The shadowmaker, p.11
The Shadowmaker, page 11
Darius sat on the floor next to him, his back pressed against the wall.
After a few tense minutes, Jack’s voice again came through their earpieces. “Tomahawk Three at the gate.”
Darius lifted his infrared binoculars and peered into the street below. He focused the lens on the guards standing at the gate, then the cargo truck waiting to be let in. Somewhere beneath its steel frame, clinging to the undercarriage, was Jack Veselko.
Henry glanced out the window, holding his breath as the two guards gave the vehicle a close inspection. Finally, the men waved the driver in and returned to their post.
As the truck rumbled through the gates and into the complex, Henry stood in the window and brought the harpoon to his shoulder. He gripped the handle firmly, his eyes searching for a target. Then, with a firm exhale, he pulled the trigger. The metal grappling hook launched from the window and arched into the darkness toward the Customs House.
Darius watched through his binoculars as the projectile landed on the adjacent roof. “Direct hit,” he whispered.
Henry leaned down and grabbed the black line resting at his feet. He gently tugged out the slack and mounted it to the exposed door frame on the opposite wall. Satisfied, he secured his harness to the zipline with a set of carabiners and tightened his gloves. “Tomahawk One incoming,” he announced as he lunged toward the window.
In a full sprint, Henry propelled himself through the opening feet first and vanished into the cold night.
Darius stood in the window as the faint buzzing of the zipline hissed through the darkness.
As the wind whipped against Henry’s face, the roof of the Customs House drew closer. He grabbed the top of the line with his hand to slow his approach. Then, with the snap of a carabiner, he dropped onto the rooftop. “Tomahawk One is on the LZ,” he reported quietly.
“Copy that,” said Darius. “Tomahawk Three, what’s your status?”
After a few seconds, Jack’s voice buzzed over the channel. “Walking through the basement now. Gonna try to make my way upstairs to the main atrium.”
“Copy that. All right, boys, let’s move on to Birch Phase.”
Henry rose to his feet and peered through the darkness. With a calming breath, he marched toward the northeast corner of the roof and tore the grate from a ventilator duct. He entered the tube left foot first, then his right, then wriggled his way inside. Inch by inch, he slid down through the tight canal until he reached the bottom, where the duct redirected him horizontally above the third-floor ceiling.
After a sixty-foot crawl on his stomach, he reached the end. With a closed fist, he punched the grill gate out of the duct, hurling it into the deep abyss of the elevator shaft. He stuck his head out and examined the four walls that descended into the darkness. There was no sign of an elevator car and the components of the pulley system looked as if they’d been torn out long ago.
He reached his arms out of the duct and felt around for something to grab hold of. His fingers found a thin steel rail that offered just enough grip to pull himself from the duct. He slid his chest out first, then his hips, until he was clinging to the side of the shaft.
With a peek over his shoulder, he lowered himself along the cement wall until his feet landed on a metal runner just above the second-floor opening. A searing burn tore through his forearms as he gripped the rail and leaned back into the air.
“I’m ready for those lights,” he said under his breath. “Where you at, Tomahawk Three?”
“Thirty more seconds,” replied Jack. “Entering the mechanical room now.”
Henry steadied his breathing as he hung several stories above the floor.
“Fifteen seconds,” alerted Jack. “Ten seconds. Prepare for blackout.”
Henry waited on the wall until the thin light seeping through the cracks in the door just below his feet went dark. With a rush of relief, he shimmied himself down and stood on the ledge of the elevator doors. He slipped his fingertips between the metal sliders and pulled them open.
The corridor ahead of him was pitch black, but he could hear the faint voices of staff members grumbling from somewhere in the distance. He hurried up the hallway to the third door on his right and pulled a small pick set from his back pocket. The two picks slipped into the doorknob and gently set into position. With a slight turn, the lock disengaged and the door sprang open.
Henry ducked inside and closed himself in.
