Robert Ludlum's the Treadstone Exile

by Joshua Hood

  Then he was moving to the door, heart hammering in his chest with the thought of drawing first blood.

  43

  RUSTED NAIL, LUANDA

  Hayes stepped inside the Rusted Nail and tugged the faded ball cap down over his eyes, nodding at the group of hard-looking men gathered near the door on his way to the end of the bar. He pressed his back to the wall and lit a cigarette, pretending to smoke while taking stock of his surroundings.

  Before coming inside Hayes had done his homework—marked the doors and the windows on the exterior of the building. So he knew that the door ten steps to his right would take him out to the patio and from there down to the beach.

  The hall to his left matched up with the two windows on the east side of the building and he assumed they were bathrooms. But he had no idea about the door behind the bar.

  Doesn’t matter. Pay attention.

  He turned his attention to the woman behind the bar, watched as she poured the men standing before her a round from a bottle of Patrón.

  “C’mon, Charli, take one with us,” the tallest one begged in Portuguese.

  “Nito, you know I can’t afford this stuff.”

  “It’s on me.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yeees, just have a drink with me.”

  “Well, if you’re paying,” she said, grabbing the bottle and reaching below the bar for a glass.

  Instead of the shot glass the man had expected, Charli came up with a tumbler, poured herself a man-sized drink, smiling as she held it up.

  Before the man could recover, she downed the drink, slammed the glass facedown on the bar, and was moving toward Hayes, a huge smile on her face.

  “What’ll it be?” she asked.

  “Johnnie Walker. Black if you’ve got it,” he said, looking up.

  The blood drained from her face, leaving her skin white as the scar on her chest. “I—I always knew they’d send you,” she said.

  Hayes reached out, grabbed her wrist as it flashed toward the rear of the bar.

  “Get rid of them,” he said, nodding to patrons at the end of the bar.

  She tried to jerk her arm away, but Hayes held it firm, careful to use only as much pressure as necessary.

  “Get rid of them, Charli, and don’t do anything stupid,” he said, letting her go.

  She jerked her hand free, the fear that had clouded her eyes receding like the surf at low tide as she massaged her wrist. “And if I do? What are you going to do, shoot me in the back? Doesn’t seem like your style.”

  “Do you really want to find out?” Hayes asked, hand falling to his waist.

  “Fuck you, Adam,” she snarled, whirling away from him and stomping back to the far side of the bar to tell the men it was time to leave.

  “Leave? But it’s not even eight,” one of the men complained, “and I haven’t finished my drink.”

  “Come back tomorrow,” she said, “and I’ll make it up to you.”

  The men might have been tipsy, but they weren’t stupid, and quickly figured out the reason that they were being cut off. “Is this because of him?” the tallest of the group asked.

  “No, Nito, I’m just tired.”

  But the man wasn’t having it.

  “What did you say to her, gringo?” he demanded. Charli’s easy smile faltered as the man started toward the end of the bar. “Hey, I’m talking to you.”

  Hayes watched him.

  “Cuidado”—careful—“big man,” he said, “nothing down here but trouble for you.”

  “Nito,” Charli said, her voice sharp as a whip, “if you ever want to drink in here again, you’ll leave, now!”

  Her tone caught the man off guard, froze him in place, and he looked back at his mates for reassurance.

  “Let’s get out of here, mané,” one of the men said, his hand already on the knob.

  “Fine,” he nodded, “but you better watch yourself, cabrão.”

  “Yes, yes, now go,” Charli said, shooing them from the bar.

  “Nice guys,” Hayes said.

  “Luanda is a rough place and the locals don’t take to foreigners,” she answered, throwing the deadbolt and extinguishing the light over the door. “But once you gain their trust and they finally accept you . . .”

  The last of her sentence trailed off as Charli spun on her heel, a silver automatic in her hand, the safety already snicking free as she snapped the pistol on target, eyes wide over the sights when she found herself aiming at an empty chair.

  Hayes came in fast, his hands around the pistol before she even knew he was there. At this range he knew a hundred ways to kill, but instead he used a simple wrist toss to send her to the floor, waiting until she was on the ground before gently pulling the pistol from her grip.

  “You done?” he asked.

  “Go ahead, finish what you started,” she snarled, pulling down her shirt, exposing the mass of scar tissue.

  Hayes stepped back and dropped the magazine from the pistol, and cleared the round from the chamber before dropping it on the table.

  “Kinda figured you’d still be holding a grudge.”

  “You tried to kill me,” she said, “so yeah, you can say I’m still holding a grudge.”

  “Word on the street was that if the bullet had been an inch to the left you’d be in the ground right now.”

  “Yeah . . . so?”

  “You know how hard it is to miss by an inch at seven hundred yards?”

  “Wait . . . what?” she demanded, the anger falling from her face.

  “Charli, I’ve never missed a shot in my life,” he said, heading back to the bar.

  By the time she got to her feet and came to join him, he’d selected a bottle of kapuka, the homemade vodka favored by the Angolans, and was filling a second shot glass. He watched her sidle up to the bar, eyes as suspicious as ever.

  “Let’s say I believe you. Believe that you missed me on purpose,” she said, taking one of the glasses. “Why would you do that?”

