Then he saw it, a persistent yellow blink from a clearing five degrees to his right. Vandal gave the toggle a gentle tug, centering up on the beacon.
At higher altitudes it had been impossible to judge exactly how fast he was falling, but as he broke a hundred feet the ground came rushing up at him, forcing him to yank down hard on the toggles to slow his descent.
Then he was down, the canopy collapsing around him as his feet touched the ground.
He worked fast, disconnecting the riser straps and releasing the gear clips—the canopy billowing like a dying jellyfish as he ripped the suppressed H&K MP7 from his gear bag and scanned his surroundings.
But the only sign of life was the yellow blinking of the infrared strobe attached to the roof of the Toyota 4Runner waiting for him in the tree line.
When he was sure that he was alone, Vandal pulled off his gloves and stepped out of the insulated suit. Using a collapsible shovel, he buried his chute and jump gear, and after loading his pack and gear bag into the back of the SUV, it was time to go hunting.
35
GRAND-BASSAM
An hour after being thrown from the Excursion, Hayes parked in the shadows at the edge of the convenience store lot and cut the engine. He climbed out of the Mitsubishi SUV he’d carjacked on the highway and gingerly shifted some of his weight onto his left.
Son of a bitch, he thought, biting down on the pain that rolled up from his damaged knee.
When he was sure the leg would hold, Hayes started across the parking lot, the sole of his shredded boot slap-slapping against the pavement as he angled toward the phone booth sitting outside the store. He was almost there when he noticed the pair of thugs drinking beer on the curb.
You’ve got to be shitting me.
After being shot at, blown up, and thrown from a moving vehicle, the last thing Hayes wanted to deal with was a pair of thugs trying to roll him up.
Determined to avoid an altercation, Hayes kept his eyes forward and prayed that they would leave him alone. But the predatory smiles that slid across their faces when they got to their feet told him that it wasn’t going to happen.
“Need to use the phone, do ya?” the first thug asked after posting up in front of the booth.
“That’s right,” Hayes answered.
“Gonna cost ya.”
“How much?” he asked, reaching for his wallet—then remembering he’d lost that, too. “Great.”
“What, lost your wallet?”
“Yeah, something like that,” he said.
The second man leaned in and whispered something into the leader’s ear, gesturing toward his wrist with a machete he had just pulled from behind his back.
“You’re right, that is a nice watch,” he grinned. “I think it will go perfect with the others.”
“The others?” Hayes asked.
“You see, this here is our phone, and anyone wants to use it has to pay a toll,” he said, nudging a plastic sack that sat on the ground.
Hayes glanced down at it. The phones, wallets, and watches packed inside told him that it had been a busy night. Hayes could tell where this was going but he wasn’t sure he had the energy to try and stop it.
“So, what’s it gonna be?” The man took a swig from his half-empty beer bottle.
“Listen, junior, you’re not getting my watch, so why don’t you and your buddy grab your loot and fuck off before someone gets hurt.”
“What the fuck ya say to me?” the tough demanded, upending the bottle.
“You heard me.”
The kid was fast, Hayes had to give him that. Before the words were out of his mouth the punk was swinging the bottle at his head, but Hayes was ready for it. He ducked beneath the blow and slammed a left hook into the kid’s gut.
The punch blasted the air from his attacker’s lungs. He folded in half, his mouth open wide in a silent scream. Before Hayes could finish him off, Machete Man waded in, the blade hissing through the air.
Hayes stepped inside, got a two-handed grip on the man’s wrist. He pulled his arm straight, torquing the wrist around until the elbow was pointing up—the skin over the joint stretched white as wax paper.
Machete Man grunted in pain and tried to spin out, but Hayes stomped down on the side of his knee, the joint exploding with the pop of wet celery.
The man screamed in agony, the machete clattering to the ground as Hayes swung him around and slammed his head through the side of the phone booth, turning in time to see the man’s partner yank a blade from his waistband.
He came in hard and fast, the blade glinting in the light as he slashed and stabbed at Hayes’s face.
Hayes danced back, the only weapon at his disposal the Texas Silencer Outrider in his back pocket. He yanked the suppressor free and, holding it against his forearm like a nightstick, parried the thrust aimed for his liver—thankful that the Outrider was made of Grade 9 titanium instead of aluminum.
The fight was silent, the only sound the scrape of blade against suppressor and the hiss of the punk’s breath as he feinted, slashed, and stabbed at him, trying anything to get inside of his guard—relentlessly pushing the fight.
While his attacker had yet to break a sweat, Hayes was gassed. His knee was throbbing, threatening to give out every time he put too much weight on it. On top of that, the gash on his forehead had cracked and fresh blood was leaking into his eye, obscuring his vision.
All right, I’ve had about enough of this, he thought.
He circled left, the pain that came with each step rolling up his leg like fire.
“Should have paid the toll when ya had a chance, old man,” the punk taunted, inching closer, bouncing the knife back and forth between his left and right hand.
“Well, c’mon then, before my beer gets warm,” Hayes said, coming to a halt.
“What beer?”
“The one you have in that sack—the one I’m going to be drinking in”—he paused and glanced at his watch—“let’s say ten seconds, if you’d stop dancing around like a little bitch.”
“I’ve got your bitch right here,” the punk said, resuming the attack.
He leapt forward and dropped his shoulder, feinting a slash to get Hayes off balance before launching a kick toward his damaged knee.
Hayes saw the kick and checked it with a kick of his own, the impact sending a lightning bolt of pain up his leg. He bit down on the pain and pivoted, clubbing the suppressor down on the punk’s wrist.
The blow shattered the bone, but before his attacker could scream, Hayes reversed the Outrider and slammed it hard across his throat—crushing his windpipe and sending him tumbling to the ground.