by Joshua Hood
Sucks for you, mate.
Cyrus brushed past the man and sidled up to the front desk, where an openmouthed clerk stood watching the proceedings.
“Problem?” Vandal asked the man in Portuguese.
“An issue with the gentleman’s card, it seems,” the man answered with a strained smile. “How may I help you?”
“Is the Presidential Suite available?”
“As a matter of fact, the maids are cleaning it now,” the man said, nodding to the red-faced Englishman.
“Oh . . . I see,” he said, doing his best to maintain a straight face. “Well, if that’s the case I’d like to book it for the rest of the week.”
“Of course, sir.”
Vandal took the key and shot Mr. Chadwick an unapologetic wink on his way to the bank of elevators around the corner. Following the deskman’s instruction, he stepped into the first car on the right, inserted his key into the slot, and pressed the only button on the panel.
The elevator arrived at the forty-second floor with a polite ding and he stepped out into the hall, the Pelican case rolling silent behind him. He stopped at the mahogany door at the end of the hall, swiped his key over the reader, and stepped inside.
Leaving the Pelican case in the sitting room, Vandal peeled off the coat and kicked out of his shoes. He grabbed a beer from the fridge and, knowing that this was the first and last time he’d ever stay in such a room, took his time soaking it in.
The Presidential Suite was a flawless match of form and function, its white oak hardwood floors and the flaxen rug serving as the perfect complement to the russet-brown couches and the chestnut rafters.
But the pièce de résistance—the very soul of the room—was the floor-to-ceiling windows that made up the south wall.
Vandal padded to the door and stepped out onto the balcony, the tile warm on his bare feet as he crossed to the railing.
After getting used to the monochrome gray sky and sooty white snow of Slovakia, the sights and sounds of Luanda threatened sensory overload. From the liquid gold blush of the sun off the Atlantic to the verdant green of the hillsides far to the north, the city was awash in color.
For anyone else, finding one man in a city of two and a half million people would have been like searching for a needle in a stack of needles. An impossible task, even for someone with Vandal’s training.
But for the techs back at Site Tango, it was just another day in the office.
Leaving the beer on the balcony, he went inside and squatted down in front of the Pelican case. He worked the latches and after opening the lid revealed the tools of his trade: the suppressed H&K MP7, pair of SIG 226s, and the Accuracy International AX308 Covert with its Nightforce 5-25x56mm scope.
“Hey, there, good lookin’,” Vandal said, grabbing the straps embedded into the foam and lifting the entire shelf free.
After gently setting the weapons aside, he retrieved a laptop and a black cylinder from the case and stepped back onto the balcony.
Vandal set the laptop on one of the wicker chairs. While he waited for it to boot up, he opened the cylinder and pulled out a miniature S-band antenna—an object that looked like a corkscrew on steroids—and connected the coax cable that trailed from the end to the computer’s USB drive.
He carried the antenna to the railing and, sighting down the coil that protruded from the metallic dish, centered it on the city. He checked to make sure that it could move equidistant from left to right and was just clamping the antenna to the railing when his phone rang in his ear.
“Code in,” a flat, electronic voice ordered.
Vandal lifted the phone to his eye and held it there, waiting for the click of the shutter and the “authentication complete” that followed before returning the phone to his pocket.
A second later, Skyler was back on the line.
“Are you in position?” she asked.
“Yes, I’m set up and ready to rock and roll,” he answered.
“Okay. I am going to set up the uplink. Stand by.”
Vandal retrieved his beer from the table and took a drink, watched the flicker of the computer as Skyler took control. The rapid-fire opening and closing of the programs on the screen gave the impression that the laptop was possessed.
Fucking spooky.
A red light appeared at the base of the antenna, followed a second later by the whir of the motor in the base. “We are live and . . . tracking,” Skyler said, as the antenna began oscillating from left to right.
Now all that was left to do was wait for Hayes to make a call.
41
ROCHA PINTO, LUANDA
Sandwiched between the airport to the east and the highway to the west, the barrio of Rocha Pinto was a country unto itself. A neighborhood that both the police and the military avoided, where the rule of law was that of the RPG and AK-47.
Which made it the perfect spot for Hayes to lie low.
He’d found the hotel in the phone book, but knowing the locals’ propensity for burning down buildings, he called ahead, just to make sure it was still standing.
The woman who answered the phone confirmed that they were open and seemed genuinely excited at the thought of having a guest.
“Do you need directions?” she asked.
“I think I can find it,” he replied. “See you soon.”
He drove northwest on the Estrada de Catete, then turned onto the Avenue de 21 Janeiro, which he followed south past the airport.
He was making good time, everything going according to plan until he made the right-hand turn at the Toyota plant and found himself surrounded by a warren of streets without any street signs.
You’ve got to be kidding me.
Hayes spent the next ten minutes burning gas, before pulling over next to an open field inhabited by a fleet of junked-out cars and a mob of barefoot kids kicking around a soccer ball. He pulled the Beretta out of its holster and shoved it under his thigh, then grabbed the map from the visor, ignoring the rattle of gunfire in the distance while he searched for his position.
