by Flynn Vince
“Where do we stand?” he said, squinting in her direction. “We stand in the middle of a complete clusterfuck. We were going to walk away with the nomination and were way ahead in the general election polls. You could have coasted right into the Oval Office. But that wasn’t good enough for you. How long is that reporter going to hold out before he gives up his source? This isn’t a story about the Alexander administration covering up their incompetence anymore. He got an undercover agent killed and collapsed a bioterror investigation. He—we—could actually be responsible for the U.S. getting attacked.”
Barnett stared at him, the fury disappearing from her face in favor of a dead expression that was somehow much worse. Gray wondered if, for the first time in their relationship, he was seeing the real woman behind the façade.
Of course, she was bat-shit insane. The truth was that they all were now. There had probably been a time when politicians achieved this level of success because of patriotism or a deep sense of responsibility to their countrymen. But now it was just about power. In fact, crazy seemed to have become a prerequisite. The American people demanded it.
He suddenly wanted to disappear. To storm out of the room, get on a plane, and get the hell out of the country. To go to work for some multinational corporation marketing soap. Or perfume. Or blood pressure pills. To leave this life behind forever.
But he was scared shitless. The woman staring lifelessly at him from across the room was smart, ruthless, and driven. Even with everything happening—even if he walked out the door—she would likely be the next president of the United States. And the first thing she’d do with the power of that office was destroy everyone who hadn’t supported her. Anyone she perceived as a threat. Would he end up in jail? In Guantánamo Bay? Drugged and seat-belted into a car careening down the side of a cliff?
“Okay,” he said, struggling to keep his voice even as he recited his mantra. “There are no disasters. Just opportunities we haven’t found yet.”
Barnett’s expression reverted to the more familiar—and now oddly comforting—one of rage.
“Where do we stand?” Gray said, repeating his boss’s question of a few moments ago. “If anyone asks—and they will—you deny you had anything to do with that leak and point out that there isn’t even a shred of evidence to the contrary. And the fact remains that the first anthrax shipment did make it across the border and it was pure dumb luck that it was found. On the other hand, criticizing guys who let themselves get shot to protect the country isn’t going to poll well with anyone.” He fell silent, rubbing his temples and trying to think the situation through. It wasn’t hard.
“We only have one option, Senator. We play it down as hard as we can and try to change the narrative. Like you’ve said before, the public has the attention span of a goldfish. And this doesn’t really have anything to do with you. You kept the anthrax intercept secret from the public against your will at the order of the president and on the advice of Irene Kennedy. As long as no one ties the leak to you, this’ll eventually blow over.”
“Blow over?” Barnett said. “You think I’m just going to let this go? Slink away and let Irene Kennedy make a fool out of me?”
“Ma’am, Rapp’s dead and—”
“He’s not dead!” Barnett shouted. “That son of a bitch has more lives than an alley cat. He’s alive and they’re not telling us. That means he’s out there, still working on this operation. Waiting.”
“Waiting? Waiting for what?”
“For me to win the primary. Then, at just the right moment, he’s going to reappear and save the day. Alexander and Kennedy will be heroes and I’ll be standing there looking like a fool.”
Gray just stared at her. How could he have not seen this before? The presidency wasn’t an end for Barnett, it was a beginning. She wanted the power to close her fist around everything and everyone. She saw Kennedy and Rapp as beneath her—meaningless government workers who existed to do her bidding. Their defiance was stoking her hatred to the point that she was slipping into paranoia.
“Senator, the idea that Mitch Rapp is involving himself in some kind of complex political game is—”
“He sees me as a threat,” Barnett said. “Just like Kennedy. They’re going to use this to come after me. We have to find out what’s happening in Mexico. We have to get ahead of it.”
“We have no way of finding out what’s happening,” Gray said, becoming increasingly alarmed at Barnett’s erratic demeanor. “No one’s going to tell us anything, and if we try to twist arms at the intelligence agencies, it’s going to go public and blow up in our faces.”
“Not the American government,” she said. “We can use our contacts in the Mexican government. They want us to get off their backs regarding immigrants and drugs, right? Well, as president, I can make that happen. And all I ask in return is a little cooperation and information.”
“Now hold on, Senator. If Rapp’s alive, it’s possible that he’s actually still on the trail of ISIS. We—”
“I’m not going to sit on my hands and see that son of a bitch shooting it out with terrorists on television!” she screamed.
Gray tried to stay calm, but he was starting to feel the honest-to-God beginnings of panic. This was the first time he’d ever seen Barnett under real stress. She’d lived a charmed life—an obscenely wealthy husband, children willing to toe her political line, and a career that went nowhere but up. What would happen when she got backed into a corner like all presidents did? What would happen if she was in charge when there was a real national crisis?
“We’re in a hole, Senator. It’s time to stop digging. This is about damage control now. You need to go out there and praise those DEA guys for their heroism. But then you remind voters that we can’t count on NASA and government employees willing to get shot every time there’s a threat to America. That this isn’t a failure of the men and women in the trenches, it’s a failure of leadership. Then we’ll start talking about the economy. Or Russia. North Korea. Guns. It doesn’t mat—”
“They’re not going to allow it,” she said, cutting him off. “This is going to be about a bunch of big strong men on the front lines while I’m back in my office hiding. The weak woman. I’m not going to let that happen, Kevin. We’re going to get in front of this.”