  “Because I only kill people who deserve it,” he said, downing the shot, the white liquor hot as fire on the way down.

  She looked down at the scar and then up at him, her face suddenly somber.

  “I remember coming out of surgery, the doctors telling me how lucky I was. The police wanting to know what happened, who shot me, and why.”

  “Did you tell them it was because you were selling guns to the Libyans?”

  “Yeah,” she snorted, “that’s exactly what I told the Egyptian secret police.” Then her face went serious. “No, I told them . . .”

  “Told them that you got hit by a stray bullet while filming the protests in Cairo,” he finished for her.

  “How did you . . . ?”

  Who do you think took you to the hospital, Charli?

  “Word gets around.”

  “So, if you’re not here to kill me,” she said, grabbing the bottle and refilling their glasses, “what the fuck do you want?”

  “I need your help,” he answered.

  “Friends don’t ask for favors.”

  “Yeah, well, we aren’t friends,” Hayes replied. “Besides, you owe me.”

  “Fine. What do you want?”

  “Guns, Charli, I need guns.”

  “I don’t do that anymore,” she said.

  “Really?” Hayes said, taking a step back and giving the ironbound door to his rear a sharp kick of his heel. “So, this must be where you keep the champagne?”

  “You’re a bastard, you know that, right?” Charli asked, digging a ring of keys from her pocket on her way around the bar.

  “Takes all kinds.”

  She unlocked the door and reached past Hayes to flick a switch on the wall, the single bulb hanging from the bare ceiling revealing a flight of metal stairs.

&
nbsp; “Ladies first,” Hayes said, stepping out of the way.

  “Do not tell anyone about this room,” she snapped.

  “Scout’s honor,” he said, letting her get a few steps ahead before falling in behind her. His hand curled around the butt of the Beretta.

  At the bottom of the stairs, she typed a code into the keypad on the wall and the overhead lights blinked to life. Hayes offered an appreciative whistle as she unlocked the floor-to-ceiling weapons lockers that lined the wall.

  “Damn, girl, for someone who’s out of the game, you sure have a lot of toys,” he said.

  “After you shot me I decided to give up the quantity and step up the quality,” she answered.

  “So, no more Russian surface-to-air missiles and crates of Italian land mines?” Hayes asked, moving to the lockers.

  “I don’t sell junk,” she said.

  The first three lockers contained nothing but battle rifles, the weapons hanging on the racks reflecting Charli’s commitment to quality. The Belgian FN SCARs, Austrian Steyrs, and Israeli-made Tavors left Hayes feeling like a kid in a toy store.

  “You got a bag?” he asked, taking an H&K 416 with a 40-millimeter grenade launcher mounted beneath the barrel from the rack.

  “Sure do,” she said.

  Fifteen minutes later, Hayes stood at the workbench working the blade of the Cold Steel trench knife over a sharpening stone. He tested the edge against his thumb and slid the blade into its sheath.

  He dropped the knife into the bag. Charli was at his elbow as he studied the contents.

  Besides the H&K, Hayes had selected a Knight’s Armament PDW, B&T APC 9-millimeter submachine gun, Remington 12-gauge TAC-14 shotgun, plus a bandolier of 40-millimeter high-explosive grenades, and two fully automatic Glock 18Cs.

  “Sure you didn’t forget anything?” she asked wryly.

  “You don’t happen to have a gunship lyin’ around, do ya?”

  “No,” she said.

  “Then I guess this will work.”

  “So, does this make us even?” she asked.

  “Yeah, Charli,” he said, hefting the bag onto his shoulder. “We’re square.”

  “Good, now get the hell out.”

  “I’m going, I’m going,” he said, starting up the stairs.

  He was almost to the top when Charli yelled up from the bottom, “Hey, Adam?”

  “Yo,” he said, turning around.

  “Think fast,” she said, tossing him an olive drab pouch.

  He snatched it out of the air and flipped it over, frowning at the red cross sewn on the front. “A trauma kit? What’s this for?”

  “Because, no matter what you keep telling yourself,” she said, flashing a lopsided frown, “you’re not the man you used to be.”

  “You take care of yourself, Charli,” he said—and then he was gone.

  44

  RUSTED NAIL, LUANDA

  By the time Vandal arrived at the grid coordinates, the chem had kicked in and his heart was pounding against his breastbone like a sledgehammer on an anvil. He killed the engine and cracked the window, letting his senses acclimate to the darkness before climbing out.

  He stuck to the shadows, moving along the east side of the road, the urgent beep of the GPS in his ear telling him that he was getting close to the signal’s point of origin.

  Where the hell are you?

  Vandal stepped off the curb, continuing south, the slowing of the tone in his ear telling him that he was moving away from the POI.

  He retraced his steps to the mouth of the alley, knowing that if it hadn’t been for the GPS he would have missed the dented SUV backed into the shadows.

  You need to slow down, the voice commanded. Get your head out of your ass if you don’t want to go home in a box.

  The first time Vandal heard the voice he was in one of Site Tango’s operating theaters—one second he was dancing with Michael Jackson on a propofol cloud and in the next instant he was wide awake, a scrum of men and women in light-blue scrubs hovering over him.

