by Vince Flynn
In the foyer Hakim paused. There was a staircase straight ahead and a hallway just to the left. Farther to the left there was a TV room. There was a big leather chair and a matching footstool. A blanket was in a pile on the floor. That must have been where the old man was when they pulled in. That would explain why he was up so fast and was able to intercept Karim outside. He hobbled over to the chair to confirm his theory. He touched the leather chair. It was still warm from the body heat of the man.
That was when he heard the faint yet distinctly mechanical clank and spit of the suppressed Glock firing a round. The sound did not come from the second floor. The headlights of the RV were still spilling through the big picture window on his left. As he looked in the direction of the sound he saw Karim come through a doorway at the back of the house. He raised his weapon and pointed it directly at Hakim. And then something very strange happened. Hakim had thought of death before, but he had never welcomed it. Now it felt like a warm blanket against a cold biting wind. He was ready to wrap himself in it and fade away. Face whatever judgment waited for him in the afterlife. Based on what he had allowed to happen the last few days, he doubted he would see paradise.
“You idiot,” Karim’s voice cut like a knife through the dark, still house. “I nearly shot you.” He moved across the room quickly, his footfalls silent on the carpet. “Stay put while I check upstairs.”
As he walked past, Hakim reached out and grabbed his arm. “We do not have to kill every person we encounter.”
His friend angrily shook himself free and moved swiftly upstairs. After he had disappeared, Hakim walked to the back of the house. He stood at the bedroom door and hesitated. It was dark inside, but he could easily discern the shape of the bed and the nightstands and lamps. The near side of the bed was flat and undisturbed. The far side had a lump. Hakim sighed and without making a conscious decision his feet were moving. They carried him across the room to the side of the bed where he guessed the man’s wife had been lying, doing what billions of people do every night—sleep. How had she offended Islam? Could someone be an infidel if she was asleep in her own house thousands of miles from the heart of Islam, in a largely Christian country?
Hakim stood over the shape and willed himself to look closer, to confront yet another evil perpetrated by his best friend. At first he could only make out a silhouette under the covers and a head on a white pillowcase. He bent farther and the features of the woman’s face became clearer. Then he saw it. A dark circle at the woman’s temple no bigger than a small coin. Hakim reached out and turned on the bedside lamp. The red pucker mark was surrounded by a circle of gray. Karim had shot her point-blank, the tip of the muzzle no more than a few inches from her skin. He had expected to see an elderly woman, but instead saw someone who looked to be in her early sixties with many years left to live. Until they picked her house.
Hakim felt sickened by the whole thing. He turned off the lamp and walked back into the TV room. He stopped at the fireplace and looked at the photos arrayed on the mantel. Lots of kids. School photos, sports photos, and photos of family vacations. Hakim guessed they were grandchildren. He could barely breathe. He closed his eyes and prayed and listened. Listened for the clank and the spit of Karim’s gun. He prayed that the kids were not here. He could not take any more senseless killing. Not tonight. Maybe never again. He asked Allah for guidance, asked him if this was truly what he wanted, and when he didn’t hear from him he made a promise to Allah. It was a bargain. He would follow through on his end of the deal, and he hoped that Allah would keep up his end of the bargain.
Shortly after that Karim came downstairs and announced that the upstairs was empty. Then he radioed Ahmed and told him to make a quick sweep of the perimeter before coming in. Hakim breathed a sigh of relief, but he didn’t have much time to enjoy it. He felt a slight tickle in his throat and then he began to cough. At first it didn’t seem unusual, but then he felt the coppery taste of blood in his mouth. He moved to the chair where the man had been sitting and managed to fall into it just as he blacked out.
CHAPTER 44
WASHINGTON, D.C.
