Hayes stopped at the door and bent down to check the two quarters he’d stuffed into the crack—the primitive anti-intrusion device that would have alerted him if anyone had been inside. When he saw that they were there, he grabbed the lock, spun in his combination, and stepped inside, closing the door behind him and lighting the ancient Coleman lantern on the table.
The sallow light illuminated a spartan interior: a battered Land Rover in the center, a stack of bottled water, three cases of MREs, and a metal cabinet in the back corner. Hayes stripped out of his clothes and retrieved a small bucket from the cabinet, which he filled with five bottles of water. He stuffed the empties and the filthy clothes into a trash bag, took a shop rag over to the bucket of water, and did his best to clean up.
When he’d gotten as much of the grime off as possible, Hayes toweled off and dressed in a black T-shirt, jeans, and a pair of boots. He retrieved a medium-sized drybag from the bottom of the cabinet, untied the drawstring, and pulled out a backpacker’s stove.
The MSR DragonFly didn’t look like much, but Hayes had fallen in love with the miniature stove not because it was the most powerful on the market, but because, according to the manufacturer, you could pour anything remotely flammable into the fuel bottle and the MSR would burn it.
Hayes had bought the stove simply because he wanted to refute MSR’s claim, and since purchasing it he’d used everything from rubbing alcohol to diesel fuel and the little stove had never let him down. He filled the fuel bottle from a can of white gas and used the integral pump to pressurize it before connecting the bottle to the small burner and lighting the wick. After adjusting the air flow so the flame burned evenly, Hayes went back to the cabinet, retrieved an enamel mug, added two scoops of instant coffee from a pack, filled the mug with water, and set it atop the burner.
He watched the flame lick the bottom of the mug, the flicker of orange reminding him of how he’d ended up in Morocco.
Hayes hadn’t come to Africa with the intention of becoming a humanitarian. He came because he needed a plane and knew that Africa was his only chance of finding one that would accommodate his limited budget. He started in South Africa, bought the old Land Rover, and headed north through the maze of conflict zones and failed states in search of his prize. He spent the next two weeks dodging bullets and mortars, searching the shot-up airfields and military scrapyards during the day and sleeping in the truck at night; his only goal was to find anything remotely airworthy. He was about to give it up when he heard of a military arms bazaar being held in Monrovia, Liberia.
According to his source, the bazaar was run by a South African soldier of fortune named Pieter van Wyk, and while it was mostly geared toward third world warlords with dreams of mounting a coup, it was Hayes’s last shot.
The plane was a Vietnam-era C-123 Provider and not only was it the oldest plane on the tarmac, it was easily in the worst shape. But Hayes saw through the rust, the fogged windows, and dry-rotted rubber seals—seeing the plane not for what it was, but for what it had been.
“Hello, beautiful,” he said, ducking under the wing and running his hand over the skin.
Thought you were here for a plane, not a project, the voice chided.
But Hayes was in love and after spending an hour checking the plane out from top to bottom, compiling a list of broken hoses, dry-rotted seals, and busted engine parts, he spent another hour scrounging through the yards of parts on the other side of the field before making an offer.
“Deal, but just so you know, van Wyk only paid off the cops for forty-eight hours, so if you and that heap aren’t gone in the air by then, it’s off to jail with ya.”
Now you tell me.
It wasn’t easy, but twenty-three hours of work later, he managed to get the engines started and limp the plane north, stopping at every airfield along the way to fix busted hoses, but by the time he reached Essaouira, it was obvious she wasn’t going any farther. Hayes knew he could get the plane back into shape, but he needed the tools, equipment, and hangar space to make the repairs; the only problem was he didn’t have the cash to pay for them.
He was trying to work a deal with one of the mechanics when a pinched-face man with mischievous blue eyes came strolling over.
“You a pilot?” he asked, his British accent on full display as he mopped his bald pate with a grimy handkerchief.
“That’s right,” Hayes answered.
“Dr. Thomas Watson,” the man said, sticking out his hand. “I am the director of World Aid.”
“World Aid?”
“That’s right, we’re an NGO, like Doctors Without Borders, but without the flashy name or the accompanying money.”
“Huh,” Hayes said noncommittally.
“But while we don’t have mounds of cash lying around, we aren’t without resources,” Dr. Watson added, seeing that he was losing Hayes’s interest.
“Like what?”
“Like that,” he answered, nodding to a dilapidated hangar with a white-and-blue globe hanging over the door. “Fully stocked facility, one you would have access to if you were to come fly for us.”
“That’s it, just fly?”
“We even pay for the fuel.”
Sitting there inside the shack, the now-empty mug before him, Hayes’s mind shifted tack again, this time to his wife and son. How he’d love to show them Africa. Maybe rent a little cabin in Kenya, spend the days showing little Jack the real-life versions of the toys he loved to play with. And the nights making love to his wife.
Dreams like that will kill you faster than a bullet, the voice chided.
“What the hell do you know?” Hayes asked aloud.
Enough to know that even in Africa, a leopard can’t change its spots. You’re a killer, Adam, and that’s all you are ever going to be.
14
ESSAOUIRA, MOROCCO
The plane was loaded and ready, but instead of sitting behind the controls, Hayes was standing inside the sun-faded phone booth at the corner of the hangar. He held the phone to his ear and typed in the number, eyes drifting to the ceiling, where hornets were busily constructing a nest.
“Just making a call—no need for anyone to get excited,” he said.
Usually, his wife was quick to pick up the phone but when she hadn’t answered by the fifth ring, Hayes glanced at his watch. Realizing, too late, that it was three a.m. back in the States.
Adam, you stupid ass.
He was about to hang up when there was a click on the other end, followed by his wife’s sleep-laden voice.
“H-hello . . .”
“Shit, baby, I’m sorry . . . I didn’t realize—”
“No, it’s fine . . .” She yawned. “I was, well, we were both hoping you were going to call today.”