“Yes . . . but Korhogo is—”
“Surrounded, cut off, yes I know. Why do you think I’m calling you?”
11
MOGADOR
One second Hayes was standing there, his hands empty, and in the next instant the STI was out of its holster and rotating on target. He fired a single shot, the bullet catching Luca in his hip, spinning him to the ground, and then Hayes pushed the pistol up into a two-handed grip, the reticle locked on Emil’s forehead.
Too slow, motherfucker.
He pulled the trigger. The 9-millimeter bucked in his hand, the bullet snapping the man’s head back, as Hayes turned. He dropped to a knee and vented the bartender with a double tap to the chest.
Near the door, one of the men had a pistol out and was pulling the trigger as fast as he could. Flame spit from the barrel as he sent a rapid string of shots toward Hayes.
The first round hit the floor, tearing a gouge in the wood, and the second zipped high over his head, but Hayes kept his composure, lined up the shot, and ended the man with a hollow point through the eyeball. Then he was on his feet, diving over the top of the bar, bullets slamming into the bottles on the back wall, glass and booze spraying down on him.
The bartender lay on his back, the contents of his skull splattered across the kegs of beer, eyes staring sightless at the ceiling, a shotgun lying across his chest.
Hello, beautiful, Hayes thought, ignoring the shots punching through the front of the bar.
He shoved the pistol into its holster and was leaning forward to retrieve the shotgun from the dead man’s chest. His hands were closing around the weapon when a bullet ricocheted off one of the kegs below the bar and slammed into his side.
The impact blasted the breath from his lungs and shoved him sideways across the floor. Hayes landed on his back, the pain white-hot and all-consuming. His mouth yawned in a silent scream, his lungs begging for air as a second bullet slapped into the wall inches from his face.
Move or die, the voice commanded.
Hayes kicked at the ground, trying to scramble out of the line of fire, but the floor was slick with booze and the bartender’s blood. A second hail of lead came punching through the wood and he knew that the second shooter had followed his partner’s example and adjusted his aim.
He was stuck, the floor too slick to get out of the line of fire. His only option was to roll onto his side, bring the shotgun up to his shoulder, and center the barrel on the light streaming through the growing cluster of bullet holes.
Hayes pulled the trigger and the shotgun roared like a howitzer, the stock recoiling hard into his shoulder. The first blast of double-aught buck blew a hole the size of a dinner plate through the wood, but he still couldn’t see his attackers. As he fired a second shot, he managed a shaky breath.
He hacked on a lungful of gun smoke, the pain from his bruised ribs and the battery acid burn of the sweat in his eyes adding to his discomfort as he turned his full attention to kill his attackers.
The shotgun blast had punched a ragged hole through the front of the bar, and lying on his back, Hayes could see a pair of legs on the other side. Pushing everything away, he lined up the bead on the man’s thigh, waited for it to steady, and pulled the trigger.
The buckshot slammed into the shooter’s thigh at thirteen hundred feet per second and cut through the flesh and bone like a blade through butter.
Hayes dumped the shotgun, rolled onto his stomach, and low-crawled to the end of the bar. He jerked the pistol from the holster and forced himself up into a crouch, ignoring the dying screams of the man he’d left splayed out on the floor.
The remaining smuggler stood vapor-locked in the center of the room, the pistol in his hand forgotten as he gaped at his dying partner.
Quickly Hayes vaulted the bar, the slap of his shoes against the floor nudging the man back to reality.
“I’ll kill you,” the smuggler screamed, not realizing the pistol was empty until he pulled the trigger and heard the click of the hammer on the chamber.
Hayes stayed on target, knowing that the smuggler had tried to kill him and that he had every right to return the favor. “You just won the lottery, pal,” he said, lowering the pistol.
“You—you’re going to shoot me in the back,” the man said, his face white as bone.
“Not my style,” he said.
When the smuggler was gone, Hayes scanned the room, making sure all the threats were down before bringing the pistol in. He dropped the magazine and shoved a fresh one home, the simple act of holding the thirty-four-ounce pistol in front of his face sending lightning bolts of pain radiating from his damaged ribs. By the time he holstered up, Hayes was sweating.
He ripped his shirt open and ran his hand down the outside of his vest, fingers finding the indentation where the bullet had hit three inches below his armpit. He’d been lucky and knew that if the shooters’ aim had just been a little higher he’d be breathing blood bubbles right now.
But damn, did it hurt.
Hayes shuffled to the table, popped the lid of the Pelican case, and was grabbing the stack of pills when the radio hissed to life.
“Emil . . . Emil, do you copy?”
When there was no answer, the voice said, “Post one, head down to the bar and check it out.”
“On our way,” a man answered. His breathless voice telling Hayes that he was running.
That’s my cue.
Hayes stuffed the pills and the envelope of cash into the bag. Knowing that he needed to do something to disrupt their communications, he grabbed the radio. He scanned the surface of the table, looking for a rubber band or anything else he could use to hold down the transmit key and jam the frequency, so none of the men outside could use their radios. A cursory search proved fruitless.
Then Hayes’s eyes drifted to the dead bodyguard splayed out on the ground. He came around the table and dropped to a knee beside Emil.
“Hey, man, can you give me a hand here?” he asked, placing the radio into the man’s hand and closing his stiffening fingers around the transmit button.
The hiss of static from the speaker told him the radio was transmitting and Hayes moved to the door. He killed the lights, tugged the night vision over his eyes, and stepped outside.
He thought about making a play for the Mako, but knew it was pointless, since the powerboat was not only under guard, but damn near out of gas.
But whoever is coming up from the docks doesn’t know that.
Hayes burst from cover and, staying low, raced back the way he’d come. He made it to the path and spent a few seconds scraping his feet on the ground, leaving an obvious trail that he hoped the men coming from the docks would follow toward the scrub on the left side of the path.