by Joshua Hood
Unlike his opponent, who appeared to have all the energy in the world, Hayes was too beat up to take the bait.
Vandal’s second slash was the real deal, and the blade came in hard and fast. The speed caught Hayes off guard, forcing him to retreat.
“Have you always been this slow, old man?” Vandal asked.
“Keep talki—” he began, but before he could finish Vandal was darting forward, the knife held low.
Hayes went to parry, but Vandal pulled the blade back and fired a punishing left jab over his guard. The man’s knuckles slamming against his face were followed by the white-hot rack of the Ka-Bar across his thigh.
Shit, he’s fast.
He tried a leg kick, but Vandal avoided it, pivoting out of the way before firing one of his own, the solid thump of the blow tripping Hayes’s sciatic nerve and buckling his leg.
“Damn, that looked like it hurt,” he taunted.
Hayes was breathing hard, the fight starting to remind him of the one he’d had in Grand-Bassam—the only discernable difference was that this time he wasn’t sure he’d be able to finish his opponent.
Vandal continued to toy with him, landing punches and slicing him with the Ka-Bar at will. But after a few minutes of Hayes not mounting a serious defense, he began to tire of the game.
“All right, old man, playtime’s over. You got any last words?” Vandal taunted.
Hayes had been waiting for him to stop his amphetamine-fueled bouncing and the moment his feet came to a halt, he hit him with a stiff jab to the mouth. The smash of the knuckleduster against his attacker’s jaw sent a pair of molars blasting from his lips.
The blow knocked Vandal on his heels, and he stutter-stepped backward, caught his balance. “Lucky shot,” he said, spitting blood.
“You think so?”
Vandal exploded forward, the Ka-Bar hissing through the air as it carved toward his face. But Hayes stepped inside, hit him with two quick lefts, trying to duck beneath the blade, when Vandal slammed the pommel down on the back of his neck.
There was a starburst of pain and Hayes went down on one knee, never seeing the blow that sent him bowling across the asphalt.
He went down hard and immediately rolled to his right, Vandal standing above him, trying to stomp on his face.
“C’mere, you little shit,” the man barked, booting him in the side, Hayes knowing from the dry snap and instant firebrand of pain that he’d broken a rib. Then Vandal had him by the hair, lifting his torso off the ground, the Ka-Bar rushing toward his throat.
“I’ve got you now,” Vandal said.
“I don’t think so,” he said, punching the trench knife through the side of his knee.
The results were immediate. Vandal’s leg buckled and he screamed in agony. He released the death grip he had on Hayes’s hair and stepped back, staring in horror at the blood spurting from the gash in his pants.
His eyes were off the fight for less than a second, but it was all Hayes needed.
He rolled left and bounced to his feet, the blade slashing up, severing the tendons in Vandal’s right arm, the Ka-Bar clattering to the ground as Hayes drove the heel of his boot into the side of the man’s damaged knee.
The joint exploded, and the assassin went down, his eyes confused, mouth hinged open in a yawning scream.
Hayes grabbed him by the throat, the rage in his eyes hot as a blowtorch. “You gonna beg?” he demanded, his voice echoing like the drum of a war god.
“Would you?”
“Not a chance,” Hayes said, spiking the blade through the top of his skull.
54
ILHA DE LUANDA, ANGOLA
Cabot stood rooted in place, the sight of his daughter and Mallory flanked by armed henchmen hitting him like a Taser shot. Panic rushed through his body, paralyzing his brain, leaving his mouth instantly dry.
Who are these people? Where are my men?
“Either say something, or close your mouth, Daddy,” Zoe said.
“I . . . I don’t understand,” he stammered, looking from Mallory to his daughter. “What is going on? Wh-who are these people?”
“Two hundred million dollars buys a lot of new friends, Daddy. You taught me that, remember?”
The mention of the money sent a torrent of rage tumbling through his body. Its heat burned through the panic that gripped his brain, blotting out the fear of the guns trained on his head.
“That’s my money!” he yelled, the Glock 19 trembling in his hand.
“Was your money.” She grinned at him.
All Cabot could think of was killing her right there. Raising the Glock and unloading the magazine, consequences be damned.
Rather die on my feet than go out on my knees.
He was about to raise the pistol and take his chances when he caught a flutter of movement out of his peripheral. Cabot’s eyes darted left and lingered there for a fraction of a second, just long enough to see Beck and three other men standing just out of sight, before bouncing back to his daughter.
From the brief glance it was obvious the men were in bad shape, their faces and the front of their body armor drenched in blood. But they were alive, which meant Cabot still had a chance.
Stall her.
“Zoe, why are you doing this?”
“Why?” she laughed. “Are you serious?”
“Yes, I don’t understand why you would do this to me.”
“Are you really so self-absorbed, so full of your own bullshit that you don’t know?”
“I have no idea,” Cabot lied.
“Because I fucking hate you,” she screamed. “I’ve always hated you, and when I found out why you sent me to Grand-Bassam, when I realized how badly you needed this money to save your stupid company, I promised myself that I would do whatever it took to make sure you never got it.”
