The Treadstone Resurrection
Page 6
Powell eased the Explorer down the gangplank and over the metal ramp. At the bottom he followed the soaking-wet man in the yellow slicker waving them into the center lane.
The M/V Suquamish was a 362-foot Olympic-class auto/vehicle ferry capable of transporting one hundred and forty-four vehicles. It was one of the newer vessels, and inside the hold the white-painted walls and yellow lines separating the three parking lanes had yet to fade.
“Does your mama know about Rhonda?” Hayes asked over the flat-handed smack of the waves against gunwales.
A deep crimson blush spread across Powell’s face and he jammed the transmission into park.
Outside the ferry, an employee shouted an order that was answered by the ring of a buzzer that signaled the end of boarding. The gangplank motor rumbled to life and Hayes turned to see the ramp lift into the air. He held the view for a few moments, watching for the flash of headlights that would warn him of any latecomers. When he didn’t see any, Hayes turned around and heard Powell mutter, “She’s a nice girl.”
“I was just messing with you, Powell,” he said, turning his attention to the deputy and missing the blacked-out Suburban creep down the ramp behind him.
8
LA CONNER, WASHINGTON
Felix Black sat in the back of the Suburban, rubbing his hand over his goatee and watching the Sheriff’s Department Explorer park ahead of him. He was used to rush jobs, but there was something about the hit on Adam Hayes that had felt off from the beginning.
“Who the fuck is this guy?” Murph asked from the front seat.
It was the same question Black had been asking himself since watching Adam Hayes kill two of his men.
They had the drop on him. How in the hell did this even happen?
Black looked down at the picture he’d taken of Hayes when he pulled up. The man might be able to hide his identity, make it look like he was a nobody on paper, but there was one thing Hayes couldn’t hide: his eyes. Light blue and cold as a pimp’s heart.
A killer’s eyes.
The tech had already run Hayes through the DoD and DoJ database. Each query went back twenty years, but the only result he got was a Washington State driver’s license issued in 2016 and a State of Washington contractor’s license.
“Nothing,” the tech said. “Not a damn thing besides what we already have.”
“So, according to the United States government, Adam Hayes didn’t exist before 2016. Is that what you are telling me?”
The tech shrugged.
Bullshit.
The satphone in his hand rang.
“What’s the status?” Gray asked.
“Who the fuck is this guy?”
“He’s a target. Nothing more,” Gray replied.
“Bullshit,” Black said, looking up at the Explorer. “This guy is a spook.”
“We don’t know that.”
“Gray, he terminated two of my assets.”
“What is our visibility?”
“It’s a shit show. Cops are all over the scene. Hayes is in custody.”
“And the bodies?” Gray asked.
“I’ll take care of Hayes—” he began.
“No, Black, you won’t,” Gray snapped.
Black’s fingers curled around the phone, the anger rising to his face. His mind returned to the Hotel Bolívar and the two men he lost there. He is going to pull me off the op.
“Look, you are the guy on the ground, and I respect that, but this operation is blown . . .”
“I can make this work,” Black pleaded.
“There is too much on the line, and right now we can’t afford any more mistakes. I want you to wave off.”
Black looked up at the Explorer twenty feet away and Hayes’s silhouette in the front seat. He’s right there.
“Did you hear what I said?” Gray asked.
Silence.
“Black, I can hear you breathing. Did you hear what I just said?”
“Yeah . . .” Black answered. “I heard you.”
“Good. I’ll see you back in Venezuela,” Gray responded.
Black ended the call and set the phone on the seat beside him. He agitatedly rubbed his goatee.
“What did that asshat say?” Murph asked from the front seat.
Black ignored him. If Gray had just let him handle the takedown the way he wanted, none of this would have happened. But because of him, Black had lost four men in twenty-four hours.
Fuck Gray. This ends today.
“Boss?” Murph asked.
“He told us to handle it,” Black said, grabbing his rifle and reaching for the door.
9
CAR DECK, M/V SUQUAMISH
Hayes was watching Powell fiddle with the radio, the sound of the ocean reminding him of the beach in Florida.
He was on vacation in Florida when the kill order came.
* * *
—
“Adam, you are on vacation, put your phone away and pay attention to your son,” Annabelle said.
“Sorry,” he said, shoving the phone into his pocket and squatting down beside his son.
“Whatcha working on, bud?”
“A drawing,” Jack said, adding a final swirl of blue to the ocean before holding the picture up for Hayes to inspect.
“Is that the beach?”
“Yep, I drew the crabs and the tree and Mommy . . .” Jack said, pointing at the woman with the lemon-yellow hair.
But it was the frowning figure at the end who grabbed Hayes’s attention.
“Why is everyone smiling but me?”
“Because you never smile, Daddy,” Jack said, grinning.
“What are you laughing at?” he snapped, the anger flowing out of him before he could check it. Across the room, his wife’s smile evaporated, and she got to her feet with a sob.
“Belle, I’m sorry,” he said to her back.
“Why do you always make Mommy cry,” Jack demanded, throwing his crayon on the ground before following his mother into the other room.