He’d already marked the hotel on the map, and after finding the field was working on a route when the bass-rattling thump of a car stereo on full blast drew his attention to the road.
Hayes looked up, a frown stretching across his face as he studied the vehicle rolling toward him.
What in the holy hell is that?
At first glance he’d thought it was a van, but as it drew near, he saw that someone had used some kind of torch to cut the body off behind the cab, turning what had once been a functional vehicle into something straight out of the Thunderdome, complete with the spike-haired gun thugs holding rusted AKs and drinking beer in the back.
Don’t stop . . . don’t stop . . . and shit. They’re stopping.
The vehicle came to a rusted halt next to him, the driver motioning for Hayes to roll down the window.
There were literally hundreds of ways to say hello in Portuguese, from the formal “good afternoon” to the informal “how’s it going?”
But this wasn’t Hayes’s first time in a nonpermissive environment. He’d been here before and knew the key to avoiding unnecessary gunplay was to make sure the boys realized he was not the kind of prey they were looking for.
With that in mind, he rolled down the window and, looking the boy full in the eyes, said, “Qual é cara?” What’s up, bitch?
The driver did a double take, the sound of the gringo spitting street slang at him catching him off guard. While Hayes waited for him to regain his composure, he dropped his hand to the butt of the pistol.
“You lost, bro?” the man-child finally asked.
“Why? Are you with Triple A?” Hayes answered.
“Tri-pol-Eh?” the boy frowned, his hand snaking out of the window as he reached down for the door latch. “You a funny guy, eh, gringo?”
/> “What’s your name, kid?” Hayes asked, letting the smile fall from his face.
“They call me Razor,” the boy answered, fingers inches from the handle.
“You don’t want to open that door, Razor,” he said.
There was a kinship among predators, a sixth sense that told the jackal it was best to keep clear of the lion, and it was instinct that caused the boy to pause, reevaluate the gringo with the hard eyes.
“Oh, no?” he asked, his pack silent behind him. “And why is that?”
“I think you know,” he answered.
“He’s bluffing,” one of the passengers hissed. “Let’s take him.”
“You die first,” Hayes said, the Beretta appearing in his hand like a magic trick. “Got me?”
“Yeah, yeah, we . . . we got ya,” they nodded in unison.
“Cool,” Hayes said. “Now if you can tell me where to find the Hotel Claro, I’ll be out of your hair.”
Five minutes later he was pulling up to his destination.
Compared to the monoliths of glass and steel that towered over the Bay of Luanda, the three-story coral-pink Hotel Claro was a dump. But Hayes could tell from the freshly swept porch and the sparkle of the windows that Senhora Marta ran a tight ship.
The interior confirmed his first impressions. While the décor was dated, everything from the cowbell that hung over the door to the vinyl floor peeling from the sun was spick and span.
At the jingle of the bell, a pleasant-faced woman in a hand-spun cotton top emerged from behind the beaded curtain, a bright smile spreading across her caramel skin. “Ah, Senhor Hayes,” she said, “boa tardes.” Good afternoon.
Senhora Marta’s smile was infectious. As he strode to the burnished wood counter, Hayes was immediately at ease.
“You didn’t have any trouble finding the place, did you?”
“Not at all,” he lied.
“As you see,” she said, turning to the pegboard laden with keys, “you have your choice of rooms. What would you like?”
“Something on the third floor, facing the street, if you don’t mind,” he said, taking a mental picture of the pegboard.
“Room 306 has a very nice view.”
Hayes took the key, went out to the truck, and grabbed the items he’d picked up. He carried them back to his room, surreptitiously clocking the exits—compiling a mental list of escape routes on his way up the stairs.
The room was small but neatly furnished with a queen-sized bed, small closet, and a mini-fridge that hummed contentedly in the corner. He stepped inside, left the door cracked behind him, and carried the bags to the table by the window.
After double-checking the parking lot, he unboxed the baby monitor, grabbed the camera, and carried it back into the hallway. He used the adhesive square on the bottom to stick it to the exit sign that hung from the ceiling and headed back to the room.
Once inside, Hayes locked the door and threw the bolt, making sure it was secure before returning to the monitor on the table. Compared to the ultra-high-definition micro cams he’d used during his time with Treadstone, the camera stuck to the back side of the exit sign was a piece of shit. Both the quality and clarity of the image beamed back to the base station left much to be desired.
But as he remotely adjusted the camera’s angle, panned it to the right so he could see most of the hall and part of the stairwell, Hayes realized that it was better than nothing.
Leaving the monitor charging on the table, he carried the remaining sacks into the bathroom. He set them on the sink and cracked the window over the toilet, ensuring the room was properly ventilated before pulling on a pair of rubber gloves and getting to work.
Using the box cutter he’d purchased from the hardware store, Hayes cut the tops off the road flares and used a sieve to separate the magnesium from the filler. After separating the contents into two jars, he pulled off his shirt, tied it over his mouth and nose, and carried the bottle of ammonia and the weed killer to the tub.
Hayes had never been good at chemistry; in fact, he’d slept through most of the science classes he’d been forced to take in college. But kneeling over the bathtub—the chemicals bubbling in their jars as he mixed and strained them together—he stayed focused, all too aware that he was one wrong pour away from being turned into pink mist.
