He could hear the assassins off to his left, the muted footfalls through the undergrowth and the crimson throw of their lights off the crumpled hood telling him they were closing in fast.
He gave the pistol an angry jerk, but still the holster refused to turn loose of the SIG.
Why the fuck won’t this come out?
Shaw was panicking now, the awareness of his encroaching death coiling around his heart like an icy snake.
You need to calm down. Figure this out before it’s too late.
He studied the holster strapped to his driver’s hip, fully expecting to feel the white-hot burn of a bullet at any second. Instead, he felt a plastic thumb break on the inside of the holster. The plastic tab reminded him that while he still carried old school leather holsters, Carter and pretty much everyone else on the payroll had shifted to Kydex—plastic holsters that came with built-in Level II retention.
He thumbed the retention latch to the rear and this time the SIG came out like greased lightning. Pistol in hand, Shaw stumbled backward, his leg buckling beneath him as he rolled free of the door.
He tumbled to the dirt, falling across a jagged strip of metal that sliced his face, the rush of pain and the spurt of hot blood down his cheek forgotten the second he heard the voice from the rear of the car.
“We’ve got a live one.”
Shaw rolled onto his back and shifted his body until he had a clear line of sight through the shattered glass of the back door. He brought the SIG up in a two-handed grip, centered the sights on the figure he saw through the back glass, and fired three quick shots.
Thinking the shots had come from inside the car, the second shooter opened up—hosing the interior of the Town Car with lead.
Still on the ground, Shaw flipped onto his stomach, laid the front sight on the pair of legs standing on the other side of the vehicle, and sent a 9-millimeter hollow point through the man’s kneecap.
The joint exploded like a ripe melon and the shooter screamed in pain, managing a half step back before tumbling to the ground.
Shaw grunted to his feet and limped around the back of the Town Car. He paused at the hood and looked down at the man sprawled out on the ground. Too tired to bend down and check his pulse, he put a bullet though the top of his skull.
On the other side of the car he found the second shooter busy trying to secure a tourniquet around his thigh—his H&K MP7 still lying in the dirt where he’d dropped it.
Shaw kicked the submachine gun into the weeds and limped over to the man, gun smoke still coiling from the barrel of the SIG. He stopped in front of the shooter, eyes void of any emotion as he studied him over the pistol sights.
“H-help me and . . . and I’ll tell you everything,” the man begged.
“Thanks, but I’ve got this one all figured out,” Shaw said before pulling the trigger.
39
LUANDA, ANGOLA
After leaving the Hotel Sunshine, Hayes drove back to the beach, found a shaded alley close to the Fortress São Miguel, and parked. He rolled down the windows and studied the beach bar two hundred yards to his south through the binoculars.
From the exterior the Rusted Nail was warm and bright. Everything from the neon-yellow awning that covered the back deck to the tables overlooking the ocean exactly as it should be.
But it was the tanned woman in the white tank top cleaning the windows who held Hayes’s attention. He thumbed the focus knob and zoomed in on her face as a pair of early risers stepped into view. The woman stopped what she was doing and turned to greet them, an easy smile spreading across her face.
She seemed perfectly at ease standing there in the sunlight, not a care in the world, but Hayes saw past the façade, noting the outline of the pistol at the small of her back and the faded scar on her chest when she reached up to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear.
The conversation lasted all of thirty seconds and then the woman was alone, the smile falling from her face as she scanned the street. Her green eyes darted like hummingbirds in flight, searching for something she sensed more than saw. She scanned left to right, taking in the movement closest to her before jumping across the street.
Then she was looking directly at him.
Hello, Charli.
Her gaze lingered on the alley for less than a second, and while Hayes knew there was no way she could have seen him parked deep in the shadows, for an instant he could have sworn there was a hint of recognition in her eyes, a glint that left him feeling exposed. But he brushed it off, returned the binoculars to the passenger seat, and pulled the faded baseball cap over his eyes.
Well, this ought to be fun.
* * *
—
Hayes woke up at noon, sweating from the sun beating down on him like a bully with a magnifying glass. The scene before him had changed; the plaza that had been empty before was now full of tourists taking pictures of the ancient fort and eyeing the wares the local craftsmen displayed on linen sheets.
He wiped the sweat from his brow, the savory scent of roasted meat and vegetables wafting from the grills of the sidewalk vendors reminding him that he hadn’t eaten in twelve hours. But it was the sight of the blue-coated police patrolling the plaza that told him it was time to move.
Hayes started the engine and pulled out of the alley, in search of a phone to call Mallory and food to assuage his hunger.
He found both three miles to the east at an open-air market, where he ate two bowls of calulu, a traditional fish and vegetable stew, downed a liter of bottled water, and then paid the shop owner twenty bucks to use the man’s phone.
Hayes dialed the number, adjusted the Beretta at his hip, and waited for the call to connect.
This time it was Wikus who answered.
“Thought you were told to come to the hotel, errand boy. What happened, you get lost?”
“If you think that I’m coming anywhere near that place, you’re dumber than you look,” he answered, glancing down at his watch.
In Grand-Bassam he hadn’t cared if they’d tracked the call, but now that he was in the same city as Mallory and her merry band of pirates, Hayes wasn’t taking any chances.
“So you need to figure out another spot, someplace nice and open where I can see you and you can see me. Got it?”
“Listen here—”
But Hayes was done taking orders.
“You’ve got fifteen seconds. Yes or no?” he demanded.
“I will let Mallory know,” Wikus growled.
“Good. I’ll be in touch,” he said, ending the call.
Hayes pulled on his shades, tugged the brim of the ball cap down over his eyes, and stepped out into the street. He needed to buy a phone and a few other items before heading back to the Rusted Nail.