There was a kinship among predators, a sixth sense that told the jackal it was best to keep clear of the lion, and it was instinct that caused the boy to pause, reevaluate the gringo with the hard eyes.
“Oh, no?” he asked, his pack silent behind him. “And why is that?”
“I think you know,” he answered.
“He’s bluffing,” one of the passengers hissed. “Let’s take him.”
“You die first,” Hayes said, the Beretta appearing in his hand like a magic trick. “Got me?”
“Yeah, yeah, we . . . we got ya,” they nodded in unison.
“Cool,” Hayes said. “Now if you can tell me where to find the Hotel Claro, I’ll be out of your hair.”
Five minutes later he was pulling up to his destination.
Compared to the monoliths of glass and steel that towered over the Bay of Luanda, the three-story coral-pink Hotel Claro was a dump. But Hayes could tell from the freshly swept porch and the sparkle of the windows that Senhora Marta ran a tight ship.
The interior confirmed his first impressions. While the décor was dated, everything from the cowbell that hung over the door to the vinyl floor peeling from the sun was spick and span.
At the jingle of the bell, a pleasant-faced woman in a hand-spun cotton top emerged from behind the beaded curtain, a bright smile spreading across her caramel skin. “Ah, Senhor Hayes,” she said, “boa tardes.” Good afternoon.
Senhora Marta’s smile was infectious. As he strode to the burnished wood counter, Hayes was immediately at ease.
“You didn’t have any trouble finding the place, did you?”
“Not at all,” he lied.
“As you see,” she said, turning to the pegboard laden with keys, “you have your choice of rooms. What would you like?”
“Something on the third floor, facing the street, if you don’t mind,” he said, taking a mental picture of the pegboard.
“Room 306 has a very nice view.”
Hayes took the key, went out to the truck, and grabbed the items he’d picked up. He carried them back to his room, surreptitiously clocking the exits—compiling a mental list of escape routes on his way up the stairs.
The room was small but neatly furnished with a queen-sized bed, small closet, and a mini-fridge that hummed contentedly in the corner. He stepped inside, left the door cracked behind him, and carried the bags to the table by the window.
After double-checking the parking lot, he unboxed the baby monitor, grabbed the camera, and carried it back into the hallway. He used the adhesive square on the bottom to stick it to the exit sign that hung from the ceiling and headed back to the room.
Once inside, Hayes locked the door and threw the bolt, making sure it was secure before returning to the monitor on the table. Compared to the ultra-high-definition micro cams he’d used during his time with Treadstone, the camera stuck to the back side of the exit sign was a piece of shit. Both the quality and clarity of the image beamed back to the base station left much to be desired.
But as he remotely adjusted the camera’s angle, panned it to the right so he could see most of the hall and part of the stairwell, Hayes realized that it was better than nothing.
Leaving the monitor charging on the table, he carried the remaining sacks into the bathroom. He set them on the sink and cracked the window over the toilet, ensuring the room was properly ventilated before pulling on a pair of rubber gloves and getting to work.
Using the box cutter he’d purchased from the hardware store, Hayes cut the tops off the road flares and used a sieve to separate the magnesium from the filler. After separating the contents into two jars, he pulled off his shirt, tied it over his mouth and nose, and carried the bottle of ammonia and the weed killer to the tub.
Hayes had never been good at chemistry; in fact, he’d slept through most of the science classes he’d been forced to take in college. But kneeling over the bathtub—the chemicals bubbling in their jars as he mixed and strained them together—he stayed focused, all too aware that he was one wrong pour away from being turned into pink mist.
* * *
—
He finished around eight-thirty p.m., rinsed out the bathtub, and took a shower. Before leaving the room, he moved the bed, pried up one of the boards, and wedged the munitions into the space beneath.
Replacing the boards and moving the bed back into place, Hayes grabbed the book of matches from the ashtray on the table and stepped out into the hall. He closed and locked the door and then dropped to a knee, tore one of the matches from the book, and wedged it between the door and the frame.
Just in case Senhora Marta has any shitbag relatives lurking around.
It was almost nine when Hayes backed the Land Cruiser into the alley he’d used early that day and cut the engine. He stayed behind the wheel, letting his eyes adjust to the dark. Once they were acclimated, he tore the cellophane from the pack of SLs he’d bought on the way in.
Hayes had never been much of a smoker, but knew that in a bar they were a valuable prop—something that could be used to mask the fact that you weren’t getting shitfaced with the rest of the patrons. After rapping the pack against the flat of his hand, he stuffed them into the front pocket of his button-down and pulled out one of the burner phones.
Considering the late hour, Hayes thought it unlikely that the meeting would be going down tonight, but wanting to get the call out of the way before he went inside, he dialed Mallory’s number.
It was a nice night, cooler than it had been in Grand-Bassam and not nearly as muggy. As he waited for the call to connect, Hayes scanned the street, shaking his head at the handful of tourists strolling across the plaza, wondering if they were too drunk or too dumb to realize that Angola was not the kind of place you went for a walk after the sun went down.
Before he could come up with an answer, Wikus was on the line, his voice tense and lacking its usual bluster.
“Tomorrow, eight a.m.”
“Where?”
“The Museu da Moeda, you know it?”
“Yeah,” Hayes said.
“Nice and public, just like you wanted,” Wikus jeered.
“Fine. See you there, and bring my pistol,” Hayes said, ending the call and climbing out of the Land Cruiser.
He crossed the street and paused at the door, telling himself that he was using the darkened glass to check his backtrail, but knowing it was a lie. The truth was, he was stalling, willing to use any excuse to prolong the inevitability that lay inside.
Just man up and get it over with, the voice suggested.
“Easy for you to say,” Hayes muttered, reaching out for the doorknob, “you’re not the one she wants to kill.”