by Flynn Vince
He leaned back in the chair, contemplating the two dead men. As usual, options were pretty much nonexistent. He was either going all in on this thing or he was getting on a plane to South Africa with Claudia and letting the world go to shit without him.
Maybe she was right. Maybe it was inevitable. He and people like him had managed to hold back the tide for this long, but the modern world was generating too many threats coming from too many different directions. Eventually he or someone else was going to miss. Did it really matter if it was now or a year from now? Maybe it was time to hit the reset button on the world. Make people see that there were consequences to their actions. Make them remember what they had and value it enough to protect it.
Who was he kidding?
He dialed Claudia and, not surprisingly, she picked up on the first ring.
“Are you all right?” she asked in a tone that was impossible to read. The hat she was wearing now was that of Scott Coleman’s logistics director, and it meant her personal feelings for Rapp had to be temporarily put aside. At least that was the theory.
“Yeah.”
“How did it go?”
“We’re shit out of luck on the meet. It’s come and gone.”
“You weren’t able to get anything on the contact?”
“He didn’t know anything. The password on one of the phones is Calvillo386 in all caps. It has the coordinates of the meeting place. Worth checking out, but I’m guessing you’ll just find a piece of empty desert.”
“What about the cartel they work for?”
“Lacandon. Do you know anything about it?”
“Of course.”
It was to be expected. She’d made extensive contacts in the underworld during her time working with her husband in the private contracting business.
“Don’t keep me in suspense.”
“It’s operated by Carlos Esparza.”
“Never heard of him.”
“Years ago when he was still an up-and-coming trafficker, one of his competitors tried to hire my husband to deal with him.”
“He didn’t take the job?”
“No. Even by cartel standards Esparza is extremely violent and volatile. He’s also smart and obsessed with security. I was struggling to even locate him, let alone get enough information to plan a successful hit.”
“So you decided the risk and amount of work weren’t worth the reward?”
“We probably would have come to that conclusion. But about a month into our initial legwork, Esparza caught up with our client.”
“And?”
“Our best information was that he tortured him and his family for months and then ground them up and fed them to his men.”
“Outstanding.”
“He’s our nightmare scenario, Mitch. Some cartel leaders get where they are because they’re careful and methodical. He’s the opposite. His success is based on the fact that he’s unpredictable and brutal. The smaller operations are afraid of him and the larger ones don’t think it’s worth going to war with him. And he’s greedy to the point of self-destructiveness. He wants to run the biggest cartel in the world. Be the richest and most powerful man in the world. Based on my research into him, nothing will ever be enough.”
“Okay. Get me whatever updated information on him you can.”
“Mitch . . . This isn’t going to work. The plan you’ve come up with isn’t a plan. It’s—”
“If you have any better ideas, I’m listening.”
“You know my answer to that.”
“I’m not walking away, Claudia. But you’re free to. Anytime you want.”
“You say that so often, sometimes I wonder if it’s what you want,” she said coldly.
He considered his next words more carefully than he would have thought given his current situation. “It’s not what I want. But I understand what I’m dragging you into here. You like to control things, and this isn’t that kind of an operation. If it goes to shit, I don’t want it to blow back on you and I don’t want to leave you thinking it was something you did or didn’t do.”
She was silent for long enough that he started to wonder if they’d been disconnected. Finally, she responded.
“I don’t want to be involved. I admit that. But I’m not going to trust your life to someone else. There’s no room for error here, Mitch. Nothing can go wrong. Not one thing.”
And yet something always did.
“Where do you stand on your end?” he said, changing the subject.
“I spoke with your brother. He said he can bankrupt you and involve you in as many illegal financial schemes as you like.”
“Will it look real?”
“He says yes, but he asked me to tell you that you’re an idiot, suicidal, and that whatever you think you owe to America, you’ve already paid back a hundred times over.”
“But he’ll do it?”
“He said he’d handle all the arrangements personally.”
Rapp nodded. Steven was a financial genius who hadn’t made a mathematical error since he was seven years old. And as an added bonus, he liked his big brother and would be disappointed to see him made into hamburger patties.
“Mitch, I still think we should bring Irene in on this. With her power and experience we could be much more thorough.”
“No. She’d shut us down the minute she heard the plan. And even if she didn’t, she’d be obligated to tell the president. With everything that’s going on in Washington, I don’t trust him. We’ll hold her in reserve. Nothing we do is going to fool her. She’ll know what’s going on and she’ll be there for us if we need her.”
“What about Scott and his men? We need them to get talk going in the spec ops rumor mill.”
“No problem. Tell them whatever you need to.”
Coleman and his boys were one hundred percent loyal and none of them gave a flying fuck about what was going on in Washington. They’d gun down everyone in Congress before they left him hanging.
“Even if everything goes right, Mitch . . .” Her voice faltered.
“It’ll be fine. All I have to do is be convincing.”
When she came back on she spoke so softly he could barely make out her words. “Not too convincing, though, right, Mitch? Not too convincing.”
CHAPTER 24
THE CAPITOL COMPLEX
WASHINGTON, D.C.
