The Treadstone Resurrection

by Joshua Hood

  BOOOM!

  The 40-millimeter grenade detonated on impact, the explosion blowing the men out of the door and off the landing. Before their bodies hit the ground, the Benelli was pressed to Hayes’s shoulder, the sights locked on the right side of the doorframe. His finger danced over the trigger and he fired three shots in the blink of an eye. Boom . . . Boom . . . Boom. Each shell of double-aught buckshot leaving a fist-sized hole in the wall.

  The dry thump of a body thudding against the concrete told him that one of his shots had been on target. Down in the alley he heard a shout followed by boots slapping on concrete.

  That’s my cue.

  Hayes stuffed the launcher into the bag, snapped the buckles, and tossed it over the balcony. He slung the shotgun over his shoulder, grabbed the rope hanging over the edge, and swung his leg over the wall.

  “Hey, Boggs, it’s time to go,” he yelled, grabbing the rope and scooting off the edge.

  Hayes guessed it was about a ten-foot fall from the balcony to the Jeep—not high enough to kill you, but tall enough to leave a mark. Thankfully, Boggs’s deadweight slamming against the wall saved Hayes from any serious misgivings.

  He tied the rope off to the roll bar, jumped behind the wheel, and started the Jeep. Hayes had hoped to be able to ease Boggs off the balcony, but at the sound of the rifle fire cracking off in the alley and the snap of the overhead, Hayes thought it best not to stick around.

  The Jeep roared to life with a twist of the key, and Hayes kicked the FGEs onto his forehead and flipped on the lights. A rattle of small arms from his six was all the urging he needed to get the hell out of there, and he shoved the Jeep into gear, forgetting any thoughts he’d been harboring about easing Boggs off the balcony.

  Hayes was under fire and it was time to go.

  Sorry, buddy, but if you play stupid games, he thought, slamming the Jeep into gear and stomping on the gas, you win stupid prizes.

  The Jeep surged forward, snapping the rappel rope taut. Hayes shifted into second and hit the mouth of the alley at twenty miles per hour. He bounced out into the street, cut the wheel hard to the right, and glanced up at the rearview. The mattress slingshotted into view, bouncing and skipping off the street, bits of foam stuffing flying through the air.

  He glanced at the side mirror. A bobble of muzzle flashes told him that the shooters were running after him.

  “Keep on coming, dumbasses,” he said, nearing the end of the alley.

  The Jeep bounced onto the street and Hayes made a hard right turn just as one of the shooters found his going-away present and the Willie Pete grenade exploded with a blinding flash.

  Hayes didn’t need to see the outcome to know that he’d just ruined their day. All he cared about was finding Izzy and getting the hell out of town, but as he scanned the street, there was no sign of her.

  Half a mile down the road, Hayes cut the wheel to the left, downshifting into the turn. The mattress swung wide, hopped the curb, and bowled over a pair of trash cans, like ninepins. Hayes saw the shower of trash in the rearview and smiled, but knew he needed to retrieve Boggs before there was nothing left of the man.

  He toed the clutch, shifted into neutral, and stomped on the brakes. The tires locked up with the stench of burnt rubber and Hayes engaged the emergency brake before hopping out.

  By the time he reached the rear bumper, the mattress had skidded to a halt at his feet. It had taken a beating—the once-white cover was now jet black and shredded, but Hayes didn’t see any blood when he picked it up and dumped it into the back.

  “You alive, buddy?” he asked, jumping behind the wheel.

  “Where’s Izzy?” came Boggs’s muffled reply.

  “She’s safe,” Hayes lied, bending to cut the DEA agent free when two Ducati motorcycles appeared at the end of the street. He looked up just in time to see one of the riders point toward the Jeep.

  “Looks like you are going to have to suck it up just a little while longer,” Hayes said, jerking the mattress off the ground and tossing it into the back of the Jeep.

  44

  EL NULA, VENEZUELA

  Who the hell are these guys?” Hayes asked, disengaging the emergency brake and shifting into gear. He pushed the accelerator to the floor and the Jeep surged forward, the engine spooling up as he shifted through the gears.