“That’s crazy,” he said, the words coming out of his mouth before he could stop them. “You can’t control the Mexicans, Senator. They have no loyalty to you and no particular love for the U.S. right now. If you ask them to dig up information on Mitch Rapp, the first thing they’re going to do is contact the cartels and—”
“Make it happen.”
“Excuse me?”
“Call them, Kevin. Call the Mexicans. Find out what’s going on. We can still head this off. If there really is something happening down there, we might be able to get the Mexican authorities to deal with it and keep Rapp and Kennedy from getting the win. If it works out, we might even be able to take some credit. Show the American people that I can stop threats before they make it to the United States.”
Gray remained silent. He’d already allowed himself to be dragged into the leak that was turning into a disaster. He was already in deep and it was time to take his own advice and stop digging. The hole was starting to feel like a grave.
Gray picked up his coat and started for the door. “If you want to call the Mexicans, Senator, call them yourself.”
CHAPTER 47
EL PASO
TEXAS
USA
SCOTT Coleman let the minivan drift forward, coming to a stop again behind the Prius he was trailing. Farther up in line, an SUV was passing through the border checkpoint and into Mexico.
He had the windows down and was enjoying cool temperatures that wouldn’t last long after the sun rose in about an hour. The news station playing on the radio was focused on the only story that anyone cared about—the anthrax that had crossed the border and the anonymous CIA operative who had been tracking it. The anonymous CIA
operative that he was now on his way to meet.
“Mas is through,” Claudia said, staring down at her phone from the passenger seat. “Bruno’s next. He’s three cars from the checkpoint.”
Coleman wasn’t particularly worried about the team getting across. While it was true that they were lone, dangerous-looking men in pickups and SUVs, they were completely clean. Perfect IDs, backdated resort reservations, and nothing in their vehicles but suntan lotion and swim trunks.
His situation was somewhat different. On the positive side, couples in late-model minivans tended not to raise a lot of red flags with border security. Less ideal, though, was the fact that they were carrying enough weapons to launch a pretty respectable coup attempt. Hidden beneath piles of luggage, for sure, but not enough to fool anyone who decided to do more than glance.
“Bruno’s through,” Claudia said, finally putting down her phone and looking up. “Mitch is on the road and he’ll rendezvous with us at the airfield.”
“Assuming we make it across the border,” Coleman said.
“Are you worried?”
“Nah. God wouldn’t let me get gunned down in an Izod shirt. He doesn’t hate me that much.”
Ahead, next to the open gates that led into Mexico, a green light kept flashing on and off. It was random and every once in a while it turned red, indicating that the car going through would be searched by customs. Normally the Agency would have rigged the game, but Kennedy was dead set against notifying the Mexican authorities. So they were just rolling the dice.
Claudia seemed to be feeling the pressure too, because she suddenly snapped a hand out and changed the radio station—as though listening to a news story about anthrax would give away their involvement with it. The green light flashed and the car two ahead rolled through. The Prius ahead of them was next, gliding through without incident. And then . . .
Green.
Coleman let out a quiet breath and pulled through, but they weren’t out of the woods yet. There was a secondary military checkpoint ahead specifically set up to look for weapons being transported into the country. According to Claudia’s smuggling contacts, they were typically interested in pickups and SUVs piloted by one or two men between the ages of twenty-five and forty. However, if they spotted someone driving a larger vehicle that looked a little too innocuous, they sometimes pulled that over, too.
It was those same smugglers who had recommended the setup they were using. Red minivan loaded with options. “Baby on Board” sticker, but no baby. White couple, not too young, not too old. The smuggling Goldilocks zone.
And they turned out to be right. The soldiers by the side of the road didn’t even look up as they passed.
Claudia turned the radio back to an analysis of the presidential nominations through the lens of the anthrax leak. Christine Barnett was fighting like a junkyard dog, of course, but the fact that she’d been out of the loop was making her look weak. There was also a fair amount of speculation flying around that she might have had something to do with the leak, but no evidence. The spin machines on both sides were running full speed and it was getting harder and harder to tease truth from bullshit.
Coleman tuned out the voices as he accelerated up the road. It was just a distraction at this point. His role in all this was simple: shoot in the direction Mitch told him to.
Claudia’s phone rang and she picked up, channeling it through the vehicle’s sound system.
“I understand everyone’s through,” Irene Kennedy said over the speakers. Her voice was distorted by the encryption they were using, but still intelligible.
“Yeah, we’re clear,” Coleman said. “We’ll make it to the airfield around eleven thirty tonight. Where do you stand?”
“Our worst-case scenario timing-wise is that the terrorists left Esparza’s compound at one a.m. and are driving roughly thirty hours to the closest border checkpoint. If that’s the case, they could be as far as Coatzacoalcos. Twenty-two hours from the border.”
