Only way to get this thing running is to pull the spark plugs, clear the excess fuel from the cylinders.
Hayes glanced up at the rapidly approaching Jet Ski, knowing that he was out of time.
Fight or die, the voice warned.
Hayes jumped to his feet and raced back to the captain’s chair for his assault pack, wishing there was another way as he unzipped the large pocket. Grabbed the pistol grip of the six-and-a-half-inch Serbu “Super Shorty” shotgun.
Fight or die, the voice repeated.
“Shit,” he yelled, pulling the Serbu from the pack.
The Jet Ski arced closer, the machine pistol rattling in the passenger’s hand, the bullets kicking up a line of miniature geysers as they raced inevitably toward the Mako.
Hayes racked a 12-gauge shell into the action and brought the shotgun to bear. He centered the bead on the driver’s chest and disengaged the safety, but held his fire. Waited until the bullets were slapping so close to the Mako that he could feel the spray of water on his skin. See the determination on the shooter’s face as he lined up the kill shot. Only then did Hayes pull the trigger.
The shotgun roared like a howitzer, the spray of double-aught buck slamming into his target’s chest like a freight train—blowing both men off the Jet Ski.
Hayes racked the pump and waited for the second pair of attackers. He caught them as they were cresting a swell four feet away and dumped them with another blast from the shotgun.
Then he was alone and instead of the relief that usually came with winning a gunfight, all Hayes felt when he looked down at the smoking shotgun was disgust.
“Five months, down the FUCKING drain,” he snarled, flinging the shotgun into the sea.
Better them than you, the voice answered.
But as Hayes grabbed the toolkit from beneath the wheel and returned aft to begin work on the engines, he found there was no solace in the words—only regret.
6
CEUTA, SPAIN
The second Hayes left the bathroom, Vlad was on his feet, stumbling on rubber legs to the door. His hands shook as he pawed at the lock. The stale stench of old vodka and new fear that seeped from his pores sent his guts heaving into his throat.
Vlad retched, but stayed focused on the task at hand, knowing that if Hayes changed his mind and decided to come back and kill him, he’d have to boot the door off the hinges to get in.
There was a part of him that knew it was a fool’s errand, knew that it would take more than a flimsy door and the three-dollar latch to keep a man like Hayes out, but it was all he had.
The metallic snap of the latch sliding into place echoed off the walls and the Russian lurched to the trash can in the corner and vomited until he tasted bile.
After twelve years in the GRU—the Russian Intelligence Directorate—Vlad was no stranger to violence. He’d joined the military at eighteen and spent the first five years with the 45th Spetsnaz Airborne Brigade, gaining valuable combat experience in Chechnya and the Caucasus. But it wasn’t until Vlad was selected to join Directorate V that he learned the art of mokroye delo—wet work.
During his time with Directorate V he’d gone up against Mossad hit teams in Libya, French DGSE in Marseilles, even a member of the CIA’s Ground Branch in Iraq—and always came out without a scratch.
But as Vlad sagged against the wall, the cold tile against his fevered skin welcome as a lover’s touch, he realized that despite all the men he’d gone up against, none of them compared to Adam Hayes.
When he trusted his legs to hold him, Vlad got to his feet and went to the sink. He turned on the water, rinsed the vomit out of his mouth, and washed his face, making himself as presentable as possible before stepping out of the bathroom.
Keeping his head down, Vlad crossed the bar and stepped out the front door, pausing to shake a Prima from the pack in his breast pocket. He stuck the cigarette between his lips and lit it using a battered Zippo. The acrid burn of the Russian tobacco and the rush of nicotine into his blood settled his nerves.
The altercation with Hayes played in his mind on an endless loop. Vlad saw himself get to his feet, heard the click of the blade snapping open in his hand. He moved around the table, heart pumping in his chest, the only thought on his mind burying the knife in the American’s gut.
But before the blade could find flesh, Hayes had him by the wrist, and then he was twisting the knife away, pulling him close.
Vlad never saw the blow that put him down, which shocked him because he’d been eye to eye with the American, close enough to feel his breath on his face, hear the snap of his shirt as his hand shot up from his waist.
His mind bounced back to the hand-to-hand training he’d received with the Spetsnaz at the Defense Ministry’s Military Academy, and the rawboned sergeant who’d taught them to kill with the knife.
“One and a half seconds. That is how much time it takes a man standing twenty-one feet away to get close enough to bury a blade in your gut.”
By the time he was done with the course, Vlad was doing it in half that.
Then how is he still alive?
The fact was, he didn’t know.
But it wasn’t for lack of trying.
The first time he met the American, Vlad had thought he’d finally found his mark, a way to get out of the trouble he was in. He had to give it to Hayes: The man hid it well, with his wide-eyed optimistic talk about helping the poor people of Africa. But slowly Vlad began to see through it. He saw the way Hayes’s eyes never stopped moving. How he would always sit with his back to the wall. The man had training. The signs were subtle and while they wouldn’t have registered with ninety-nine percent of the world’s population, Vlad picked them up in stereo, and immediately set out to find out all he could about the bearded American.
But despite his extensive intelligence network he could find nothing.
Now he didn’t care, and as he turned onto Avenue Playas del Duque, the only thought on his mind was getting the hell out of Ceuta, putting as much distance between him and Hayes as possible.
I need a car.
Staying in the shadows, Vlad scanned the street, looking for something that wouldn’t draw attention, like a Citroën or a Toyota, but after ten minutes of searching he realized he’d have better luck finding a virgin on prom night than an economy car near the marina. So he settled on a midnight-blue Audi RS 5.
The door was unlocked, and he slipped inside. Vlad used his knife to snap the plastic covering free of the steering column. After exposing the wiring harness, he sorted through the birds’ nests of wires until he found the battery wire and the ignition wire.
He stripped the insulation free, and using his shirt as an insulator, twisted the two wires together, jumping when the radio blared to life.