THIS Russian was quicker than he looked. Rapp figured he must have twisted into the blow at the last second, blunting Rapp’s strike and causing him to miss by a fraction. The Russian’s throat would be a little sore in the morning and he wouldn’t be eating any tacos for a few days, but his windpipe was intact and in working condition. That meant he would have no trouble sucking oxygen into those big lungs and in turn providing fresh blood to those big arms, and that was a problem.
Fights tended to follow a pattern, and for Rapp it was usually pretty predictable. It started and five seconds later it was over, Rapp on his feet, and the other guy on the ground clutching some part of his body that would need a doctor to fix. So, when his first strike missed it was like a symphony conductor hearing a poorly played note. The audience might not have caught it, but he knew it, and he knew he had to do something fast or this big guy would get hold of him, and he’d be the one in need of a doctor’s attention. The other thing Rapp did was re-evaluate his opponent. Moving into a blow was not the tactic of an amateur. Pros leaned in, rookies leaned back, and if you never learned to move into the blow, you weren’t long for this rough-and-tumble world.
As Rapp withdrew his strike he felt the hand of the Russian clamping down on his right wrist. Rapp yanked his right hand down hard and rotated it clockwise. At the same time he delivered a quick rabbit punch to the Russian’s nose, not hard enough to break it, but enough to make him bleed and maybe stun him for a second. Rapp made his first retreat. With his right wrist free, he hopped back a step, and that was when he felt more than saw the guy’s massive right fist screaming toward the left side of his head. Another move every fighter has to learn is a standing turtle. There’s nothing pretty about it, you simply tuck your chin into your chest, bring your shoulders up, and prepare to receive a few blows.
The punch glanced off the top left side of Rapp’s head. Rapp registered the stinging pain, but ignored it. When a guy this big throws that big a punch he almost always leaves himself open. Rapp found the opening. He ducked, slid to the left, and delivered a hammer punch just beneath the guy’s right armpit, where the ribs are most exposed. The brutal punch stood the big man up as he arched his back and tried to step away from the next blow. Then three things happened in quick succession. Rapp eyed his spot. It was the back of the guy’s right knee, just above the top of the calf. Always the knees with these big guys. That was their most vulnerable point. Rapp stomped down hard with his right foot. This time the joint would be working with him. The guy wouldn’t go to the hospital, but he would be going down, and for now that was all Rapp cared about. He had other things to do that were more important. As the big Russian started his tumble, Reavers stepped in and hit him with a perfectly placed right hook that snapped the Russian’s head a quarter turn to the right.
It was as if someone unplugged the guy. He went down on one knee, his arms dangled, his shoulders slouched, he started to topple forward, and although Rapp couldn’t see it, he knew the guy’s eyes were rolling back in his head. That was when the third thing happened. Rapp spun to go after Max Johnson and found himself face-to-face with the muzzle of a Sig Sauer pistol.
“One more fucking move and I blow your head off.”
The English was perfect. The accent a slight southern drawl. Most likely Texas or Oklahoma. The face, lined and weathered. Rapp guessed him to be in his midthirties. “You wanna shoot a federal agent in the head you go right ahead. They’ll ship you back to Texas and fry your ass!”
The guy blinked, thought about it for a minute, and said, “Show me your ID. Nice and slow.”
Rapp carefully reached into his jacket pocket, withdrew his ID, and flipped it open. He watched as the bodyguard glanced back and forth between Rapp’s face and the ID. Rapp knew what was going through his mind, so he asked, “Who do you work for?”
“Triple Canopy.”
The
y were good. One of the best, which meant this guy was more than likely pretty level-headed. “I’m OGA . . . attached to Homeland Security, while I’m back here in the States. You guys do a lot of work with us over in Afghanistan and Iraq.”
The guy nodded.
Rapp hadn’t said a lot but he didn’t need to. OGA stood for Other Government Agency, which anyone who worked for Triple Canopy, and had been over to the Sand Box, knew was a polite way of saying CIA. Mentioning all of the work that Triple Canopy did for Langley was a subtle reminder that while Sidorov might be paying a small fortune for protection, the CIA, the State Department, and the DOD were paying a real fortune, to the tune of about a half billion a year, to Triple Canopy and its subsidiaries.
