Lethal Agent

by Flynn Vince

  Another careful scan of the compound didn’t turn up any sign of the missing guards, so he started forward again. Staying silent in the dense foliage forced him to move at a crawl but he finally came alongside the shed housing the Arabs.

  All the equipment and supplies the clapboard building had once contained were now piled haphazardly around it. Rapp dropped to his stomach and slithered across the damp earth, aiming for what appeared to be a small tractor stacked with rakes and shovels.

  The tractor likely contained the gasoline he needed, but accessing it would be more than he wanted to deal with. Fortunately, just past a pile of rotting pallets, he found a much more convenient five-gallon gas can. A gentle nudge confirmed that it was almost full, prompting him to start screwing the suppressor to his Glock. Once secured, he weaved back through the equipment toward the front of the building.

  The plan had been simple. Kick in the door. Shoot everyone inside using muzzle flashes for illumination. A little gasoline. A match. And then run for the hills.

  Unfortunately, that plan broke down before he even made it to step one. When he arrived at the door, it was wide-open.

  Rapp pulled his T-shirt over his nose and mouth before edging toward the threshold. He flicked a lighter, letting the brief spark illuminate the interior.

  Empty.

  The shooting started a moment later. He spun instinctively but then realized it wasn’t coming from anywhere near him. Through the trees, he could see that the side of Esparza’s home was lit up with the wavering light of automatic fire. And while it was impossible to determine how many guns, their location was easy to pinpoint. His bedroom.

  Rapp retrieved the gas can, emptying its contents on the shed’s exterior walls. When he reached the door again, he tossed the empty container inside and then circled again, this time with his lighter. By the time he was finished, the flames on the far side were already ten feet high.

  The sound of gunfire at the house had stopped and the shouting had begun. He couldn’t understand any of it, but the tone suggested that they’d finally realized they were shooting at an empty bed.

  CHAPTER 43

  “BACK up, idiots!”

  As the tight group of guards lurched back into the hallway, Esparza made sure to stay slightly lower than the men surrounding him. The one exception was Vicente Rossi, who looked like he wanted to drop to his knees and crawl.

  The morons he was currently using for cover had fired on an empty bed, most completely emptying their clips in one terrified burst. Now they were retreating down the hall toward an exit on the south side of the compound. Everyone remembered what Rapp had done to their comrades and the few who had been unwise enough to leave themselves without ammunition looked like they were ready to break ranks and run.

  “Stay together!” Esparza shouted. “If we separate, he’ll pick us off one by one.”

  It was a lie, of course. Mitch Rapp had no interest in the guards that Esparza was using as a human shield. In fact, it was possible that he wasn’t interested in any of them. It was the Arabs he wanted. The fucking lying towelheads who had—

  The deafening roar of automatic fire suddenly filled the hallway and Esparza stumbled as the men in front of him began to fall. A few tried to return fire, but their position crammed together in the corridor caused them to jostle each other to the point that accuracy was impossible. Esparza could see muzzle flashes around the far corner of the hallway, but most of the body and face of the shooter was obscured. The men behind Esparza began to flee and he followed, shouting at them to cover him from the rear, to no effect.

  The two guards just in front of him went down and he felt a searing heat in his right ear as a bullet grazed him on the way to tearing through another of his men.

  The shooter—almost certainly Rapp—turned his attention to the overhead lights and Esparza was showered with glass as the corridor turned to shadow. Next to him, Rossi tripped but managed to stay on his feet as the men in front disappeared around a corner.

  Instead of following, Esparza ducked into an expansive, unused library. He began shoving the door closed, but was stopped when Rossi slammed into it from the other side. The younger man fought his way through the gap, gasping for air as Esparza slammed the bolt home. Outside, everything had gone silent. Only the stench of gunpowder remained.

  “It’s not going to stop him!” Rossi said, stumbling down a short set of stairs that allowed him to reach the far side of the room. The floor had been sunken almost two meters in order to create a dramatic sense of space beneath an open-beamed ceiling. Walls lined with unread books towered over the only furniture in the room—an ultramodern acrylic desk and leather chair. Rossi took cover behind the latter, his university-educated brain unable to comprehend that it would offer little protection.

  Esparza was wearing nothing but a pair of sweatpants, loafers with no socks, and a shoulder holster containing his Desert Eagle. He pulled the weapon and aimed it at Rossi.

  “What are you—”

  Esparza fired a single round into the top of the chair, punching a hole in it and showering his assistant with vaporized leather.

  “Go out there and talk to him, Vicente.”

  “No! He’ll shoot me!”

  “Why would he do that? He doesn’t care about drugs, right? Just explain to him that we knew nothing about the anthrax. Find out what he wants.”

  “We just tried to kill him, Carlos. You just tried to kill him. He—”

  Esparza fired another round into the chair, causing Rossi to dive to the floor. “Stop shooting!” he screeched.

  “The next one’s going in your face, you useless piece of shit! Now get out there!”

  The younger man remained frozen for a moment but then seemed to process the fact that his boss wasn’t bluffing. He moved reluctantly back up the stairs as Esparza watched over his sights.

