He followed the street west, but while his body was at ease, his eyes never stopped moving. They probed every doorway and alley. He used the mirrors of the cars parked on the street and the glass-fronted shops to check his backtrail, and when he was sure that he was clear, ducked into the alley on the north of Sky Bar.
He stashed the bag behind a stack of empty beer crates piled next to the service door and tried the knob.
Locked.
But Hayes had come prepared.
He pulled a nylon case from his back pocket and crouched in front of the knob to get a better look into the keyway.
What are we working with here—single cylinder deadbolt? Too easy.
Using a tension wrench to apply pressure to the cylinder, Hayes stuck the pick into the lock and began manipulating the pins. Three years ago, and he’d have had the door opened before the owner could get his keys out of his pocket.
But lockpicking was a perishable skill and Hayes was out of practice.
C’mon, you son of a bitch.
The seconds seemed to stretch into hours and realizing how exposed he was to the people walking past the alleyway, Hayes was about to say to hell with it and boot the door, when the pins clicked into place and the knob turned.
Thank God, he thought, stepping inside.
He followed the service stairs up to the second floor and stepped out into the kitchen. Ignoring the curious looks from the cooks and dishwashers, Hayes crossed to the stainless-steel door and using the scarred plexiglass window looked out into the dining room.
It was early for dinner, and near the front door the raven-haired hostess stood bored behind her mahogany podium. Out on the patio a handful of older patrons picked at salads and sipped wine while watching the sun dip below the horizon.
But most of the action was at the bar, and that’s where Hayes found his contact, Vladimir Drugov, sitting with his back to the hall. His gaudy floral shirt stretched over his bulging midsection; rheumy gray eyes locked on the half-empty bottle of vodka before him.
Hayes eased through the door, waiting until Vlad had the glass to his mouth before slipping up behind him and jamming his index finger into the back of the man’s skull.
“Ne dvigaysya.” Don’t move.
Vlad jerked in his chair, booze sloshing down the front of his shirt.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” he demanded in Russian. “Scaring me like that. I might have had a heart attack.”
Hayes flashed a smile he didn’t feel and took a seat, watched as Vlad dabbed at the front of his shirt with a napkin.
“When I was stationed in Syria, there was this annoying little koshechka—a cat that hung around the safe house. It was a pest, always showing up when it wanted to, scaring the hell out of people.”
“What did you do? Kill it?”
Vlad shot him a hard look. “No, I didn’t kill it,” he scowled. “I put a bell around its neck.”
“A bell?”
“So, I could hear it coming.”
“Never took you for a cat lover.”
“The cat was annoying, like you,” Vlad said, reaching for the bottle, “but being annoyed is better than being alone? Yes?”
Hayes stared, watched as he lifted the bottle to his lips and took a long pull.
“You know what’s annoying, Vlad? Sitting in your room for three days while your contact is out fucking off.”
The Russian came up for air, wiped the back of his hand across his mouth, and shot Hayes a frown.
“I—I, uh . . .”
Hayes held up his hand, cutting him off, not interested in his excuses.
“All I want to know is if you made contact.”
“I don’t understand you, putting yourself at risk for—”
“Where is the meet?” Hayes interrupted. “That’s all I need to know.”
Vlad was not used to being interrupted, and his face reddened, the anger in his eyes sharp as the blade he carried at his waist.
Of all the Russians Hayes had met, Vlad was the most mellow. Or he had been before he got back on the booze. He wasn’t sure what had knocked him off the wagon, but in the last month he’d noticed that Vlad was drinking more and sleeping less. The unhealthy combination added a hair trigger to the Russian’s volatile temper.
“Mogador.”
“Morocco, that’s Luca’s territory.” Hayes grimaced.
“Is that a problem?” the Russian asked.
Hayes frowned and glanced out the window, where a black powerboat was speeding toward the marina, the guttural roar of the boat’s engines rolling loud across the emerald-blue water.
“When?” he asked.
“Eight hours.”
“Are you serious?” he asked, turning his attention back to the Russian.
“Da,” Vlad said, pulling a phone from his pocket and setting it on the table. “They will call you.”
“Then I better get going,” Hayes said, grabbing the phone and getting to his feet.
“It’s a waste of time,” the Russian said, reaching for the bottle of vodka.
Hayes stuffed the phone into his back pocket, leaned over, and snatched the bottle off the table before Vlad’s fingers could close around the neck.
“What the fuck?” he demanded.
“You’re done drinking.”
Vlad jumped to his feet, his face scarlet, the knife snapping open in his hand.
“And who are you to tell me anything?” he demanded.
Hayes glanced down at the blade, felt the heat in his guts unlimber, his eyes flashing hard as he turned to face the Russian.
“I’m the one telling you how it is,” he said.
There was murder in Vlad’s eyes, and he stepped around the table, his lips stretched tight against his teeth.
His time at Treadstone had taught Hayes the importance of blending in, and to avoid any situation that would draw attention to themselves and thereby compromise their mission. But all it took was one look at the Russian’s face and he knew that wasn’t a possibility.
Have it your way.
Hayes stepped in, clamped his right hand around Vlad’s wrist, and twisted the knife down as he pulled the Russian in close. His left hand was already screaming up from his waist, thumb and forefinger splayed, aimed at his throat.
He hit him hard, but with a practiced control that made sure the wet pop of the blow was barely audible over the voices in the bar.
Hayes had half a mind to put the Russian down right then and there, but he resisted the urge and cast a quick glance around the bar.