joint stretched white as wax paper.
Machete Man grunted in pain and tried to spin out, but Hayes stomped down on the side of his knee, the joint exploding with the pop of wet celery.
The man screamed in agony, the machete clattering to the ground as Hayes swung him around and slammed his head through the side of the phone booth, turning in time to see the man’s partner yank a blade from his waistband.
He came in hard and fast, the blade glinting in the light as he slashed and stabbed at Hayes’s face.
Hayes danced back, the only weapon at his disposal the Texas Silencer Outrider in his back pocket. He yanked the suppressor free and, holding it against his forearm like a nightstick, parried the thrust aimed for his liver—thankful that the Outrider was made of Grade 9 titanium instead of aluminum.
The fight was silent, the only sound the scrape of blade against suppressor and the hiss of the punk’s breath as he feinted, slashed, and stabbed at him, trying anything to get inside of his guard—relentlessly pushing the fight.
While his attacker had yet to break a sweat, Hayes was gassed. His knee was throbbing, threatening to give out every time he put too much weight on it. On top of that, the gash on his forehead had cracked and fresh blood was leaking into his eye, obscuring his vision.
All right, I’ve had about enough of this, he thought.
He circled left, the pain that came with each step rolling up his leg like fire.
“Should have paid the toll when ya had a chance, old man,” the punk taunted, inching closer, bouncing the knife back and forth between his left and right hand.
“Well, c’mon then, before my beer gets warm,” Hayes said, coming to a halt.
“What beer?”
“The one you have in that sack—the one I’m going to be drinking in”—he paused and glanced at his watch—“let’s say ten seconds, if you’d stop dancing around like a little bitch.”
“I’ve got your bitch right here,” the punk said, resuming the attack.
He leapt forward and dropped his shoulder, feinting a slash to get Hayes off balance before launching a kick toward his damaged knee.
Hayes saw the kick and checked it with a kick of his own, the impact sending a lightning bolt of pain up his leg. He bit down on the pain and pivoted, clubbing the suppressor down on the punk’s wrist.
The blow shattered the bone, but before his attacker could scream, Hayes reversed the Outrider and slammed it hard across his throat—crushing his windpipe and sending him tumbling to the ground.
Hayes kicked the blade into the weeds and limped to the phone booth, snatched the beer from the bag, and twisted the cap free. He raised it to his lips and took a long pull.
The beer was lukewarm from its time out of the cooler, but even so, as Hayes stepped into the phone booth he couldn’t remember anything ever tasting that good.
He lifted the phone from the cradle and dialed the number Mallory had given him.
36
GRAND-BASSAM
Even with the sun buried deep below the horizon and the gentle easterly wind blowing in off the ocean, it was hot inside the phone booth. The humidity added an oppressive thickness to the air.
Hayes was tired and, standing there, the hypnotic double beep of the line ringing in his ear, the only thing keeping him from passing out on his feet was the pain cascading through his body.
He drained the rest of the beer in one long pull and set the empty bottle atop the housing when the line connected and Mallory’s voice came over the line.
“Who is this?” she demanded.
“Your errand boy,” H
ayes answered.
“This line is not secure, you need to call me back on the phone I gave you, right now,” she said, her voice sharp as a whip.
“Believe me, I would if I could, but . . .”
“But what?” she demanded.
“Well, it got thrown out of a truck,” he said.
There was silence on the other end of the line and for a second Hayes thought Mallory had hung up on him.
“Hello?” he asked. “You still there?”
“Oh, I’m here,” she huffed. “I was just trying to gather my thoughts, figure out what kind of an idiot allows someone to throw an eleven-hundred-dollar Iridium satphone out of a truck. I mean, how does that even happen?”
Hayes bit down on his anger, wishing he had another beer. This time it was Mallory’s turn to break the silence.
“Hello, are you there?”
“Yeah, I’m here.”
“Good, now back to my question. How . . . did . . . your phone . . . get . . . thrown from a truck?” she asked, breaking each word down like she was talking to a child.
“Because,” Hayes answered, his voice hard as iron, “it was in my pocket.”
“Wait, what?”
“You heard me,” he said.
“What . . . what happened . . . where . . . where’s Zoe?”
“They took her.”
“Wh-who took her?”
Ten seconds ago, he’d been ready to give Mallory both barrels. Tell her that he knew about Zoe’s real identity and what she thought Andre Cabot would do when he learned that Mallory had hired a bunch of cowards to protect his daughter. Sheep in wolves’ clothing who had cut and run when they found themselves toe to toe with a team of pipe-hitting motherfuckers.
But Hayes resisted the urge, knowing there was more to be gained if he stayed in character. Let her think that he was just another dumb American in way over his head.
“I don’t know who they were, but they had big guns and knew how to use them.”