Dammit.
“No, I just figured . . .”
“I think it is time we got one thing clear. You aren’t paid to think. You are paid to do what the hell I tell you, when I tell you to do it,” she’d snapped. “You got that?”
“Yeah.”
“Good, now get your ass to Luanda,” she’d said before hanging up.
“Might as well get this over with,” he said now, killing the light and climbing back into the SUV.
He started the engine and drove east, knowing the first order of business was to ditch the stolen Mitsubishi. Usually he’d park it on the street near his destination, leave the keys in the ignition, and let the local underworld handle the issue of getting rid of the car. But one look at the interior, the seats, and door handle stained rust red from his blood, and Hayes knew this time, that wasn’t an option.
Going to have to find a place to ditch it. Someplace close to the airport.
He found an abandoned cannery a quarter mile from his destination, pulled the SUV inside, and cut the engine. Grabbing the remnants of his shredded assault pack off the passenger seat, Hayes eased out of the vehicle, taking his time so that he didn’t drop any of his meager belongings, when the rotten fish guts smell sent the contents of his stomach racing into the back of his throat.
“The hell with this,” he said, pushing himself into a hobbled jog.
By the time he made it to the airfield he was drenched in sweat and beyond giving a shit. He approached the gatehouse, brushed past the guards at the gate with a hard look that dared them to try and stop him, and limped across the tarmac—the only thought on his mind getting the hell out of Grand-Bassam.
Hayes unlocked the troop door, yanked the chock blocks and drip pans and threw them inside the cargo hold with his ruined assault pack, and then climbed up after them, slamming the door shut behind him before scrambling up to the cockpit.
He sped through the startup sequence, and when the engines were running smoothly, he grabbed the radio and tuned the dial to the tower frequency. “Tower, this is Pilgrim three-niner x-ray ready to taxi from cargo ramp.”
“Pilgrim three-niner x-ray,” the voice answered, “cleared to taxi. Advise hold short of runway zero-three.”
Hayes repeated the transmission and swung the nose toward the taxiway, head swiveling left to right, searching for traffic and obstructions. Once he was sure it was clear he eased off the brake and guided the Provider down the taxiway, slowing as he approached the double yellow lines that marked the runway holding position, knowing that if Dábo or his men were going to make a move this is where they would do it.
“Tower, this is Pilgrim three-niner x-ray, holding short,” he said. “Request clearance to take off runway one-one.”
“Negative, Pilgrim three-niner x-ray—hold for incoming aircraft.”
Incoming aircraft?
The night was clear, and with the moon shining bright overhead, Hayes had a clear view of both the runway and the sky, and there wasn’t a cloud or an approaching aircraft in sight.
“Tower, this is Pilgrim three-niner x-ray, say again your last.”
Silence.
He leaned forward in his seat and twisted his neck back the way he’d come in time to see a pair of army Jeeps closing in fast on his tail.
In all his years of flying, Hayes had never even considered disregarding the tower, but that changed when he saw the finger of yellow flame emerge from the muzzle of the M60 machine gun mounted to the roll bar of the lead Jeep.
“The hell with this,” he said, letting off the brakes and advancing the throttles, ignoring the controller’s angry voice in his ear.
“Pilgrim three-niner x-ray, you are instructed to hold. You are not cleared—”
“Yeah, yeah,” Hayes said, leaning forward and killing the radio, waiting until the nose was centered on the runway before shoving the throttles to full power.
But the troops in the Jeeps weren’t giving up that easily.
While the drivers bounced across the grass median, desperate to cut the aircraft off before it reached takeoff speed, the gunners kept their triggers locked to the rear.
Hayes watched the coil of green tracers arcing past the nose, knowing it was just a matter of time before one of the gunners found their range, sending a hail of bullets through the glass, or worse, one of the engines.
He hadn’t even reached the halfway point of the runway and one look at the airspeed indicator told him that she wasn’t going to make it—not on her own, at least.
But luckily the old warbird had one final trick up her sleeve.
Hayes leaned forward, finger extended over the red safety cover marked JATO. He paused and double-checked the airspeed indicator. Realizing it was the only way he was getting out of Grand-Bassam alive, he disengaged the safety and flipped the toggle switch—igniting the eight external rocket bottles mounted below the rear landing gears.
The rocket motors screamed to life; the sudden acceleration of the jet-assisted take-off system shoved Hayes back in his seat. “Later, fellas,” he hooted, holding on for dear life as the Provider hurtled down the runway. The white cloud from the rockets inundated his pursuers, obscuring their view.
At ninety knots, he pulled back on the yoke, and the moment he was airborne retracted the landing gear. He leveled off at eight hundred feet and banked hard to the southwest, flying fast and low over the Gulf of Guinea.
Hayes waited until he was six miles over international waters and well out of the Ivorian Air Force’s reach before climbing to twenty thousand feet. He adjusted his course, banked east, and then reduced the throttles to cruising speed. After checking the gauges, he let out the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.
But despite the relief that came with making it out of Grand-Bassam alive, Hayes couldn’t shake the feeling that all he’d accomplished was to jump out of the frying pan and into the fire.
* * *
—
Three hours later, Hayes landed on a dusty airstrip fifty miles north of Luanda. After he shut down the engines, he grabbed his travel bag and the envelope of cash Mallory had given him and climbed out onto the tarmac, limping to the hangar.
The man at the counter saw him coming and his eyes went wide, hand dropping below the desk for the pistol Hayes assumed he had stashed there.
“I just need fuel and a place to clean up,” he said. “How much?”
“First I need to see your passport,” the man said.
“No problem,” Hayes replied, slapping a thousand dollars on the counter.
The man glanced down at the stack of cash, frowned, and then looked back up at his bloodied and beaten customer.