It didn’t seem logistically possible for Kirksman’s English to have become less intelligible in the scant couple of days since Hayward had last seen him, but the mercenary pilot had somehow managed. Hayward certainly recognized the Malay’s voice over the aircraft intercom but didn’t recognize more than a handful of the words the half-crazy stick-and-rudder man said.
Hayward looked at his watch. One of the most expensive flights he’d ever paid for was within half an hour of its destination.
Hayward was alone, armed, carrying fake papers, and sincerely hoping Kirksman would come through on the promise of a customs-free arrival process. He’d better, Hayward thought. I damn sure paid enough for it.
More gibberish over the intercom. The plane started a descent, clearing up the mystery. They were almost ready to land.
The butterflies started anew in Hayward’s gut.
He didn’t waste time once his feet hit the pavement. He double-checked the destination, hopped in the car Kirksman had arranged, double-checked his weapon, and double-timed away from the airstrip.
There was almost no traffic. The place looked nearly deserted. There was certainly a bit of European charm to it, but the bloom was long off the rose and it was clear that entropy had replaced enterprise decades ago. Looks like a great place to get knifed, Hayward thought.
There was still a ton of risk in his plan. It hinged as much on luck as on skill. That went against everything he’d been taught by the same bastards he now found himself pitted against. But evil didn’t equal stupid, and they weren’t wrong: hope should never be a course of action.
Not that he had a choice. His list of friends was very short. In fact, he had a strange feeling that Kirksman might be reporting back to the Agency. It was entirely possible that the Agency’s tentacles had reached out to everyone whose services Hayward had used in the past. Perhaps they had stuffed a fistful of denarii in their pockets in exchange for any useful tidbits. Loyalty was one thing, but cash always played.
So hope would have to be his course of action. He hoped that Kirksman hadn’t ratted. He hoped the cyber team on the Agency’s payroll hadn’t figured things out just yet. He hoped that Artemis Grange’s legendary intuition hadn’t yet homed in on Hayward’s play. He hoped he hadn’t missed anything in his preparations.
And he hoped they stopped hurting Katrin, because the alternative was too much for his mind to process, too much for his conscience to bear.
The road grew tortuous and steep. The cheap, beat-up car Kirksman had procured—built in the era before GPS—whined and rattled, struggling to pull its weight up the winding curves toward the gigantic wall on the seaward side of the city.
Hayward double-checked the map. Still on track.
Just a few miles further.