  “Mr. Rapp!” he shouted through the door. “It’s Vicente. We just read the news about the anthrax. This is the first we heard of it. You must know that’s true. Why would we get involved in an attack on America? All we want to do is provide a safe, high-quality product to people who want it. No different than your alcohol, tobacco, and pharmaceutical companies. We’re in the business of making money. We talked about this. It’s the only reason we’re working with the Arabs.”

  “Open the fucking door,” Esparza said, continuing to aim the pistol at Rossi. “Do it now.”

  The younger man complied, sliding back the bolt and letting the door drift back a few centimeters. When nothing happened, he pulled it fully open and took a hesitant step into the hallway.

  “This is terrible for our business and we want to help you. We can—”

  The sound of automatic fire erupted, drowning him out. Esparza jerked back with the pistol held out in front of him, but immediately recognized that Rapp wasn’t responsible. If he’d wanted Rossi dead, it would have been a single shot between the eyes. More likely a guard who had glimpsed the American when he broke cover to make contact.

  Rossi threw himself toward the door but missed and slammed into the jamb instead. The collision caused him to lurch back into the middle of the hallway, where he was hit by at least two rounds. The force of them spun him around and he landed flat on his back, staring sightlessly at the ceiling.

  Esparza sprinted to the door, slamming it shut and throwing the bolt again. It wouldn’t hold for long if Rapp got to it, but with the guard covering the hallway it would be enough. He retreated down the steps and cut left, feeling for a hidden switch behind a bookcase. Once toggled, the entire shelf assembly swung away. The hidden passage was something he’d insisted on not because he thought he’d ever need it, but because he’d always wanted one. Now it was going to be the thing that saved his life.

  Esparza turned sideways, slipping inside and pulling the shelf back into position. The sensation of claustrophobia quickly took hold as he inched through the dim light sandwiched between concrete walls. The architect had insisted on shrinking the s
ize of the passageway to provide a more elegant shape to the library and Esparza silently cursed himself for agreeing.

  The sharp corner near the middle almost stopped him. His stomach had expanded over the past few years but panic and a lubricating film of sweat got him through.

  Then the lights went out.

  Esparza froze, the blood pounding in his ears interfering with his ability to pick something out of the silence. But there was nothing. No gunshots. No shouts. Just the labored rhythm of his own breathing.

  In the end, it wasn’t his ears that discerned something, but his nose. Smoke. A burst of adrenaline surged through him and he felt his mouth go dry. Had Rapp set fire to the house to flush him out?

  He started moving again, panic starting to take hold. Finally, he reached the end of the corridor and searched blindly for the latch. Where was the fire? Where was Rapp? Had he gained access to the library and found the passage? Was he moving silently down it at that very moment? Maybe only a few meters away?

  The latch! Where was it?

  On the other side of that wall was freedom, Esparza told himself. Rapp, for all his skill, was just one man and the compound was enormous. He couldn’t kill what he couldn’t find.

  His fingers finally grazed a recessed metal handle and he twisted it. The muted click seemed dangerously loud as he twisted his body into a position that would allow him to push the panel open a few centimeters. He was rewarded with a rush of humid, smoky air and the flickering glow of flames. Rapp was a formidable killer, but he wasn’t a magician. There would be no way for him to know the passage was there. No way for him to find the exit behind the cascade of vines camouflaging it.

  The truth was that while the CIA man had been admittedly good in the jungle, he was out of his element. He didn’t speak the language, he wasn’t familiar with the territory, and he had no backup or communications. Esparza, on the other hand, suffered from none of these disadvantages. All he had to do was get to his vehicle. Once out of immediate danger, he could call in reinforcements. This time Rapp wouldn’t be up against a handful of men. He’d be hunted by military, police, and even local farmers. There would be no escape for him.

  The cartel leader inched along the wall with his Desert Eagle held out in front of him. When he came to the edge of the vines, he was finally able to pinpoint the source of the smoke. It wasn’t the house that was on fire, it was the shed where the Arabs had been housed.

  Esparza finally broke cover near the east side of the building, weaving through widely spaced trees toward a freestanding garage fifty meters away. When he reached the side door, he pressed his back against the wall next to it. His hand was shaking and slick with sweat, but he finally managed to turn the knob. The door swung open on well-oiled hinges and he slipped inside. The dim outline of his Humvee was only a few meters away.

  It was heavily armored, with bullet-resistant glass, run-flat tires, and a supercharged engine. There were no weapons Rapp could get his hands on that would be capable of stopping it and no vehicles in the compound that could chase it down.

  He crossed the concrete floor in a crouch, peering through the SUV’s windows to ensure that Rapp wasn’t waiting for him inside.

  Empty.

  The wave of elation felt similar to the one he’d experience when he’d escaped the hidden passage. Maybe Rapp wasn’t even hunting him. Or, better yet, maybe the traitorous piece of shit had been shot by one of the guards. Anything was possible.

  Esparza climbed inside the vehicle, retrieving the key from a hidden compartment beneath the dashboard. The garage door was closed and it would take too much time to raise. While he was confident in the Humvee’s armor, it made no sense to gamble his life on it. Better to just ram the door, spin the wheel, and present Rapp with nothing but a set of receding taillights. He twisted the key in the ignition and hovered his foot over the accelerator.