* * *
—
The memory passed in the blink of an eye, but it was enough to remind Hayes about his flight to Florida.
“Son of a bitch,” he spat, the anger in his voice making Powell jump.
“You scared the crap out of me. What the hell is wrong with you?”
“Nothing . . . I just remembered something I was supposed to do.”
She is never going to understand. Never going to believe me, he thought, looking out the window and at the cloudy bay beyond.
His eyes dropped to the side mirror, and when he saw the Suburban a forgotten tingle ran up his spine. The shot of adrenaline sparked through his synapses, and Hayes was immediately on guard.
“Turn the radio off,” he ordered.
“What?” Powell asked.
Hayes reached over and hit the power button with his left hand, his right hand finding the window control. He pushed down, cracking the window.
A rush of salt air blew into the SUV, but other than the rumble of the engines and the distant caw of the seagulls, the hold was silent.
“What’s going on?” Powell asked.
Hayes wasn’t even aware that his hand had dropped to the center console until he felt the switch beneath his fingers. Without knowing why, he pushed it and heard the click from the mount securing the Remington 870 shotgun to the roof of the Explorer.
“Hey, you can’t do that,” Powell said. Hayes ignored him and pulled the shotgun free of its mount, racking a shell into the chamber. “Get your pistol out,” he commanded, his right leg already out of the SUV.
“I don’t—”
“Listen to me—that truck has been following us since we left Cliffside,” Hayes said, stepping out of the SUV and moving around the front to the driver’s si
de. He pulled Powell’s door open and grabbed him by the shoulder, eyes never leaving the Suburban.
“The men inside that truck, they don’t give a fuck about you or your badge,” he warned, pulling Powell out of his seat.
“Get off of me,” the man said, twisting out of his grip. “You don’t make the rules here, I do, got it?” Powell told him, his hand dropping to the Glock.
“Then you’re on your own,” Hayes said, but before he could turn away, the doors of the Suburban swung open and four men in dark jackets and body armor stepped out of the truck.
“Who are these—” Powell said, trying to tug his pistol from its holster.
Before the words were out of his mouth, the passenger laid his rifle across the doorjamb and opened fire.
Braaaap, braaaap, braaap.
Hayes rushed the shotgun into action. He pulled the butt pad into the hollow of his shoulder and centered the bead on the man’s chest and then remembered his target was wearing body armor. Hayes readjusted his point of aim to the man’s throat, knowing that the momentary adjustment had probably just cost Powell his life.
His finger curled around the trigger and Hayes started to pull the slack out when the shooter fired.
In the tight confines of the hold, the H&K sounded like a hammer smacking an anvil. The first shot hit Powell in the center of the chest and the impact shoved the deputy backward. Powell slumped into the back of a van, his mouth forming a silent O.
A second later the shotgun recoiled hard against Hayes’s shoulder, slinging a spread of nine .33-caliber pellets toward the shooter. The blast of double-aught buckshot hit the shooter just above his plate carrier and his throat and lower jaw disappeared in a spray of crimson.
“Murph!” a man with a goatee yelled.
Pandemonium broke out as screaming passengers abandoned their vehicles to seek shelter within the ferry’s interior.
Hayes threw himself to the ground while the shooters dumped their magazines into the SUV. The bullets rocked the Explorer on its springs and the windows exploded. On the ground, Hayes covered his head against the cascade of glass and slivers of metal that rained down on him.
He looked up and saw Powell’s knees buckle, watched the deputy slide to the ground, the front of his pants stained red with his own blood.
Who the hell are these people? Why are they coming after me now? he asked.
Does it matter? the voice replied.
Hayes had left Treadstone with more enemies than he could count. And it wasn’t like Treadstone sent their assassins after low-level criminals. No, the targets Hayes went after were at the top of the pyramid. Cartel leaders, spies, even rival assassins. Men and women with the power, means, and opportunity to take their revenge.
It was a simple numbers game. Every time Hayes put some shithead in a box, he gained more enemies. Families and friends, brothers and sisters, who would do anything to get revenge.
Did you think they would stop because you did? Did you really think that they would forget? the voice chuckled.
Hayes needed to get Powell out of the line of fire, but he was pinned down, unable to move without exposing himself to the deadly hail of lead.
“Powell, crawl to me!” he yelled.
Leave him, the voice urged. Or die.
The rate of fire on the Explorer had slowed and Hayes didn’t need to see the shooters to know what they were doing. Gunfighting was all about working the angles—shooting and moving. Hayes knew that while the one shooter kept him pinned down, his teammates were already maneuvering on him.
“I’ll be right back,” he shouted to Powell before crawling over to a Chevy pickup and out of the line of fire.
He racked the pump and hazarded a glance over the bed of the pickup.
“There!” one of the men yelled.
Hayes fired without having time to aim and ducked out of sight, trying to move to the right and flank his attackers. But the shooters were good and worked to close off the angles. Hayes racked a fresh round into the chamber and was planning his next move when he saw the mirror attached to the ceiling off to his left. In the reflection he saw Powell fumbling to get his pistol out of the holster when a man with a shaved head stepped into view and raised his rifle.
