The “lobby” was on par with the exterior: four bare concrete walls and a peeling linoleum floor—the only furniture a pair of worn couches and a scarred wooden table covered in faded travel magazines.
But Hayes didn’t see any rats, which meant it was clean enough. More importantly, the lobby was free of the scumbags he would have encountered if he’d gone to any of the off-the-grid hotels he’d frequented in his past life.
Places that catered to murderers, pimps, and human traffickers—the kind of trash that made Hayes’s trigger finger itch—threatened to break his streak.
He moved to the front desk, where the night manager sat, eyes glued to the television perched in the corner.
“Yes?” he asked, eyes never leaving the TV.
“A room,” Hayes answered in accentless Spanish. “One on the bottom floor, near the back if you have it.”
“Yes, yes, whatever you want,” the manager said.
The manager grabbed the twenty-five euros Hayes placed on the desk without looking up. His hand darted below the desk and returned with a key attached to a faded square of plastic.
“Room 107,” he said, still glued to the TV. “It’s around back, next to the toilets.”
“Gracias.”
Hayes took the key and followed the burnt rope smell of marijuana into a hallway lit by a pair of bare bulbs. He was on autopilot now, the thousands of hours spent working the Treadstone kill houses back in the States taking over. Freeing his mind and body to work independently of conscious thought. His eyes locked on an open door, muscle memory taking over as he approached, pace slowing, hand dropping to the pistol holstered at his waist, fingers closing around the grip.
But instead of an assassin waiting with a gun, Hayes found a mass of unwashed backpackers passing a joint.
“Want a hit?” one of the kids asked in French.
“Thanks, but I’m good.”
He continued down the hall, pausing at the emergency exit to check the deadbolt, make sure it was secure before stopping in front of room 107. He unlocked the door; any thought that his days of staying in run-down hotels were over when he left Treadstone twenty-four months earlier vanished at the sight of the chipped Formica table and the ancient air conditioner hanging over the sagging bed.
It’s only for one night.
That was three days ago.
The A/C had given out the first night, and it was stifling in the room. Too hot to sleep, or think, or do anything other than sit there and sweat.
But Hayes was well versed in the art of suffering. It was a skill he’d mastered during his time in Treadstone—the CIA’s Special Access Program that had plucked him out of the military and turned him into a government-sanctioned assassin.
He sat at the table, the sand linen button-down clinging to his back like a sheet of Saran Wrap as he dropped the magazine from the STI Staccato XC, racked the round out of the pipe, and began breaking down the pistol for the third time that day.
He took his time, wiping a rag over the Trijicon miniature reflex sight mounted in front of the rear sight before removing the slide. Hayes had just set the guide rod and spring on the oil-soaked shirt he’d laid across the table when his cell finally chirped to life.
About damn time.
“Da?” he answered, putting the phone on speaker.
“Marina Hércules,” the voice replied in Russian. “Do you know where that is?”
Hayes might have been stuck in the room for the past three days, but he hadn’t been idle. Besides checking his gear and cleaning the pistol, he’d memorized the travel map he’d picked up during one of his forays out for food, and while his fingers flew over the pistol, Hayes brought it up in his mind.
“Yes, I know where it is.”
“Good, be at the Sky Bar in one hour, and come alone.”
Hayes ended the call, slammed the magazine into the now reassembled pistol, racked a round into the chamber, and got to his feet. He stuffed the STI into its holster and moved to the bed, where his bag lay waiting.
His time as a Green Beret in Afghanistan had taught him how to live out of a rucksack; how to pack light, which is why the only comfort items in his bag were an extra shirt, a pair of pants, one small toiletry bag, and four pairs of socks.
Everything else either went bang or boom.
Hayes stripped off his shirt, strapped a level III Kevlar vest to his chest, and shoved an extra magazine of 9-millimeter hollow points into the pouch on his belt. After belting the travel wallet with his passport and emergency cash across his stomach, he pulled on his shirt. He stuffed the wad of euros into his right pocket and the spring-loaded Microtech Troodon knife into his left, shouldered the pack, and started for the door.
Hayes stepped out into the hall and after locking the door behind him, started toward the office. He was two feet from the emergency exit when the door flew open. The blaze of sunlight that rolled into the dark hallway hit Hayes in the face. It exploded like a flashbang, leaving him blind.
His instincts took over and he stepped to the left, shoulder searching for the wall, right hand yanking the pistol from its holster. He blinked the stars from his eyes and was seeking a target when a masked figure stepped into the hall, the pistol in his hand aimed at Hayes’s face.
2
CEUTA, SPAIN
Hayes stared at the man, oddly calm despite the barrel of the .44 Magnum yawning like a tunnel in front of his eyes. He was aware of every detail, the weight of the 9-millimeter in his hand, the press of his finger against the trigger, and the voice in his head screaming like a banshee.
KILL HIM. KILL HIM NOW.
Hayes understood that neither the voice nor the extreme calm that came over him in times like these was natural. They were synthetic emotions, by-products of the mind job the Treadstone scientists had done when they transformed him from a Green Beret to a government-sanctioned assassin.
An apex predator trained to hunt and kill without the slightest hesitation.
But he was done killing and the fact that the man was still breathing was a testament to how far he’d come.
Hayes silenced the voice—pushed it back into its box until it was nothing more than an annoying hum—and then focused all his attention on the man with the pistol. He wasn’t sure if it was the fear in the man’s eyes or the tremble of the pistol in his hand, but for whatever reason, he found himself hesitating.
Searching for a reason not to kill the man.
He took his finger off the trigger and lowered the 1911, praying he wasn’t making the biggest mistake of his life.
“Take it easy,” he said in Spanish.
“M-money . . . g-give me your money.”