He consulted the GPS in his dash. “Then I’m starting to question our strategy, Irene. It looks like we’re going to pass them on the road.”
“We don’t think so,” Kennedy said calmly. “They appear to have contracted a smuggling organization and it’s likely they’re planning on changing vehicles. That’s going to take time to deal with.”
“Do we have a line on their coyotes yet?” Coleman asked.
“We’re running down the names Carlos Esparza provided, but haven’t come up with anything solid. We’re also searching the roads in southern Mexico, but that’s going to be low percentage. It’s a lot of road and our satellite coverage is spotty.”
“And if you do manage to find us a target?” Coleman said. “What are our marching orders?”
The fact that she didn’t respond immediately worried him a bit.
“As of now, this is an unauthorized private operation on foreign soil. I’ve talked to the commander at Luke Air Force Base who’s a personal friend of mine and he’s agreed to put the appropriate aircraft on alert, but he isn’t going to do anything more than that without a direct order from the president.”
“Do you think you can get that?” Claudia asked.
“I’m meeting him in an hour, but a military incursion over the Mexican border involving a bombing run against a moving target is a big ask. The amount of ordnance necessary to ensure that the virus is completely eradicated is fairly shocking. I’m not hopeful.”
“Great,” Coleman said. “So you’re saying we should just handle this on our own with a handful of people and a minivan with a few guns in it. And if we make the slightest mistake, no big deal. Only a few hundred million people will die.”
“I’m doing everything I can, Scott. Alexander’s a good man and he’s been a good president. But politicians aren’t built for these kinds of all-or-nothing decisions.”
“What about going around him?”
This time the pause was long enough that Coleman thought they might have lost the satellite link. Finally she came back on.
“I had an informal conversation about that with a few highly placed people I won’t name. What I can tell you is that no one has the stomach for what would essentially be a coup. In a way, it’s comforting that our institutions are holding strong even in the face of something like this.”
“It doesn’t feel comforting from where I’m sitting, Irene.”
“I know. And I’m sorry. Claudia? Are you there? How are you holding up?”
The question was understandable. While Claudia Gould was a logistics genius, she’d spent most of her career supporting her private contractor husband. Her definition of failure had involved things like missing the target, getting arrested, and not being paid. Now she was getting a crash course in the difference between that world and the one inhabited by Mitch Rapp.
Her eyes narrowed and the expression on her youthful face hardened. She had a daughter to protect and, at thirty-six, a life left to live.
“If you say we’re the only people who can deal with this, then that’s what we’re going to do. Deal with it.”
CHAPTER 48
OUTSIDE OF SAN LUIS POTOSÍ
MEXICO
RAPP stopped and examined the chain link gate illuminated in the Humvee’s headlights. The sign on it was badly faded, but he could still make out the cheerful logo of a company that had once offered sightseeing flights over a nearby national park.
He dug a couple of antibiotic pills from his pocket and popped them in his mouth. A couple hours into his drive he’d spotted a pharmacy and made a quick stop. The man behind the counter had been oddly unfazed by Rapp’s demand for an anthrax remedy, but in retrospect it wasn’t so surprising. The American people were panicked over Halabi’s threats and loved buying cheap pharmaceuticals in foreign countries. There was a good chance that he wasn’t the first gringo to stop at that drugstore on his way home.
The bitter taste of the pills was strangely comforting. He had no idea if he’d inhaled any spores whil
e emptying that bag into his bathtub, but chances were high. There was probably a reason the CDC didn’t issue kitchen gloves and tourist bandannas as standard protective gear.
He spotted movement out of the corner of his eye and inched a hand closer to his Glock before registering the blond hair of Scott Coleman. The gate opened and he pulled through, idling while the former SEAL relocked the barrier and slipped into the passenger seat.
“I haven’t talked to Irene in more than two hours,” Rapp said, accelerating. “Give me a sit rep.”
“We got here about a half hour ago and I have a chopper inbound. The tarmac’s in worse condition than we thought so we can’t land planes. We should be able to get two private ones in the air from the local airport, though. Irene’s scrambling basically everyone the Agency has in-country—including a few people who retired down here. Not the most organized or well-trained force we’ve ever worked with, but at least we have warm bodies.”
“And your team?”
“I left them closer to the border to form a defensive line. If we get a target, they’ll be in a position to intercept from the north. But so far we’ve got nada.”
A dark, wooden crate of a building appeared in the headlights and Rapp pulled around behind it, parking next to a minivan with a “Baby on Board” decal. There was a generator humming outside and a couple of extension cords running through the wall.
“What about Esparza?” Coleman asked, glancing at the empty backseat before jumping out.
“He didn’t make it.”
Technically accurate, but not the entire story. In truth, the man had stopped bleeding and was doing pretty well by the time he’d finished his conversation with Kennedy. When Rapp reached pavement, though, he’d decided that driving around with a bound cartel leader in the backseat was all risk and no reward. He’d pulled off into the trees and left Esparza there with his head twisted backward. With a little luck, his bones were already being picked clean by scavengers.