The figure’s voice was rough around the edges but not deep, and Hayes realized that it wasn’t a man in front of him, but a teenager.
Yeah, I’m definitely not killing a kid.
“What’s your name?” he asked, returning the pistol to the holster.
“What?”
“Your name.”
“C-Carlito,” he stuttered.
“Listen, Carlito, why don’t you . . .”
“No, you listen. Give me your money, or I’ll k-kill you.”
They were tough words, but Hayes wasn’t buying it.
“It’s a hell of a thing to kill a man,” he said, taking a step forward.
“Ba . . . back up.”
Hayes ignored him, took another step, closing the distance until he was inches from the pistol. Close enough to see Carlito’s index finger whiten as he increased the tension on the trigger.
“Just take it easy,” he said.
Still holding the room key in his hand, Hayes lifted his arms to his chest and held them palms out—hyperaware of the pistol pointed at his face. He was determined to end the situation without violence, but when he heard the click of the trigger spring engage the hammer, Hayes wasn’t sure if that was a possibility.
While he wasn’t sure if the boy was preparing to shoot him or was simply unaware of how much pressure he was exerting on the trigger, Hayes realized it didn’t matter. Especially considering that either option ended with him taking a bullet to the face.
Had about enough of this silly game.
His hands were almost level with Carlito’s eyes when Hayes opened his fingers and let the room key drop from his hand.
The light tumbling in through the open door glinted off the key as it fell. The unexpected spark of sun on brass caught Carlito’s attention. Hayes watched his eyes, waited for the shift in focus he knew would come—and the moment the boy’s eyes ticked down to the falling key, he struck.
He grabbed the barrel with his left hand and the cylinder with his right. His fingers closed around the hammer, locking it down before torquing the pistol from the boy’s hand.
In the blink of an eye it was over. Hayes’s fingers were wrapped around the grip of the revolver, the barrel jammed into Carlito’s forehead.
“D-don’t kill me,” the boy begged.
Hayes lowered the pistol and dropped the hammer before stuffing the revolver into his waistband. “I don’t kill kids,” he said, pulling the wad of cash from his pocket.
Carlito looked at the fistful of euros, then up at his face, the confusion in his eyes evident.
“I-I don’t understand.”
“Don’t overthink it, kid, just take the money,” Hayes said, slapping the cash into his palm. “Now get the hell out of here.”
Carlito stuffed the cash into his pocket, turning to the door as Hayes bent down and retrieved his key.
“Oh, and kid,” he called after him. “Do yourself a favor. Stop pointing guns at strangers.”
* * *
—
Twenty minutes later, Hayes was sitting in La Habana Café, a double vodka tonic sweating on the cocaine-white tablecloth before him. The money he’d given Carlito was supposed to have lasted him the rest of the month, and the gesture, while noble, had put a serious dent in his operating funds.
You’re an idiot, the voice told him.
Maybe so, he thought, lifting the drink from the table and taking a sip, but I’d rather be broke than have another body on my conscience.
The bitter mix of lime and melted ice offered a brief respite from the sweltering heat, but more important, the double shot of vodka calmed his frayed nerves. He wanted another one but resisted the urge, knowing that he’d need a clear head for the task at hand.
Hayes turned his attention to the mouth of the harbor and the Westport tri-deck streaming past the seawall. The sight of the luxury yacht was a sign of how much the city had changed since the last time he’d been here.
He sucked on the ice, admiring the captain’s skills as he worked the throttles and gracefully maneuvered the ungainly yacht into the harbor. Hayes was enjoying the show until he noticed the woman with the red hair standing on the sundeck, the young boy in her arms sending his mind racing back to the States.
Back to his wife, Annabelle, and his three-year-old son, Jack, and the promise he’d made when he left Treadstone. How he told them he would do whatever it took to break free of the violence and rage that came from the behavior modification the docs had used to turn him into an assassin.
He’d done everything in his power to keep that promise, going so far as to pack everything he owned into the back of his old Chevy and driving out to Washington State for an eighteen-month exile. He’d even swallowed his pride and started working with a shrink in Tacoma, taking the meds she prescribed, believing her when she told him that he was “making wonderful progress.”
But in the end, he knew it was only a matter of time before his past caught up with him, forced him into a situation where the only way out was to do what he did best—kill. Which is exactly what happened.
Hayes had known there would be consequences for his actions—figured there was a good chance Levi Shaw, the director of Treadstone, would send him to some dark corner of the world, lock him into a black site, and throw away the key.
But never in his wildest dreams did he imagine they’d kick him out of the country—stamp his passport with PNG.
Persona non grata.
Not fucking welcome, he thought.
The thought of leaving the United States had been a hard pill to swallow, but it was having to leave his wife and three-year-old son that had almost killed him. But it was either that or spend the rest of his short life looking over his shoulder, waiting for the day when the government sent someone to put a bullet in the back of his skull.
Hayes untangled himself from the past with a shake of his head and took a moment to clear his mind before turning his attention west.
With its white stucco façade and crimson awning, the Sky Bar was hard to miss. But with the rays of the dying sun glinting off the emerald blue of the sea, Hayes was having a hard time identifying the people who ducked through the front door, and if it hadn’t been for the loud Hawaiian shirt his contact was wearing, he might have missed him.
Hayes used the napkin to wipe the prints off the glass, grabbed his bag, and got to his feet. He moved to the door, where he paused to study the trickle of sunburned faces that streamed past him, absorbing their pace and posture, willing himself to relax.
The transformation was subtle, a softening of the tension lines at the edge of his blue eyes and a relaxed sag of his shoulders, but they were effective, and when Hayes stepped out onto the cobblestones, he was just another vacationer out for a late afternoon stroll.