“On the move? You mean you don’t have an active location?” Vandal demanded.
“Affirmative. This is a very fluid situation, but it came from the top. All information has been uploaded to your computer and necessary assets are being moved into place. You just worry about getting there.”
Vandal glanced at his watch and saw that it was almost noon. Assuming he got a flight on the first thing smoking it would be at least sixteen and a half hours before he got on the ground. Add an hour for customs and arranging transportation, then however long it took to get on the road, and the target could have a full twenty-four-hour jump on him.
“By the time I get in play, the target could be anywhere.”
“Just get there,” the voice said.
“Fine,” Vandal said, and then as an afterthought, asked, “who is the target?”
“Adam Hayes,” the voice answered, and then the line went dead.
28
KORHOGO, IVORY COAST
Hayes stood outside the forward entrance door, his heart hammering in his chest like the bass line of a rap song. He told himself that he was just waiting for his eyes to adjust to the gloomy interior of the plane before climbing in, but that was a lie.
The truth was, despite the patched holes and the freshly scrubbed interior, Hayes could still smell the blood beneath the pine cone reek of the disinfectants the mechanic had used to clean the plane.
According to Mallory, his passenger not only wanted to go to Grand-Bassam, she needed to go, and while Hayes was pretty sure she was full of shit, part of him wanted to believe that he was doing the right thing, to prove to Shaw—and, more important, to himself—that he was more than just a killer.
Keep telling yourself that, pal, the voice laughed.
The spurt of anger that followed the remark was enough to get him through the door and into the cockpit. He dropped into the pilot’s chair and looked out the recently repaired cockpit window. Zadi stood in front of the aircraft, nervous as a cat over water.
The mechanic pointed to the starboard engine, raised his hand into the air, and made a motion like he was twirling a lasso. In the cockpit, Hayes leaned forward to see past the sheet of cardboard duct-taped over the shattered window, and made sure the prop was clear before turning on the engines’ fuel pump.
Unlike the more common inline engines, the old radials were crotchety and getting one to start was more of an art than a science, which was the main reason most pilots hated the old birds and their finicky engines.
Hayes, on the other hand, had nothing but respect for the tough old engines and confidently began the start-up sequence. He began with the starboard engine, flipping the electric fuel pump to R and then pressing the start switch, which engaged the engine’s magneto: the electric motor that started the propellor spinning. He waited until the blades had completed two full rotations before hitting the ignition switch.
The engine chugged to life and he scanned the now-immaculate gauges that dotted the control panel, watching them bounce happily into the correct positions. With the starboard engine running smooth as a sewing machine, Hayes turned his attention to the mechanic.
Zadi pointed at the port engine and repeated the lassoing motion, but this time the process wasn’t quite as smooth.
Instead of jumping to life, the engine backfired and spewed black smoke from the exhaust pipe. Outside the cockpit, Zadi’s face went white. His earlier nervousness gave way to genuine fear, and he immediately held up a closed fist—the signal to shut the engine down.
It was the right call, but knowing how much Zadi had riding on a clean start, Hayes ignored it, and instead of shutting the engine down made minute adjustments to the air and fuel mixture, babying the engine until he had it running smooth.
And that, ladies and gentlemen, is how it’s done, he thought.
Outside the plane, the color had returned to Zadi’s face, the consternation that had clouded the mechanic’s proud visage replaced by an ear-to-ear grin.
“Très bon!” he shouted. Very good.
Hayes wanted to keep the engines running, and after signaling to Zadi that he was going to pull the plane out of the hangar, he disengaged the brakes and inched the throttle forward. The Provider started forward, out of the shadows and into the sunlight.
Out on the tarmac, he could see a mirage shimmering off the runway fifty yards to his front.
Go for it, the voice urged.
Hayes used the mirrors to check behind the plane and saw a group of soldiers lounging in the shade of the hangar, their eyes closed against the sun, weapons lying on the ground next to them.
Even if they realized what he was doing and opened fire before he made it to the runway, there was no way they could stop him. Nothing but the fact that he’d given his word. He cursed and reached for the throttles, but instead of shoving them forward, he pulled them back to idle and reengaged the brake.
Before getting out of the pilot’s seat, Hayes reached under the instrument panel and retrieved the Beretta 92f from its hiding place. He got to his feet, clipped the holster to his waistband, press-checked the pistol to make sure there was a round in the chamber, and stepped out of the cockpit.
With the engines running, it wasn’t safe to use the pilot’s door, so with the reassuring feel of the pistol on his hip, Hayes dropped the ramp and headed back to the cargo hold.
Out on the tarmac, he saw Mallory waiting for him at the door of the hangar, his assault pack sitting on the ground next to her feet.
“Everything to your satisfaction?” she asked.
He nodded, eyes darting to the far corner of the hangar where Wikus and the rest of his goon squad held a tight perimeter around a blond-haired girl.
“Excellent,” Mallory said, handing him the pack.
Hayes opened the main compartment and glanced inside, finding the gear he’d arrived with, plus a satellite phone and a thick manila envelope.
“What’s this?” he asked, taking out the envelope.
“To cover any incidentals you might encounter along the way.”
“Incidentals?” he frowned, not liking the sound of the word.
Hayes opened the flap, and when he saw the fresh one hundred-dollar bills packed inside, let out a low whistle.
“There’s got to be ten grand in here,” he said, running his thumb over the cash.
“Yes, there has been a slight change in plans.”
Of course, he thought.
The deal he’d agreed to in the detention room was that he’d fly his passenger to Grand-Bassam, where an escort would meet them at the airport. Mallory had assured him that General Dábo had already spoken to the commander on the ground and that Hayes would be allowed to land, refuel, and depart without being bothered.