  By the time the sport bikes turned to pursue, Hayes was a quarter-mile down the road. It was a sizable lead, but any daydream that he had about outrunning his pursuers in a twenty-year-old Jeep evaporated when they hit the straightaway and the riders opened up the throttle.

  Use what you’ve got.

  Hayes cut the wheel hard to the right, hoping the tight turn would gain him some distance. But the Jeep wasn’t built for speed or maneuverability. It was an all-terrain vehicle and took the turn like a barge with a stuck rudder.

  He downshifted using the centripetal force of the turn to try to drift the Jeep around the corner. The heavy tires chirped over the asphalt and the springs squealed in protest. Hayes felt the back end come loose and the Jeep started to slide, but he fought the wheel and managed to center the Jeep on the straightaway.

  Hayes shifted into second and stomped the accelerator to the floor, but compared to the nimble motorcycles, the Jeep accelerated like a fat kid in a relay race. The needle was just clearing thirty miles per hour when one of the leather-clad riders lifted a Škorpion machine pistol from the bag strapped across his front and opened up on the Jeep.

  Brraaap, braaaaaap.

  The burst of yellow flame was followed by the thunk of bullets slapping into the rear quarter-panel of the Jeep.

  This is not going to work.

  Hayes spun the wheel to the right and bounced the Jeep over the curb and crashed through the chain-link fence surrounding an abandoned lot. The tires burrowed into the soft ground, tearing up clods of dirt and flinging them against the wheel wells.

  The sound gave Hayes an idea. He took his foot off the gas, cut the lights, and tugged the FGEs over his eyes. He worked the wheel back and forth in his hands. Short, choppy strokes that dug the knobby claws lining the outer edge of the tires into the earth. Hayes let the Jeep’s weight push it deeper into the dirt, and when he felt it starting to bog down, he got back on the gas.

  The sudden acceleration sent the tires burrowing into the ground, and the back end fishtailed, spraying a rooster tail of earth and grass cascading over the riders. He let the RPMs climb, refusing to let the tires get traction, and cut a long, jagged rut across the field before finally hitting a patch of gravel.

  Unable to see the Jeep through the makeshift smoke screen, a rider sprayed the area with a wild burst of automatic fire. But Hayes had already whipped the Jeep into a sweeping right-hand turn, rammed through the back side of the fence, and clattered down to the street.

  Hayes blasted through the intersection and was looking for a way to cut north, toward the square, when he heard the crack of a pistol echo from that direction.

  Izzy, he thought.

  Behind him the bikes turned onto the street, their lights flashing off his side mirror.

  A quick glance over his shoulder revealed one of the bikes peeling off, the rider heading west, while his partner raced after the Jeep like a hellhound on a hot trail.

  Hayes had two options. He could take the turn east, follow the road to the end of the block, and then work his way back to the highway, or he could try to squeeze the Jeep through the tight alley on the far side of the road. The crack of two more pistol shots followed by a female scream made the decision for him and Hayes centered the hood on the alley.

  He worked through the gears and was two feet from the opening when he realized that he might have misjudged the width of the alley, but by then he was already committed, and the only option was to keep rolling.

  The bumper hit the edge of one wall and tore out a section of brick,
the impact sending his head bouncing off the steering wheel, punching the FGEs into the bridge of his partially healed nose.

  “Shit,” he swore, tasting the blood on his lip, trying to keep the wheel as straight as possible.

  The passenger-side mirror was the first to go, and when Hayes edged the wheel to the left, a sprinkle of glass from the driver’s-side mirror pelted his face.

  He could see the end of the alley up ahead and knew that in ten feet he’d be out in the open, but then Hayes realized why the other rider had turned west. They were going to try to flank him—cut him off from the highway.

  Unless . . .

  He took his foot off the gas, shifted into neutral, and the Jeep rolled to a halt with the scrape of the metal bumper against the wall. Hayes got to his feet and checked his positioning.