“Zoe, wh-what have you done?”
“I got rid of it. It’s all gone.”
“You . . . you . . . spoiled little . . . bitch!” he screamed, the Glock sweeping up and onto target.
The moment his finger pulled the trigger, time slowed to a crawl and Cabot saw it all—Beck and his men bursting from the doorway, rifles blazing. The man to Zoe’s right, grabbing her by the shoulder, throwing her to the ground. A second man jostled Mallory, sending her stumbling into the path of his bullet, which snapped her head back and sent her dropping to the floor.
* * *
—
Hayes was staggering toward the front door, the shotgun he’d stripped from one of the dead men cradled in his hand. He was fifty feet away when the screaming started, much too far to make out the words, but close enough to identify one of the voices.
Zoe.
He picked up the pace, forced his battered body into a stumbling shuffle, angling for the side of the open doorway. He was almost there when the gunfire erupted from within the building.
Hayes pressed his shoulder to the brick, feeling the high-caliber rounds slamming into the walls. He had one frag left, but with Zoe inside, he was hesitant to use it.
With no other option, he dug one of the makeshift flashbangs from his assault pack, tugged on the ignitor, and lobbed it inside.
Just like the one at the hotel, the bang detonated with a resounding boooom—the concussion blowing out whatever windows were left inside the bank, and when Hayes rolled in, he was immediately overcome by the caustic white cloud of burning magnesium.
But Hayes pushed through, shot toward the hard corner and, seeing most of the shooting was taking place on the second floor, started for the stairs.
He made it to the landing and turned, following the gunfire to the hallway. He was about to pan across when a man with a submachine opened up on him, one of the bullets catching him high in the shoulder before he could use his shotgun to drop the man.
The pain rolled down his
arm, red-hot and scalding, but Hayes pushed it away. Racking the pump, he turned back to the hall. When he panned the opening, he noticed a second shooter posted up in a bathroom to his right. Hayes fired, the spread of 12-gauge buck catching the man in the side, blowing him off his feet.
Because of the low ceilings the gun smoke had nowhere to go and hung in the hall like smog on a summer’s afternoon, distorting the outlines of the men blazing away before him.
Not wanting to accidentally hit Zoe with a wayward pellet, Hayes dumped the shotgun and stripped the STI from the holster. He fired on the move, finger dancing on the trigger as he worked the hall, engaging the targets as they appeared in front of him. No time to see if the men went down, only time to point and shoot.
He was halfway through the magazine when he saw a doorway. Hayes cheated to the far side of the hall, and came at the room from an angle. When he crossed the threshold, he collided with a massive man with a blood-spattered face.
His attacker tried to muzzle-punch him in the chest, but Hayes twisted out of the way and chopped the STI across the back of the man’s neck. It was a hard blow that would have sent most men to the floor, but the man shook it off. Grabbing him by the front of the plate carrier, the man flung him into the room.
“You little shit,” the man cursed in German.
Hayes slammed a hard elbow into his adversary’s face, felt the grate of broken teeth and the pop of his jaw before the man bulldozed him into a desk. He tried to get a shot off, but the big German grabbed his arm and began banging his hand against the desk in a desperate bid to tear the pistol free.
Hayes felt his grip weakening and, knowing that he was a second away from losing control of the pistol, sent his arm raking across the desk, his fingers closing around the handle of a letter opener an instant before the STI went cartwheeling from his hand.
Before the pistol hit the ground, the German had him around the throat and was lifting his head forward, ready to bang the back of his skull into the desk, when Hayes buried the letter opener in the man’s eye.
He immediately let go of Hayes’s throat and backpedaled across the room, his bloodcurdling shrieks echoing off the walls. The newly freed Hayes managed to stagger from the desk and dropped to his knees beside the STI.
His left arm was numb from the shoulder down, but he managed to get the pistol on target and put a bullet in the center of the man’s forehead before collapsing.
Hayes lay on the floor, the now-empty pistol in his right hand—blood pouring from the bullet wounds in his legs and shoulders, soaking the carpet beneath him. He was running on fumes, his body broken and battered, already well past the point where a normal man would have laid down and died.
But Hayes kept moving, following Zoe’s screams to the end of the hall.
He reloaded the pistol and, using the desk for support, clawed his way to his feet and staggered out into the hall.
Hold on, Zoe. I’m coming.
55
ILHA DE LUANDA, ANGOLA
Hayes moved down the hall, his shoulder leaving a trail of blood on the wall. The doorway was only ten feet in front of him, but in his condition it may as well have been a mile.
Just one foot in front of the next.
But it was easier said than done.
Hayes stepped off, blood squishing inside his boot with every step.
You need to put a tourniquet on that leg before you bleed out, the voice urged. Can’t help anyone if you’re dead.
It was good advice that Hayes knew he should follow, but from the anger in the man’s voice at the end of the hall, he wasn’t sure if Zoe would last that long.
“Where is my money?” the man shouted. “Give it to me!” The enraged order was followed by the wet smack of an open hand finding flesh.
“I’m done taking orders from you!” she shouted back.
“You’re done taking orders?” the man laughed. “Then how about a bullet?”