* * *
—
He finished around eight-thirty p.m., rinsed out the bathtub, and took a shower. Before leaving the room, he moved the bed, pried up one of the boards, and wedged the munitions into the space beneath.
Replacing the boards and moving the bed back into place, Hayes grabbed the book of matches from the ashtray on the table and stepped out into the hall. He closed and locked the door and then dropped to a knee, tore one of the matches from the book, and wedged it between the door and the frame.
Just in case Senhora Marta has any shitbag relatives lurking around.
It was almost nine when Hayes backed the Land Cruiser into the alley he’d used early that day and cut the engine. He stayed behind the wheel, letting his eyes adjust to the dark. Once they were acclimated, he tore the cellophane from the pack of SLs he’d bought on the way in.
Hayes had never been much of a smoker, but knew that in a bar they were a valuable prop—something that could be used to mask the fact that you weren’t getting shitfaced with the rest of the patrons. After rapping the pack against the flat of his hand, he stuffed them into the front pocket of his button-down and pulled out one of the burner phones.
Considering the late hour, Hayes thought it unlikely that the meeting would be going down tonight, but wanting to get the call out of the way before he went inside, he dialed Mallory’s number.
It was a nice night, cooler than it had been in Grand-Bassam and not nearly as muggy. As he waited for the call to connect, Hayes scanned the street, shaking his head at the handful of tourists strolling across the plaza, wondering if they were too drunk or too dumb to realize that Angola was not the kind of place you went for a walk after the sun went down.
Before he could come up with an answer, Wikus was on the line, his voice tense and lacking its usual bluster.
“Tomorrow, eight a.m.”
“Where?”
“The Museu da Moeda, you know it?”
“Yeah,” Hayes said.
“Nice and public, just like you wanted,” Wikus jeered.
“Fine. See you there, and bring my pistol,” Hayes said, ending the call and climbing out of the Land Cruiser.
He crossed the street and paused at the door, telling himself that he was using the darkened glass to check his backtrail, but knowing it was a lie. The truth was, he was stalling, willing to use any excuse to prolong the inevitability that lay inside.
Just man up and get it over with, the voice suggested.
“Easy for you to say,” Hayes muttered, reaching out for the doorknob, “you’re not the one she wants to kill.”
Yeah, that’s a good point.
42
HOTEL EPIC, LUANDA
Cyrus Vandal sat on the balcony, watching the right-to-left sweep of the S-band antenna as it siphoned the cell phone, microwave, and radio signals emanating from the city. After each pass the data was shot to the laptop, which recorded the relative location of each voice and converted the audio into a chain of ones and zeros before feeding them into the computer’s voice analysis software.
For the first few hours he’d sat enrapt before the laptop, watching the scroll of data as it passed through the voice analyzer, waiting for the ding in his ears to tell him the computer had found a lock—found Adam Hayes.
But after watching the endless blink of the NO MATCH icon across the top of the screen, Vandal found his attention beginning to wander as the frantic pace of the previous twenty-four hours finally caught up with him and he closed his eyes. He savored the gentle breeze tha
t scampered across the balcony and the soothing hiss of the scanning S-band through the headphones pressed over his ears.
He felt himself drifting off and was almost asleep when there was an electronic ding in the headphone. In an instant he was wide awake, eyes snapping to the laptop on the table beside him and the blinking VOICE MATCH—PROBABILITY HIT 99.9%.
Hayes. I found him.
Using the trackpad, Vandal brought up the audio clip and pressed the play button, the beep in his ears replaced by the acid hiss of the recording.
“Tomorrow, eight a.m.”
“Where?”
“The Museu da Moeda, you know it?”
“Yeah,” Hayes said.
“Nice and public, just like you wanted.”
“Fine. See you there, and bring my pistol.”
He played it again, focusing on the voices. The first man had sounded Australian, maybe South African. Vandal couldn’t be sure, but there was no confusion about the second voice.
It was Hayes, no doubt about it.
He ripped the headphone from his ear and leapt to his feet, phone in his hand, dialing as he stepped into the room. He held the phone in front of his face. C’mon, c’mon, hurry the fuck up.
The instant he heard the camera shutter click, he set the phone on the table, grabbed the Bluetooth, and pressed it into his ear. He stripped out of the clothes he’d been wearing since arriving at the hotel, dressing quickly in a pair of black cargo pants, a micro-thin Kevlar vest, and a graphite shirt.
Vandal was stuffing his feet into the pair of Asolo hiking boots when a voice came on the line.
“Go ahead.”
“Do you have the lock?”
“Stand by . . . yes, we have the lock.”
“What do we have in the area?”
“Closest ISR asset is a JSOC Reaper operating out of Senegal . . .”
“Anything closer?”
“Negative.”
Shit.
“Fine, I’ll do it myself.”
Vandal ended the call, and after shoving the phone into his back pocket, grabbed one of the SIGs from the case. He clipped the holster to his belt, tugged the H&K MP7 from the case, and dropped it and two extra magazines into his assault pack.