Rapp said, “I just need a word with your employer.”
“Not going to happen. He won’t talk to anyone who has anything to do with our government. You’re supposed to go through his lawyers.”
Rapp wondered what kind of trouble Sidorov had gotten himself into. He motioned for the guy to point his gun in a less-threatening direction.
The guy took a step back and pointed his weapon at the floor.
Rapp asked, “You spend any time in Moscow?”
The guy shook his head.
“Well I have, and let me tell you something. They don’t use warrants over there. If the FSB wants to talk to you . . . they don’t ask for permission. They talk to you, and it’s typically not very pleasant. Now, I don’t want Sidorov. At least not yet, but if he pisses me off any more than he already has I’m going to take a real hard look at him and it won’t be pleasant. The guy I want is sitting right over there.” Rapp pointed to the big horseshoe sitting area where Sidorov and his party were set up. There were only four men. The rest were women.
The bodyguard turned. “You mean the older guy in the jeans and loud shirt?”
“And funny glasses. That’s him.” Rapp shook his head. Johnson was dressed like one of the twenty-five-year-old kids on the dance floor. He hadn’t seen him in maybe a year, but he still recognized him. He’d grown his hair out a bit and even in the soft light of the lounge area Rapp could tell he was dyeing it dark brown. It also looked as if he had grown a patch of hair under his bottom lip in an effort to look hip.
The guy holstered his sidearm. “Let me see what Sidorov says. Wait here.”
As the first guy retreated to talk to his boss, the second guy filled his place and blocked the path. Rapp frowned and stepped forward to talk to him. “Marines . . . Army . . . Navy?”
“SEALs.”
Rapp laughed. The guy was a virtual replica of Reavers. Normally SEALs were of the smaller variety. As Rapp motioned for Reavers to join him, he made eye contact with Johnson, who had finally managed to tear his eyes away from the well-endowed woman sitting on his left.
Johnson’s face went blank. His lips parted and then he blinked several times as if he wasn’t sure what he was looking at.
Rapp’s expression was not friendly. He pointed at Johnson and then gestured with two fingers for him to come to him.
Johnson got up, but instead of coming to Rapp he joined the bodyguard and Sidorov. A heated exchange ensued. Rapp couldn’t hear a word, but he could tell Johnson was loudly stating his case and Sidorov appeared to be agreeing with him. The clock in Rapp’s head told him they were close to the five-minute mark. He needed to wrap it up. The bodyguard left Sidorov and Johnson and came back shaking his head.
“Sorry,” he said when he was within a few feet. “He says no go. He wants you guys out of his club right now.”
“You don’t want to do this,” Rapp said ominously. “He’s one client and he isn’t even an American. In ten seconds I can have Director Kennedy on the phone. Ten seconds after that she’ll have the chairman of Triple Canopy’s board on the phone and thirty seconds after that your phone will ring and you’ll be fired. And for what? Your protection order is for Sidorov. Not some rat bastard who’s selling his government’s secrets.”
“Listen, I don’t want to be caught in the middle of this.”
“Then don’t be. Step aside. Sixty seconds from now I’ll be gone and Sidorov can bitch all he wants but it isn’t going to get him anywhere. Once your bosses talk to Director Kennedy they’ll give you a promotion, and they’ll politely tell Sidorov to pound sand.”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, I do. Step aside. This is National Security. Way above your pay grade. I’m doing you a favor.”
The guy finally nodded and stepped back.
Rapp wasn’t going to wait for him to change his mind. He moved forward quickly and entered the pit where Sidorov and his crew were sprawled out. Johnson was now one woman over from Sidorov. Rapp ignored the Russian and pointed at Johnson. “Get up.” He made the same get-over-here motion with his two fingers. “Right now.”