USA
“IF I didn’t know better, I’d think there was a god,” Senator Christine Barnett said.
Her campaign manager looked up at her with a deep frown.
“What?” she said.
“I’ve warned you about this before, Senator. . . . If you ever slip and someone records you—”
“It wouldn’t matter.”
“You’re not bulletproof.”
“Pull your head out of your ass, Kevin. I hired you for your cynicism and now you’re finding Jesus on me?”
“I’m not finding Jesus. But there are people out there who have. And you need their votes.”
She smirked and started pacing around her office again. “You’re thirty-five years old and already living in the past. The American people don’t give a shit about God. They don’t care about the environment or the deficit or health care. And they couldn’t find Iraq or Yemen on a map.”
“What do they care about?” Gray said coldly.
“Should it worry me that I’m having to tell you?”
“Anytime you think you can find someone better, I’ll be happy to step down.”
Barnett was always on the lookout, but the truth was that there wasn’t anyone even close. She wasn’t sure if that spoke to Gray’s brilliance or the fact that everyone else out there was a drooling idiot, but at this point it didn’t matter.
“What they want—what they thirst for—is to hurt the people they hate. They don’t want a politician droning on about unemployment. They want a general. They want to blindly follow someone who can provide them an enemy and lead them to victory against that enemy. Someone w
ho can give their lives purpose.” She leaned back against her desk and glared down at him. “If you spend your time and my money finding ways to help people, we’re going to lose this election. But if you can find me ways to inflict damage, we’re going to run away with it.”
“And you think making anthrax your signature issue is the right weapon?”
“I’m not sure yet. It has potential, but like all good weapons it’s dangerous if you don’t use it right.” She smiled, recalling yesterday’s meeting. “You should have seen Irene Kennedy. She was sweating bullets. And Alexander just looked lost. He’s done and just wants to avoid any fireworks on the way out. The DEA head, though . . .”
“Woodman?” Gray said.
She nodded. “He doesn’t seem stupid. We should be reaching out to him and letting him know there’s a place for him in my administration if he plays ball.”
“Agreed. I’ll take care of it.”
“The question is whether we leak the fact that the anthrax made it across the border. Then we’d have a clear message: Sayid Halabi isn’t bluffing and we can’t keep counting on blind luck and NASA. Next time this administration lets someone stroll over the border with a bioweapon, people are going to die.”
“I’d advise caution, Senator. If that leak were ever traced back to you—”
“Then we’d have to make sure that doesn’t happen. It’s not the first time we’ve leaked something and it’s never been tracked back to us before.”
“What about the fact that we’d be jeopardizing an ongoing terrorism investigation? ISIS will pull back if they know we’re onto them. Halabi will disappear and they’ll switch to another smuggling route. Our chance of stopping them will be even worse.”
“That’s the story Alexander and that bitch Kennedy will tell, but no one’s going to listen. After the fact, it’ll just sound like an excuse. What the American people would take away is that the White House and CIA were keeping a serious threat secret so they wouldn’t look bad during the election season.”
“What if this goes beyond politics, Senator? What if our actions actually do help the terrorists?”
She shrugged. “How would that hurt me?”
“I don’t understand.”
“You read the briefing. It’s anthrax. It can’t be used as a weapon of mass destruction. We’re talking about a few high-profile targets. Hysteria grows and Alexander’s administration gets the blame.”
“People will die.”
“According to Gary Statham, fewer than a hundred. What would be much worse for us is if Alexander’s people actually succeed. What I don’t need to see on television is a bunch of spec ops guys busting up terrorist cells. Or even worse, one of them putting a bullet in Sayid Halabi. That could give Alexander’s party a bump at the worst possible moment.”
“And what do you think the chance of that is?”
“Of them pulling off something big? Low. And even lower now. My understanding is that Mitch Rapp is out. Alexander’s afraid of letting him off the leash during the election cycle.”
Gray didn’t look as happy about that as he should have.
“Relax, Kevin. I’ve got Secret Service and thirty private contractors working my security.”
“Yeah, your security. But nobody’s looking for suspicious white powder in my mailbox.”
She waved a hand dismissively. “ISIS isn’t going to bother with you.”
“You have no idea what ISIS is going to bother with.”
“Fine,” she said. “Figure out what security you’re comfortable with and set it up. Happy now?”
Based on his expression, happy was an overstatement. But he gave a short nod. “So what do you want to do, Senator?”
She fell silent for almost a minute as she considered the question. “Right now? Nothing. But we need to be ready. Start looking into how we can leak with zero chance of it being tracked back to us. If I decide to move on this, I want to be able to move fast.”
“Fine,” Gray started. “But laying the groundwork is very different than acting on it. We’ve got a lead in the primary that’s looking unassailable and your numbers against your likely opponents in the general are just about as good.”
“Don’t start resting on your laurels, Kevin. We need to stay on the offensive.”
“Are you sure? Risk and return, Senator. What we don’t need right now is an unforced error.”