  The Jeep was ten feet inside the alley, well outside the throw from the Ducati’s headlight. Hayes twisted the FGEs from night vision to thermal and yanked the Benelli from the seat. He twisted around and laid it across the roll bar at the rear of the Jeep. All that was left to do was wait and listen to the growing hum of the approaching Ducati.

  Hayes had to give it to the rider, the man was cautious. Instead of entering the alley at full speed, he cut the bike wide, let off the throttle, and spied the corner. He squeezed in the clutch, put his feet down to steady the bike, and scanned the dark alley.

  Hayes held his breath, the front sight centered on the man’s chest. His target was within range and he knew that he could make the shot. But what Hayes didn’t know was if the rider was wearing a vest. He had to kill the man, make sure he went down and stayed down, and to do that he needed the rider to commit.

  C’mon . . . c’mon, bite, you son of a bitch.

  Finally the rider goosed the throttle, leaned forward across the handlebars, and entered the alley.

  Just as Hayes had guessed, the bike’s single headlight didn’t have the strength to illuminate the length of the alley, and that, combined with the frosted visor protecting the rider’s eyes, gave him the false impression that the alley was empty.

  By the time he realized his error and saw his headlights reflected off the Jeep’s glass, it was too late.

  “Smile for the camera, motherfucker,” Hayes said.

  BOOM.

  The shotgun roared to life, sending a spray of nine steel pellets, each the size of a .38-caliber bullet, toward the rider. The impact shredded the man’s chest, bowling him off the bike.

  Before the ejected hull hit the ground, Hayes climbed out of the Jeep and made the short walk over to the man.

  “Nothing personal,” he said, pressing the barrel against the frosted visor and pulling the trigger.

  Hayes thumbed two more shells into the shotgun, jumped behind the wheel, and shoved the Jeep into gear. He scraped the Jeep through the alley, and when he reached the square, Hayes found it empty and dark.

  Where is she? he thought, scanning the shadows that hung over the two-lane thoroughfare.

  Unlike the surrounding blocks, there were no alleys on this stretch of road. No place for a vehicle to turn around. On the east side he saw a shattered shop window, and the Jeep’s headlights picked up the glint of brass on the ground.

  Hayes stopped the Jeep next to the shop and jumped out. “Izzy!” he yelled, thinking that he heard the thump of a car door closing. Fuck, he thought, scooping up one of the expended casings and flipping it over to look at the headstamp. It was a 9-millimeter, the same caliber as Izzy’s Glock.

  Doesn’t mean it was her, he thought. Lots of people shoot 9-millimeters.

  But any confusion about who the bullets belonged to ended when Hayes saw the silver locket lying on the curb. He picked it up and saw that the chain had been snapped and knew she was gone.

  There is still a shooter out there, the voice warned—reminding him that the second Ducati was still unaccounted for.

  He climbed back into the Jeep, his eyes locked on the faint black outline of the highway four hundred yards to his front. There it is. Our way out.

  Hayes was tempted to make a break for it, let the second rider try his best to stop him. But he’d come too far and lost too much to do something stupid like leave an enemy at his rear.

  No, Hayes thought. We do this the right way. I’m getting the hell out of this place and the only thing I’m leaving behind are bodies.

  But first he had to find the second rider. There was no doubt that the man was out there, lying in wait. “But where the hell is he?” Hayes asked aloud.

  Then he saw the faint orange that signaled the heat of the Ducati’s engine speeding in from the west. It was the rider, and Hayes knew instinctively that he was heading for the massive stone fountain in the center of the roundabout.

  That’s where I’d go.

  He swung the Jeep into the oncoming lane, using the fountain to shield his approach. Hayes stopped short of the traffic circle and buried the Jeep in the shadow of the fountain. “What is taking this guy so long?” he wondered aloud, craning to see around the fountain.

  Finally the bike sped into view, the rider ducked low against the rush of air. Hayes wasn’t sure which side of the circle he was going to take and waited until the rider leaned into the turn before shoving the transmission into gear and stomping the accelerator to the floor.