Against the far wall were a pair of utility shelves stuffed with bins, boxes, and other random items.
“Tomahawk One moving to Cherry Phase,” he said into the air.
“Copy that,” answered Darius. “The item number is Charlie, Hotel, Tango, Seven, Three, Five, Two.”
Henry stepped to the wall and scanned through the index numbers posted above each shelf. He ran his fingers along the ledge until he found one marked cht7352. His heart pounded through his jacket as he pulled a large plastic bin from the shelf.
Henry gazed inside, squinting through the darkness. “Guys, we got a serious problem.”
“Tomahawk One, please repeat,” Darius screeched into his ear. “What’s your status?”
“The asset isn’t here. There’s nothing here.”
“Bad copy, Tomahawk One. Please confirm: did you just say it isn’t there?”
“Affirmative. The asset’s gone.”
“Fuck! Get your asses outta there,” Darius instructed.
“Roger that. Tomahawk One on exfil. See you boys at the go zone.” Henry shoved the container back onto the shelf and rushed toward the door.
There were still whispers outside in the hallway and they seemed to be coming closer. He pinned himself against the wall just behind the door and held his breath.
He counted three voices in total—one man and two women. As they walked past the door outside, Henry clenched his eyes and leaned his head back against the concrete.
The three staff members continued on and were now standing in the hallway between Henry and the elevator shaft—his only escape.
He waited patiently until he heard the voices dissipate. With no other option, he reached for the door and slowly pulled it open. He peered into the dark, empty hallway before breaking into a light jog toward the elevator.
As he passed the last door on his left, he could see the silhouettes of the staff members inside the room.
“Que é aquele?” one of them said as he rushed past.
Henry reached the end of the hall and ripped the elevator doors open with his hands. As he struggled to get himself into the shaft, he could hear a set of footsteps rushing toward him. He grabbed hold of the runner above his head and lifted himself from the platform to the ledge.
After a short climb, Henry dipped into the ventilation duct and slithered his way back to the roof. He emerged minutes later and broke into a full sprint toward the black horizon ahead of him. As he reached the ledge, he closed his eyes and leapt from the building.
The zipline attached to his harness whipped against his chest as he plummeted through the air. He tightened the handbrake just before slamming his feet against the outside wall. He rappelled the last two stories and hit the ground with a thud.
Under the cover of night, Henry tossed his harness to the ground and sprinted toward the back fence. As he ran, he reached for the bolt cutters in his backpack. Then, two gunshots burst into the air behind him.
“Pare! Pare!” a voice shouted through the darkness.
Henry froze.
“Você está encrencado!” the voice roared.
Henry raised his hands as the barrel of a pistol was placed against the back of his head. “Listen, I don’t speak Portuguese,” he tried. “How about some English, huh?”
“Fuck you and your English!”
“Okay… I can deal with that. No problem.”
Henry’s hands were quickly forced behind his back and handcuffed. He was then thrown against the fence and patted down. The guard grabbed Henry’s backpack from the dirt and tossed it over his arm before hustling the prisoner into the building.
Henry was taken down a long hallway and thrust into an empty room. The door closed behind him as he struggled to free himself from the handcuffs.
He paced the floor for nearly an hour before the guard returned and took him back into the hall and through another door. This one, however, led to an outside courtyard, where two men in street clothes waited next to a white Cadillac Escalade. Their eyes widened at the sight of their new prize.
“Hey! What the hell is going on here?” Henry yelled as they shoved him into the backseat and slammed the door in his face.
A rush of adrenaline spiked through his body. These weren’t customs agents, he knew. They were members of Cardoso. He sat silent as the two men piled in and drove him to the outer limits of the city. Eventually, they arrived at a small marina tucked along the north shore, far from the lights of Santos.
With his hands still cuffed behind his back, Henry was yanked out of the SUV and led down a long pier. His feet shuffled against the planks as his captors pushed him along.