“Hell yes, I’m sure!” she said, the volume of her voice rising. “Those poll numbers aren’t worth the paper they’re printed on. People will say they’ll vote for a woman, but when they actually get in the booth, will they? Or will I go into the general with a twenty-point lead and come out giving a concession speech? When Election Day comes, Alexander, his party, and whatever idiot they run against me have to have been destroyed. Do you understand me? When we’re done with them, their own mothers are going to question voting for them. And if you’re willing to do what it takes to get me there, then you’ve got a very bright future ahead of you. If you’re not, then not only will I replace you, but I’ll make sure you never work in politics again. Am I being clear?”
“Senator, we—”
“Am I being clear?”
Gray stared back at her for a couple of seconds, but finally diverted his gaze and stood. “Crystal.”
CHAPTER 25
SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA
USA
A FEW hard kicks got the sticky rubber doorstop free and Rapp pulled the door open. Thomas Braman and Holden Flores spun toward him, along with another man who hadn’t been in evidence when Rapp arrived. All had donned bulletproof vests and the new man was holding a Remington 870 shotgun. Flores immediately put his hand on his sidearm but didn’t draw it, instead leaning left to get a look at the blood-splattered room and the two corpses. For a second it looked like he might throw up.
Braman’s eyes remained locked on Rapp, but most of his attention seemed to be focused on the phone plastered to his ear. It wasn’t hard to guess what was happening on the other end: absolutely nothing. His bosses in Washington would be hiding in their offices while their assistants provided excuses and transferred him to another unavailable executive.
And Braman, while a pain in the ass, wasn’t an idiot. He knew that the music was winding down and that he was going to be the only one left without a chair. If he stopped Rapp and that created a backlash from the White House, he’d be crucified for not following orders to hand over authority. On the other hand, if he let Rapp walk, he could be charged as an accessory to the murder of two Mexican nationals.
Welcome to the current state of American politics, Rapp thought. Everyone who didn’t have a place at the very top of the political food chain was expendable. No loyalty. No gratitude. No courage. Braman was an arrogant prick looking to move up in the world, but there was nothing in his record that suggested he’d ever screwed his men in pursuit of that goal. He probably figured he’d been an honorable soldier in the war on drugs and didn’t deserve to be hung out to dry for something that wasn’t his fault.
And he was right.
Rapp passed silently by them, leaving bloody footprints on the concrete floor. He pushed through the door and felt the morning heat hit him. The sky was devoid of clouds and bleached yellow by the dust and the sun. Despite the situation, he had a sudden craving for an icy beer. Something to help him contemplate a future that was now so dark he couldn’t even penetrate its edges.
The DEA men spread out behind him, and for the better part of a minute he stood there listening to Thomas Braman desperately try to get someone to take his call. The man’s voice rose to a shout, dominating the small enclosure as Rapp watched the cartel’s surveillance drone circle overhead. Whoever was operating that plane had already been taking particular interest in this situation and now he had a blood-splattered man staring up at his cameras.
“Don’t even think about transferring me again,” Braman said. “If he’s in a meeting, get him out!”
This wasn’t how this was
supposed to go down. He’d figured on waiting until they were on the dirt road leading out. There was a dry wash that he’d identified as being a perfect spot for what had to be done. He’d purposely bog the truck down, and then when the DEA men were gathered in a tight group looking at the buried tires, he’d make his move. It would be about as controllable a scenario as he could create.
Now, though, he had the drone overhead and the three DEA men standing right behind him. Braman, the most experienced, had a phone instead of a gun in his hand. A glance back confirmed that Holden Flores had his hands at his sides instead of on his weapon. The other DEA man still had the shotgun but was holding it across his chest aimed at the sky.
Bird in the hand.
“Don’t hang—!” Braman fell silent for a moment. “Shit!”
Rapp waited until the man was consumed with redialing before he turned, walked a few steps, and slammed a fist into Flores’s jaw. The kid crumpled, but before he even hit the ground, Rapp had drawn his Glock and pumped a round into the sternum of the man holding the shotgun. He jerked back and fell, his weapon bouncing from his hands and spinning through the dirt.
Braman dropped his phone and went for his pistol, but then went down when he took a bullet to the chest.
Rapp kicked the weapons away from the men and surveyed their condition. Flores was out like a light, so Rapp started with the first man he’d shot, rolling him on his stomach and using the flex cuffs hanging from his bulletproof vest to bind his wrists behind him.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Braman starting to reach for his weapon.
“Don’t do it, asshole . . .”
When he didn’t listen, Rapp shot him in the ribs. That seemed to put an end to his plans.
The drone swooped in even closer when Rapp started dragging the men inside the building. Flores didn’t regain consciousness, but the other two moaned and swore under their breath at the pain of being moved. The ballistic vests had saved their lives, but between them they had more than a few broken ribs and probably one cracked sternum.
Braman was last, and by the time Rapp dropped him into a puddle of blood in the interrogation room, he’d gotten enough wind back to make some fairly graphic accusations regarding Rapp’s mother. He fell silent when Rapp hovered the barrel of his Glock an inch from his forehead.