  What in the hell?

  Vandal had tried to lift his arms but found they were secured to the bed—the helplessness sending his heart rate skyrocketing.

  “Doctor, he’s awake,” one of the nurses had said, “blood pressure 140 over 90 and rising.”

  “Shit,” a second voice had said. “Can somebody dose this guy before he tears these sutures?”

  Vandal had opened his mouth, tried to scream, to ask what they were doing to him, but they’d put a tube down his throat and all that came out was a muffled groan. He’d shaken the bed, trying to rip free, the clang of the metal competing with the flashing red lights and blaring alarms on the monitors that surrounded his bed.

  Then he’d heard it—You need to relax. Everything is fine.

  He’d turned his head, searching for the source of the voice, but all he’d seen was a blur of scrub tops rushing around him.

  Relax, I’m here now, the voice had instructed.

  Then everything had gone black.

  From that moment on, the voice was his constant companion. Always chattering in his head, offering suggestions, telling him where he’d screwed up. Reminding Vandal that the days of being alone inside his own head were gone for good.

  “Enough to make a man want to clean out his mouth with buckshot,” he muttered.

  Before the voice had a chance to reply, there was Hayes, walking out of a bar, bulging bag over his shoulder.

  Holy shit, there he is.

  The sight of his quarry sent a shot of adrenaline rushing through his veins and Vandal’s hand inside his jacket for the suppressed H&K MP7 strapped below his left arm.

  Are you out of your mind? the voice demanded. This isn’t Compton. You’re a professional, for God’s sake. Get in close and do it right.

  “Fine,” he said.

  For an instant it looked as if Hayes was going for the alley, but instead he stayed on the sidewalk, heading toward Fortress São Miguel.

  Vandal stepped out of the shadows and fell in silently behind him.

  You’re too close. Back off, the voice warned.

  But Vandal could see that Hayes was heading for one of the many alleyways that lined the street, and instead of listening to the voice and backing off, he sped up.

  What the hell are you doing?

  Will you shut the hell up and let me work? Vandal demanded, wishing the voice had come with an off switch.

  He slowed at the alley, the H&K out and up as he panned wide, the Aimpoint Micro mounted to the rail clearing the edge of the brick in time for Vandal to see his prey turn into a second alley.

  He knew he should be patient, but the thrill of the hunt combined with the amphetamines coursing through his system was too heady a mixture to resist. Vandal stepped off in pursuit.

  Keeping the buttstock pressed against his shoulder, he lowered the muzzle and slipped down the alley, cheating to the left as he approached the intersection.

  He leaned out, the submachine gun coming up, his thumb already pressing the selector from safe to fire, but the alley was empty.

  Vandal moved forward at a crouch, his senses straining to the max, head and eyes on a swivel. Where the hell did he go?

  He was a quarter of the way inside the alley when he saw the low gate, and the fresh boot print pressed into the damp earth.

  Reaching out, he grabbed the top of the gate and, easing it to him, slipped silently through. The prints continued straight, toward a chest-high brick wall. Vandal was moving to follow when he felt the cold press of a barrel against the back of his head.

  * * *

  —

  Hayes was about to step off the curb when he saw the figure waiting in the shadows. At first he thought it was Nito, waiting to tune him up after being forced out of the bar, but then the man reached into h
is jacket and Hayes saw the glint of a suppressor in the moonlight.

  Yeah, that ain’t Nito.

  He seamlessly changed directions and, staying on the sidewalk, started toward the fortress and the maze of alleyways that lined the surrounding neighborhood.

  Hayes took his time, each step measured and sure as he followed the snaking shadow of the sidewalk. The purpose of his leisurely pace was twofold. First and foremost, it kept whoever was on his tail from realizing they’d been made, but more important, it allowed Hayes to take maximum advantage of his environment. Use the glass-fronted shops and the mirrors of the vehicles parked on the street to watch the watcher.

  From first contact, the moment he saw the bulbous tube of the suppressor attached to the end of what looked like an MP7, Hayes knew the man was a pro.

  While he had a laundry list of enemies who’d love to see him dead, the fact that the man on his tail was all by his lonesome meant one of two things—he was either extremely sure of himself, or he was from Treadstone.

  Hayes was tired and all he really wanted to do was head back to the hotel and get some sleep, but at the moment, that didn’t appear to be in the cards.

  He ducked into the first alley, forcing himself to maintain his pace, staying at a determined walk, waiting until he was into the second alley before breaking into a jog, taking a hard right toward the gate. Stomping his foot down hard in the dirt before blasting through.

  Hayes stayed in the sprint for another few yards, making sure to scuff the ground, before circling back to the gate, ducking into the shadows, and waiting to see if the man would follow.

  He lowered the duffel to the ground and pulled out the Beretta, threaded the suppressor he’d taken from Charli onto the barrel. He was snugging it tight when he heard it—the gentle creak of the gate being pulled open.

  The shadow came in slow, the H&K up and ready to fire, the man’s eyes locked on the fresh print on the ground. Hayes let him pass and then moved in behind him, jammed the suppressor hard into the back of his skull.