They reached the bottom platform, where a large fishing boat bobbed in the dark water. Henry stepped aboard and was forced into a chair on the back deck.
One of the men ducked beneath the transom and disappeared into the main cabin. Seconds later, the twin Mercury outboard engines sputtered to life. The boat slowly backed away from the pier and vanished into the dark, icy waters of the Atlantic.
The fifteen-minute ride felt like an eternity. As Henry sat in the swivel deck chair, he gazed up at the stars and searched for a soothing memory—anything to calm his mind.
The boat’s engines finally cut off, and, for a brief moment, all he could hear was the calm sound of water splashing against the hull.
His pulse began to race and his hands suddenly went numb behind his back. A black hood was slipped over his head as he was lifted to a standing position. Henry tried to remain strong, but the fear of certain death proved to be too much.
“No! No, please don’t!” he screamed.
His captors remained silent, holding him firmly by the arms.
With a deep breath, Henry mustered what little energy he had left and tried to lunge away. But the men were quick to grab hold of him. They yanked him back into position and slammed him down to his knees.
With his hands clasped behind his back, his eyes began to well beneath the hood. “Please don’t kill me,” he begged.
He tried one last time to free himself, but the cuffs were simply too tight. Through an uncontrollable instinct to survive, he thrashed himself violently against the deck. Then, with nothing left, Henry’s body went still. The two men lifted him back to his knees, and for a single, tranquil moment, he surrendered to his fate.
Under a blanket of silence, he filled his lungs with the fresh, salty air of the ocean and tried to find comfort in the fact that he would die in such a peaceful place.
As he exhaled one final breath, the sound of a bullet being chambered into a pistol echoed behind him. He closed his eyes and cleared his mind.
Two loud pops broke the crisp air as Henry fell to the floor.
He opened his eyes and blinked. The gunshots were followed by a single thud against the deck.
As the boat gently rocked from side to side, he listened carefully. There were footsteps nearby and he could hear the sound of a body being dragged to the edge, followed by a sharp splash.
Henry fought to catch his breath. “H-h-hello?” he stuttered. “Is someone there?”
He was grabbed from under his arms and lifted to his feet. The hood was ripped from his head. Henry looked up to see the bigger of the two men standing before him. The other thug was nowhere to be found.
“What just happened?” he grumbled.
With the first rays of sun now rising over the ocean, the man smiled and walked back to the cabin. Seconds later, the outboard engines came to life and the boat began moving.
Handcuffed and stunned, Henry steadied himself in the chair as the vessel picked up speed and darted across the waters toward Santos.
They reached the marina as darkness gave way to dawn. Beyond their wake, the boundless blue waters of the Atlantic clashed with an orange sky that struggled to free itself from the horizon.
Henry was lifted onto the pier by the large Brazilian, then stuffed into the waiting Cadillac. “Where are you taking me?” he asked as the SUV tore out of the lot and onto a dirt road. The man didn’t respond. “Is this a language barrier thing? Do you speak English?”
Still no response.
After a moment, Henry nodded acceptingly. “Okay. All right. Who do you work for? You’re with Cardoso, right?”
The man reached for the dash and turned on the radio. He quickly found a channel he liked and turned it up.
Henry tried to rationalize the strange series of events as the Cadillac dashed through the forest with the sounds of Brazilian salsa music blaring through its open windows.
An hour’s drive brought them to a deserted outpost at the base of a large, densely wooded mountain. Henry knew they had been driving north and were probably somewhere just outside the small city of Cubatão. Surely, he was being sold to a rival gang: or worse, the authorities.
He was pulled from the backseat and guided into a decades-old building with a blue tarp draped over its roof.
Inside, Henry squinted through the shadows. The Brazilian drew his pistol cautiously as they entered, panning it from side to side with his eyes trained down its barrel. Suddenly, a door burst open on the far end of the building. The man pulled Henry closer, using him as a human shield.
The silhouettes of two figures stood at a distance.
One of them began marching forward.
