He moved to the rear of the boat and stood there staring out into the darkness.
Without the night vision, Hayes couldn’t see the coast, but he could smell it—the nauseating mix of unwashed bodies and meat roasting over an open flame. So close that he could almost feel the hot shower and the cot waiting for him at the airfield five miles away.
But first he had to get there.
Hayes opened the pack and double-checked the ziplock bag he’d put the pills in, made sure they were airtight before taking off his boots and stuffing them inside. He grabbed a Petzl headlamp, shouldered the pack, and snapped the sternum strap across his chest on his way aft. At the transom he looked over the side—the water shimmering like motor oil in the headlamp’s red glow.
Hayes had been fading fast during the last leg of the trip, and even with the windows of the pilothouse open he’d fought to stay awake. But he knew that was about to change.
Might as well get it over with, he thought.
Even though it was summer in Morocco, the North Atlantic was frigid, the ice-cold water cascading over his body instantly taking his breath away. Hayes bobbed to the surface, his pack filling with water—trying to drag him under as he kicked off. The distant sliver of the shore was suddenly impossibly far.
Dumping the assault pack wasn’t an option, so he turned onto his back, hoping what air hadn’t been pushed out of the pack would keep him buoyant as he forced himself into a backstroke.
Free will, the ability to quit, wasn’t a Treadstone trait, which was why it was one of the first things they’d removed at the behavior modification laboratory. Only problem was, just like any high-performance machines, Treadstone operators required the occasional tune-up to keep them running at peak performance.
“Retreading” is what the docs called it, and Hayes hadn’t had one in almost three years, which meant that while he got to keep all the shitty side effects—the anger, nightmares, and brain-splitting migraines—his once razor-sharp edge was starting to dull.
Bet you’d sell your soul for a chem right now, the voice said.
Since the first recorded history of organized warfare in the fifth century BC, man has sought better weapons—sharper swords, stronger metals, faster horses—anything to give them an edge in battle, only to learn that in the end, the difference between the living and the dying had less to do with the weapon and more to do with the man wielding it.
It was this knowledge more than anything else that drove the Treadstone doctors in their pursuit of the perfect soldier. An assassin who could kill without thought or fear. A man or woman who could outlast, outthink, outfight anyone in the world.
But there was only so far the human body could go, and no amount of motivation could take the icy chill out of the water or replace the calories Hayes had already burned.
Think about something else—anything else.
Hayes forced the pain and the bullshit that had run roughshod over his day from the front of his mind until there was nothing but blank space, an endless black canvas. His mind drifted like a dog let off its leash, wandering back and forth before returning to the reason Hayes was in this mess in the first place—the promise that he’d made to Dr. Karen Miles three weeks prior.
He’d been inside World Aid’s dilapidated hangar at Essaouira breaking down a fuel pump when Dr. Miles walked in, a grim frown in the place of her usual perky smile.
“Adam, I need . . .” she began.
“What’s wrong?”
“It—it’s easier if I show you,” she said.
He followed her to her office, the plywood hutch in the back of the hangar, and watched as she opened the laptop on her desk.
“This is from Camp Four in Bobo-Dioulasso,” she said, keying up the video.
After tours in Iraq and Afghanistan, Hayes had seen his share of misery, but nothing prepared him for the video he saw in that hangar. The white-shrouded bodies lying shoulder to shoulder in the trench and the hopeless eyes of the women and tear-stained faces of the children standing above, looking down at their loved ones.
“Wh-what the hell is this?” he choked.
“Cholera,” she said, “easily treated with the proper medication, but with Camp Four besieged . . .”
Hayes had heard the rumors about the militants operating in the area, surrounding the camps, refusing to let the aid workers in unless they paid an exorbitant toll. Some of the aid groups had called their bluff, tried to sneak past their blockade. As far as Hayes knew, none of them had ever made it back.
“Tell me the medicine they need, and I’ll find it and fly it in myself.”
Why in the hell did I say that?
Hayes was still trying to find the answer when his knees scraped the ground. He was spent, his legs shaking like a bowl of Jell-O, screaming against the weight of the water-filled pack that threatened to pull him back into the sea. He grunted to his feet and sloshed to shore, eyes locked on the canted palm tree peeking over the top of the sand dune ahead.
Hayes staggered across the beach, the shifting sand causing his legs to cramp.
Maybe you should stop. Take a breather, the voice suggested.
It was tempting, and while he could certainly use the break, Hayes was afraid that if he collapsed into the sand, he might not be able to get up.
Better to keep moving.
Leaning forward like a man walking against the wind, Hayes started across the beach, his eyes locked on the tree fifty yards to his front. But in his condition, it might as well have been a mile.
Just keep moving. One foot in front of the next, he urged.
By the time he made it to the sand dune he was running on fumes. He dropped to his knees and punched his hands into the sand, using them like hooks to claw his way to the top, and then he was at the apex, the sight of the dilapidated shack on the other side feeling like Christmas morning. Hayes dug his toes into the sand and, summoning the last of his strength, inched his upper body over the lip of the dune, farther and farther until gravity took over. He tumbled down the back side of the dune, closed his eyes and mouth against the rush of sand that pelted his face.
When he reached the bottom, every inch of his skin was covered in sand. He got to his feet, shook off like a dog fresh from a pond, and started for the door, legs bowed wide to lessen the sandpaper scrape of the grit between them.
Thank God I don’t wear underwear.
The shack wasn’t much to look at—a fifteen-by-twenty-foot rectangle of weather-beaten wood one of the local fishermen had once used to store his boats. While he was sure no one would ever know that he was using it as a stash spot, the idea of being a squatter didn’t sit well, so he had spent a few days tracking down the owner and offered to rent it from him.
Always have a way out. It was the first rule they had taught him at Treadstone—one that had saved his life more times than he could count. Which was why even though he wasn’t operational he kept his bags packed and guns clean—made sure he had the means to drop everything and hit the road at a moment’s notice.