Powell abandoned his pistol and Hayes saw his mouth moving. He didn’t need to be a lip reader to know the deputy was begging for his life.
The man with the goatee was a foot away from Powell when he shook his head and raised the rifle to his eyes.
“Noooo!” Hayes yelled.
But it was too late.
10
CAR DECK, M/V SUQUAMISH
The man with the goatee fired a single bullet into the center of Powell’s forehead.
Hayes fought the rage building up, knew he had to stay in control if he was going to make it out alive.
Think, damn it.
He scanned the abandoned vehicles around him, looking for anything he could use, and was about to give up when he saw an aluminum pole with a blue handle protruding from the back of a Dodge Ram two car lengths behind him.
Hayes made his move, hooked left, and squeezed between the front bumper of a Volkswagen Beetle and the trunk of a red Miata.
One of the shooters saw him slip from cover and yelled, “Flank left!”
But Hayes was already in the next row, squeezing himself between a black panel van and the Ram’s tailgate. Relief rushed over him when he saw the bed of the truck was filled with pool-cleaning supplies. Despite the fact that the van shielded him from the shooters, Hayes knew he didn’t have long. He dumped the shotgun and hurriedly rifled through the plastic bins intermixed with the lengths of hose, filters, and pool skimmers that littered the bed.
The third pail contained what he was hoping for: three-inch chlorine tablets. Hayes grabbed two of the tablets and shoved them into a black trash bag before hopping down.
“Where is he?” a voice yelled.
Hurry, the voice urged.
Hayes moved to the gas tank and dropped to a knee. He stomped the chlorine tablets, using the heel of his boot to grind them into a powder. When they were small enough, Hayes shook the powder into the corner of the bag, tied it off, and ripped the plastic above the knot.
He opened the fuel door with his left hand, twisted the cap free, and stepped out into the lane, staying in the open just long enough for the shooters to see him.
“I’ve got him.”
Hayes ducked back to cover for a moment before a shot rang out and the bullet sparked off the left side of the Ram’s bumper.
Back on the driver’s side, Hayes shoved the bag full of chlorine powder into the gas tank and closed the fuel door. He wasn’t sure how long it would take for the gasoline to eat through the plastic, but he knew he didn’t want to be anywhere near the truck when it did.
He rushed forward and had just ducked behind a Honda Accord when the two shooters reached the back of the Ram and then the truck exploded, filling the cargo hold with acrid smoke and the screams of the burning shooters.
The fire-suppression system kicked on, filling the cargo hold with halon, sucking the air out of the fire, and Hayes knew it was time to go. Holding his breath, he sprinted from cover, angling for the far rail.
Off to his right, the burning shooter was on fire, an FBI windbreaker melted to his skin. A few feet away, his partner lay motionless on the ground.
That’s three. Where’s the man with the goatee?
Hayes grabbed the rail and lifted himself up. It was a fifteen-foot drop to the water, but it wasn’t the height that bothered him. Hayes knew that he had to jump clear of the wake or risk being sucked under the ferry.
Hayes flexed his muscles and was about to jump when he felt a sledgehammer blow to his shoulder followed by the crack of a rifle. The bullet spun him sideways, and instead of diving from the rail, he was falling.
Hayes had always been a strong swimmer, thanks to the wide shoulders and powerful frame he’d inherited from his father. But the shock of the cold over his skin caused a temporary short in his nervous system, and despite his urging, his muscles refused to respond.
One moment he was on the surface, and in the next instant an invisible hand dragged him beneath the moving boat. The shock of the water had worn off and Hayes regained control of his muscles, but he knew that no matter how great of a swimmer he was, there was no way in hell he was outrunning the ferry and its six-thousand-horsepower twin diesels.
There was only one way he was getting out of this.
Hayes swam toward the keel, and the moment his shoulder slammed into the metal, he twisted his body around so that his feet were pressed against the bottom of the boat.
While he worked to get into position, the ferry continued moving above him, and Hayes watched the twin screws chopping through the water.
Got to time this just right.
He waited until the last possible second and then pushed off, diving deep, his arms clawing at the water, muscles burning from the buildup of lactic acid.
The big diesels were above him now, the freight train roar of the screws ordering him to go deep or die.
Finally the engine sounds started to recede, and Hayes checked his descent, kicked off his boots, and scrambled for the surface.
Air. It was all Hayes could think about.
He’d been almost out of air when he pushed off the boat; now the lack of oxygen was at a critical level. It had begun as a flicker of discomfort, but now his lungs burned like someone had filled them with battery acid.
The edge of his vision was beginning to darken from the lack of oxygen, and he remembered the stories about people who’d drowned. How the primal need to breathe had gotten so bad that they had opened their mouths underwater and sucked in a lungful of salt water.
At the time it sounded like bullshit, but the closer he got to the surface, the louder the voice in his head begged for him to open his mouth and take a breath.