Henry narrowed his eyes. “Darius?”
“Henry! Holy shit!” his friend shouted as he ran up and wrapped Henry in a bear hug. “Get these goddamn cuffs off of him, will ya, pal?”
The heavy-set Brazilian pulled a key from his pocket and unlocked the handcuffs from Henry’s wrists.
“What the absolute hell is going on, Darius? What the fuck?”
“I can’t believe it! I totally thought we lost you, bro.”
As the two stared at each other in bewilderment, Jack Veselko emerged. He dropped a duffle bag onto the ground and unzipped it, revealing stacks of US currency.
“What are you guys doing here?” Henry screeched. “And what’s with the whole, you know, thing with this guy?”
“We planted a seed with some low-level Cardoso soldiers,” Darius explained. “A reward for anyone who brought us the tall white guy who was captured at the Customs House. You’re lucky, bro. Cardoso gave the order to have you killed. Did they take you out to the ocean? What happened?”
“Yes, they took me out to the fucking ocean!” Henry roared. “They put a hood over my goddamn face and I was about to be executed! Do you have any idea what that feels like?”
Darius fought the urge to laugh. “I’m sorry, Henry. But that was close. I mean, even Jack said the odds of getting you back alive were really, really bad.”
“I told him there was no way,” the young operator added.
Henry shook his head. “I’m sure you did.”
As the three of them reveled in their reunion, the Brazilian reached for the duffle bag and slung it over his shoulder.
“How much?” asked Henry.
Darius rocked his head. “What do you mean?”
“How much did you pay this dude to bring me here?”
“Two hundred thousand.”
“That’s it? That’s all my life is worth? Are you fucking kidding me right now?”
Darius and Jack erupted with laughter.
“I would’ve taken less,” the Brazilian said with a boyish grin.
“I’m sorry, where are my manners?” Darius muddled aloud. “Henry, I’d like you to meet Caesar. You should at least thank him for saving your life.”
“Thank you, Caesar,” Henry quipped. “Now what the hell are we gonna do about the asset?”
Darius straightened his back and inhaled conspicuously. “I don’t know.”
“Are you guys talking about the box they took from your boat?” asked Caesar.
“Yes,” Darius replied. “Any idea where it went?”
The man nodded. “They took it last night, around midnight. It left on an old transport truck with the number eight painted on the back. I helped load it.”
“Where’s this truck going exactly?” asked Darius.
“Rio de Janeiro.”
Henry did a quick calculation in his head. “That’s gotta be like an eight-hour drive. If it left at midnight that means it’ll arrive in a couple hours. We’ll never make it.”
“I have an idea,” uttered Jack. His eyes darted from side to side. “Caesar, is there an airport around here?”
The Brazilian thought for a moment before nodding. “Yes. There’s a private airport in Santo Andrè, maybe thirty minutes from here.”
“And where the hell are we supposed to find a pilot?” asked Henry.
Darius gently raised his hand.
“No, absolutely not.”
“We don’t have any other choice,” the captain argued. “And if we don’t leave right now, we’ll never be able to intercept that truck before it reaches Rio.”
Henry shook his head begrudgingly. “This is ridiculous.”
“Caesar, can you get us to that airstrip?”
The big man crossed his arms over his broad chest.
“How much?” asked Darius.
“Ten thousand.”
“Fine. Jack, do we have ten grand left?”
Jack slid a backpack from his shoulder and opened it up. He pulled out a stack of bills and handed them to Caesar.
Moments later, the Cadillac burst onto the open road and coasted north, weaving through a swath of mountains and dense forest.
They arrived at the old airfield and came to a stop at the end of a crumbling runway. They stepped out and glared across the vast expanse. Caesar waved his arm wildly out the window as the Cadillac sped away.
“So what happens to him?” asked Henry.
“Two hundred thousand US dollars goes a long way in this part of the world,” said Darius. “I’m sure he’ll make a nice life for himself and his family somewhere.”