  The Jeep chugged forward, Hayes working through the gears, waiting until the last moment before turning on the lights and engaging the high beams. The rider had time only to raise his left hand to his face, to try to shade his eyes against the sudden barrage of light, and then it was over.

  It was a violent and one-sided collision.

  The Jeep’s front slammed into the front of the Ducati, its steel bumper crushing the front tire, crumpling the front suspension. On impact the rider was catapulted skyward, and Hayes watched him arc over the top of the Jeep.

  He heard the plastic smack of the man’s helmet over the screech of the tires and tugged the shifter into reverse, dragging the mangled bike along the street as he backed over the rider. Hayes was about to shift into gear when he heard a pained groan from the back seat.

  “Wh . . . whaz . . . goin’ on?” Boggs moaned.

  “Ssshhhh,” he whispered, engaging the clutch and shifting into first. “You’re just having a bad dream.” Hayes cut the wheel to the right.

  He steered free of the wreckage, got back on the road, and thirty seconds later turned onto the highway, heading for Pendare.

  45

  PENDARE, VENEZUELA

  Hayes drove through the night, following the monochromatic gray of the highway as it snaked east beneath the headlights. With Boggs passed out in the back, it was a silent drive, and Hayes’s only companions were the monotonous whine of the tires and the mud scent that signaled the coffee-brown waters of the Río Arauca off to his south.

  He drove until the horizon turned pink and the shadows began to recede, and then ten miles outside of Pica Pico, Hayes pulled off the road. He guided the Jeep into a gully, the dry dirt cracking under the tires, kicking up a cloud of fine dust that settled over the windshield when he came to a halt.

  Hayes climbed out of the Jeep, stripped off the plate carrier, and set it on the seat. He stretched his shoulders against the tightness that had built up in his back, closed his eyes, and savored the feel of the air against his sweat-soaked shirt.

  God, that feels good, he thought.

  For a moment there was nothing but the gentle breeze against his skin, and he realized there was a part of him that wished he could stay in the moment forever. Forget about what was waiting for him in Pendare. Forget about Treadstone, Gray, and Vega, just leave it all right here and disappear.

  You tried that, remember? the voice said, bringing him back to reality.

  “Yeah, I remember,” Hayes said, his mind slipping back to the reason he was here and not at home with Jack and
Annabelle.

  If you want this to stop, you know what you have to do.

  Before Hayes could answer, he heard Boggs’s muffled yells drifting from the back of the truck. He’d forgotten about the man wrapped in the mattress, but at the sound of his voice, Hayes felt the heat that signaled the rage building up inside of him.

  “This motherfucker,” he snapped.

  Hayes moved to the rear of the Jeep, his anger growing with each step, and by the time he bent over the edge and grabbed ahold of the rope, his vision had turned red.

  Bracing himself against the side of the Jeep, Hayes bent his knees and ripped the mattress out of the back seat and flung it free. It slammed to the ground, kicking up a cloud of dust and a muffled curse.

  “Hey, what the hell is wrong with you?”

  Boggs might have stood a chance if he’d kept his mouth shut, but now Hayes would never know. He tore the knife from the sheath at his lower back, dropped his knee on the squirming bundle, and savagely hacked at the rope. The moment the blade cut through the last strand, Boggs came tumbling free, his filthy face bathed in anger.

  “What the fuck is the—” he began.

  But before he could finish, Hayes had him by the throat and was lifting him to his feet.

  Kill him and get it over with.

  “Notice anyone missing, you drunk fuck?” Hayes growled.

  “Wh-what?” Boggs managed, his bulging eyes turning from the knife to the Jeep. “Izzy, where is—?”

  “Gone, because you’d rather get drunk than worry about your girlfriend,” Hayes hissed. “So give me one reason why I shouldn’t drop your selfish ass right here.”

  “Because . . . it . . . isn’t you,” Boggs choked.

  “That’s where you are wrong,” Hayes said. “This is the real me. It’s who they made me.”

  “I-I—” Boggs stammered.

  “You’re what?” Hayes demanded. “Are you going to tell me that you’re sorry?”