Sidorov stood, saying something in Russian before switching to English. “You are not welcome here. I must ask you to leave.”
Rapp pulled out the ID case for the last time, flashed it at Sidorov, and said, “National Security. Stay out of it.”
“I know who you are, Mr. Rapp. This is not Russia. The CIA has no authority to arrest people.”
Rapp turned to look at Sidorov for the first time. He was a handsome man with thick brown hair parted to the side. High cheek bones and deep-set eyes. “Stay out of this. I don’t care how much money you have.”
“I am not someone you want to pick a fight with, Mr. Rapp.”
Rapp put his nose to within a foot of Sidorov’s and said, “Let me tell you something. Normally, I’m not one to follow the law, but this little asshole here is in violation of a half dozen national security statutes. Now I don’t care how many cabinet members you own or how many senators you play golf with, he’s off the reservation and it’s my job to bring him back. So you can either get the fuck out of my way or end up in the hospital like that big ugly Russian bouncer you have out front.”
Sidorov snorted, looked at Rapp with bemusement, and then took a step back. “I have heard a great many stories about you from my associates in the Russian intelligence services.”
“Then you should know I’m serious.”
“I see that. You are not to be deterred.”
“That’s right.”
Sidorov looked at Rapp for a long moment and then said, “I would like to make one request of you.”
“What’s that?”
“A meeting.”
“A meeting?” Rapp asked, not quite sure what in hell the Russian was talking about.
“With you, Mr. Rapp. There are certain things I would like to ask you.”
Rapp glanced at his watch. He needed to get out of here. A concession that he would never follow through with was harmless. “I’ll check my calendar, but don’t expect me to roll over for a bunch of cash, like this piece of shit.” Rapp pointed at Johnson.
Sidorov offered up a business card. “You are not the type of man who betrays his country, Mr. Rapp. I wouldn’t be so stupid as to insult you. We have some mutual areas of interest that I think would be worth exploring.”
Rapp took the card and said, “Fair enough. I’ll give you a call.” He walked over to a terrified Max Johnson, who grabbed the nearest girl and hung on for dear life. “Get up,” Rapp ordered.
Johnson shook his head and drew the girl closer.
Rapp reached over the girl and grabbed Johnson’s left ear. He gave it a good twist and then yanked Johnson to his feet. Rapp grabbed one arm, Reavers grabbed the other, and they dragged him out of the club.
CHAPTER 45
RAPP stuffed Johnson in the back of his car with Coleman. They started driving east, away from the FBI, the Justice Department, the Supreme Court, and pretty much anything else that might represent legal protection for Johnson. With each passing block the houses fell into increasing disrepair. This seemed to add to Johnson’s agitated mental state. Like someone who was afraid of the water being driven farther and farther out to sea, Johnson was not abl
e to keep his cool. He pissed and moaned and begged and pleaded the entire way.
After traveling twelve blocks they pulled into an alley just off the railroad tracks. Rapp had ordered two of Coleman’s guys to scope out the place in advance. It was on the fringe of one of D.C.’s more inhospitable neighborhoods. Dilapidated, abandoned, rusted-out warehouses dotted the area around the railroad tracks. It was the perfect place to kill a man and dump his body.
The setting put Johnson over the edge. He took one look at the two tough-looking guys standing next to the van and started sobbing. Rapp would have laughed at Johnson’s less-than-noble performance, but he was experiencing the front end of a nasty headache that was no doubt the result of the punch he’d taken to the side of his head.
The alley was strewn with garbage. An abandoned mattress was leaned up against a wooden utility pole with a shredded tire sitting next to it. The floodlight that hung from the pole had long ago been shot out, probably by some local gang bangers. Coleman dragged Johnson from the backseat and stood him up. The two guys grabbed him and slapped on a pair of plastic flex cuffs. Johnson stood motionless for a moment looking at the cuffs, trying to decide if this was a good or bad development.