Hayes pushed through the door, half stumbled, half fell into the room, just as the man was lifting a Glock 19 toward Zoe’s cowering figure.
“Put it down,” he ordered, over the sights of the 1911.
“Who the hell are you?” the man demanded, turning to face him.
“Drop it.”
“Adam, just kill him!” Zoe shouted.
Usually Hayes wouldn’t have hesitated, but there was something familiar about the man, something that kept him from pulling the trigger.
But what?
Hayes tried to think, but he’d lost too much blood, and that combined with the multiple shots to the head left his mind swimming.
“Last warning,” he said. “Drop it or die.”
“You must be the pilot,” the man said, tossing the pistol on the table that separated him from Zoe.
“Pilot?”
“Yes, the one who flew my daughter to Grand-Bassam.”
“And you’re Andre Cabot, Zoe’s father.”
“That’s right,” he nodded, “and if you—”
“No,” Zoe shouted, darting for the table. “You are not talking your way out of this one.”
The sudden flurry of movement caught Hayes by surprise, and his head snapped to the left, the arc of the 1911 in his hand slow as molasses.
Zoe, on the other hand, was fast as lightning, and in the blink of an eye had the Glock in a two-handed grip, finger closing around the trigger as she spun toward Hayes. She fired two shots that sent him dropping to the floor.
“I’m sorry, Adam,” she said, turning the pistol on Cabot, “but like I said, I’m done taking orders from him.”
“Zoe . . . don’t . . .”
But it was too late, the Glock was already bucking in her hand, the first shot catching Cabot in the neck, spinning him through the plate glass window and out onto the terrace—the metal railing the only thing keeping him from tumbling over the edge.
He slid to the ground, hand clutched tight over the bullet hole, the bright-red blood spurting through his fingers telling Hayes that he wasn’t long for this world.
“Good-bye, Daddy,” she said, ending him with a bullet between the eyes.
Then she was moving back to Hayes, the pistol smoking in her hand.
“I bet there are a ton of questions in that tiny brain of yours,” she taunted.
“Not really.” Hayes winced, right hand pressing hard against the bullet wound, left resting on the floor near his pocket.
“Oh? You have it all figured out?”
“Yeah, I’m a sucker and you’re a spoiled rich girl with daddy issues.”
“How very American,” she sneered, leveling the pistol at his head.
“But you forgot one thing,” he said, taking his hand off the bullet wound and reaching over to his left side.
“What’s that?”
“I’ve got a grenade,” he said.
Zoe stepped closer and leveled the Glock at his face, a tight smile spreading across her lips.
“Guess I’m just going to have to blow your head off then,” she said.
“See that?” Hayes asked, nodding at the spoon lying on the floor next to his leg.
“Yeah . . . what about it?” she asked, her face wrinkling into a frown.
“A couple of seconds ago, that was on the grenade,” Hayes said, flashing her a bloody smile.
The triumphant smile fell from Zoe’s face. She backed up, desperately scrambling for an avenue of escape.
“Might want to run.”
She dropped the pistol and took off for the door, Hayes falling onto his side as she rushed past him. He used the last of his strength to send the grenade bouncing after her.
Zoe screamed, her anguished “Noooooo!” cut short by the deep whuump of the grenade detonating in the hall.
Then there was silence.
56
ILHA
DE LUANDA, ANGOLA
All he could think about was getting outside, stopping the bleeding before he lost consciousness.
He got the door open and stepped inside, his blood-filled boot squishing as he stumbled across the room.
Just keep going, the voice urged. You can make it.
But Hayes wasn’t so sure—he was leaking like a sieve. The pain whited out his vision before receding back into his guts, where it clawed at his insides like a rat trying to escape a burning building.
Hayes staggered down the hall, hand pressed tight over the bullet wound, blood seeping through his fingers like a bottle of spilled claret. He was fading fast, his vision tunneling at the edges, the pressure in his chest building, each step on his damaged leg sending a thunderclap of agony reverberating through his body.
There was nothing subtle about the crash: One second he was moving forward, dragging his damaged leg behind him, and in the next instant he was sprawled out on the floor, wondering how in the hell things had gone to shit so fast.
Get the fuck up.
But his body refused to listen. It had reached its limit, the beating it had taken over the previous days, the lack of sleep and loss of blood finally catching up to him.
Even the voice had given in, resigned itself to the fact that this was the end.
It’s over.
“No, not yet,” he said, ripping the trauma kit Charli had given him off the front of his plate carrier.
One look at the blood pooling across the tile floor, the crimson stain spreading out beneath his armor, told him what he already knew—he was dying and nothing in the kit was going to change that.
But while saving his life wasn’t an option, looking down at the medical supplies he’d dumped between his legs, Hayes realized that if he worked fast enough, he might be able to extend it long enough to say good-bye.
With that in mind, he shrugged out of the plate carrier and took stock of his wounds.
While the bullet wound to the leg was the easiest fix, it was the hole beneath his armpit that needed immediate attention. Hayes cut the assault shirt with the medical shears from the trauma kit, and got his first look at the wound.