  Nothing.

  A second twist produced a similar result and he suddenly realized that the interior lights hadn’t come on when he’d opened the door. He toggled the switch that controlled them to no avail.

  His emotional state swung violently back to terror when he popped the hood and went around to look at the engine. The workings of car engines were a complete mystery to him, but the problem was still immediately evident. The battery was missing.

  Esparza sank down behind the driver’s-side tire, losing control of his breathing again. It was Rapp. The CIA man was toying with him, trying to make him panic. Trying to make him do something to reveal where he was in the sprawling compound.

  Esparza left through the same door he’d entered, holding the gun shaking in his hands. He thought he saw movement in the wavering firelight but managed to keep from squeezing the trigger. Stealth was his only hope now. The slightest sound could lead to his death.

  He crept into the jungle, moving through the wet leaves in search of the service vehicles parked seventy-five meters to the east. The darkness deepened and his eyes hunted for human shapes in the trees. Every few seconds he was forced to freeze when his mind tricked him: Rapp coming up from behind. Rapp in a tree waiting to drop. Rapp’s mud-streaked hand snaking out from beneath a bush.

  He made it to the access road and stayed near its edge, watching silently for movement. All but one of the vehicles—an open Jeep—was gone. Fucking cowards. The surviving guards had taken them and fled.

  He remained perfectly still, scrutinizing the vehicle. Normally the keys were left in it, but were they there now? Rapp had no reason to have ever come back there. Would he even be aware that this vehicle storage area existed? No, Esparza tried to convince himself. The CIA man would focus on the compound and the more obvious escape routes.

  He tried to stay put but with every passing second he became more impatient. The Jeep was right there. Only a few meters away. He’d drive it up the poorly maintained but passable dirt road that would eventually lead him to civilization. There he could gather his forces and plan his next move.

  Finally, he jogged silently across the road and leapt into the lone vehicle. When he reached for the ignition, instead of finding the key he was hoping for, he felt something smooth and wet. Leaning forward, he was able to make out its vague outline. A severed hand still clinging to the key.

  Esparza’s ability to think abandoned him and he jumped from the Jeep, running up the road away from the compound. After less than twenty-five meters, a searing pain flared in his right leg and he collapsed in a shallow puddle. His mind was struggling to comprehend what had happened and he ran a hand down his leg, stopping at the shattered kneecap.

  He screamed and tried to stand, but just went down in the puddle again. A moment later, something got hold of his ankle and began dragging him into the trees.

  CHAPTER 44

  NORTH OF HARGEISA

  SOMALIA

  “WE’RE safe.”

  The words coming over Sayid Halabi’s headset were badly distorted but still intelligible. He let out a long, relieved breath, leaning back against the cavern wall and staring blankly into the semidarkness.

  He had more than a hundred people throughout the world monitoring the news twenty-four hours a day. Thank Allah they’d discovered the mention of the anthrax interception within minutes of its first posting and he’d been able to get through to Muhammad Attia.

  “Esparza’s guards didn’t try to stop you?”

  “We were scheduled to leave around sunrise. The fact that we left early didn’t seem to concern them.”

  “Where are you now?”

  “We’re in the van on the 307 west of Juncaná. Our GPS says we’re approximately nine hours from the warehouse where we’re to pick up the truck. What are your orders?”

  The plan was for them to drive to CÓrdoba, where they’d transfer to a semitruck with a hidden compartment designed to smuggle them over the border. The question was how much had their situation changed? Was it necessary to radically alter his plans in light of this leak from the U.S. government? He could have At
tia drop off individuals in various towns on the route north, but what would that accomplish? They didn’t speak Spanish, they had no safe haven in or paperwork for Mexico, and they had only ten thousand dollars in cash among them. The disease would spread, but slowly and through a sparsely populated region thousands of kilometers from America’s southern border. The world would recognize what was happening and would have time to stop it like they had SARS in Asia.

  “What is the condition of your people?”

  “Two are showing minor symptoms. One is fairly sick, but still able to function.”

  “Do you foresee a problem getting to the truck?”

  “No. We have good roads and dry weather. Traffic is virtually nonexistent this time of the morning and we’ve seen no police. My only concern is that Esparza might have contacted his people. That his cartel might be working against us now.”

  Halabi stood and began limping back and forth through the small chamber. In fact, it was possible that Esparza still knew nothing about the anthrax report. And even if he did, why would he care enough to devote significant resources to finding Attia? Esparza’s concern would be damage control—protecting himself not only from U.S. authorities who would label his cartel a terrorist organization, but from the Mexican government and other drug traffickers.

  “What are your orders?”

  Halabi didn’t answer immediately, though his decision was made. In truth, it always had been. God had provided this crossroad in history—

  a span of a few short hours when a handful of people could dismantle everything the West had built over the last two thousand years.

  The arrogance that had corrupted men’s hearts would disappear. Once again, humanity would prostrate itself at the feet of God and beg for his mercy. Once again, they would understand that nothing they had done—nothing they had built—meant anything.