Consent to Kill:

by Vince Flynn

  They cruised through the light midday traffic and within ten minutes they were nearing the Beltway. Rapp was starting to feel better. Up ahead he spotted the golden arches and suddenly he was extremely hungry all over again.

  “Let’s stop at this McDonald’s on the right.”

  “McDonald’s?” she asked in a disapproving tone. Rielly was extremely health conscious.

  “Honey, humor me. I’m starving.”

  “All right.” She reluctantly hit the turn signal.

  A few seconds later they were in the drive-through lane and Rapp was placing his order. When he was done he asked Anna if she wanted anything. She relented enough to order a Diet Coke and small fries.

  Back on the road Rapp tore into his Big Mac with a fury. In between gulps of Coke and fistfuls of fries he finished the Big Mac in short order and moved on to a Quarter Pounder with cheese.

  Anna sipped on her Diet Coke and frowned. “You might want to slow down, honey.”

  Rapp kept eating and she kept driving. He’d finished every last scrap of food and was working on his large Coke when they turned onto their street. Rapp leaned back and said, “That really tasted good, but why do I get the feeling I’m going to regret eating it?”

  “Maybe because you just consumed an entire day’s worth of calories, and enough fat, salt, and sugar to last you a week.”

  Rapp knew she was right, but he turned to her and said, “Oh, was it ever delicious though.”

  “You’re definitely going to regret it.”

  Rapp looked down the road. Their house was coming up on the left. A sweat was forming on his forehead and upper lip. His stomach turned and he felt a little light-headed. He looked over at Anna and said, “I think I already am.”

  39

  A fter leaving the house, Gould drove up to Annapolis and ditched the ladder in an alley. Out on Riva Road he wiped down the handles of the propane tanks and left them behind a gas station. The rest of the stuff, with the exception of the two remaining gas cans, was thrown into a garbage bag and tossed in a Dumpster behind a grocery store. It was 10:23 when he got back to the hotel, and he was relieved to find Claudia packed and ready to go. Gould changed into his biking clothes and helped her go over the room one last time to make sure they’d wiped away any fingerprints. When they were done he used the express checkout function on the TV and they left the hotel through a side door.

  Gould opened the back hatch of the rented Ford Explorer and lifted out his mountain bike. He set it in the pickup bed and asked Claudia, “Any questions?”

  She looked like she might say something for a moment and then she simply shook her head.

  “Go to Galesville and do a little shopping. Get some lunch if you want, but make sure you’ve got a signal on your phone at all times. As soon as I’m in position I’ll call.”

  Claudia reached out and grabbed his face. “I know you’re worried about me, but you do not have to be. I want to be done with this more than you do.”

  This was exactly what Gould wanted to hear. He put his hands on Claudia’s waist. “Good. Be ready to move in case I need you.” He kissed her on the lips and then whispered in her ear, “Let’s get through the next few hours, and then we’ll put it all behind us.”

  She wrapped her arms around his neck and held on tight. “I love you.”

  “I love you too.” Gould held her for a long moment and then opened her car door. “I’ll see you in a few hours.”

  GOULD HAD MISSED the path that first night when they’d followed Rapp’s wife home, but when he and Claudia took their bikes by the house the next morning it jumped right out at him. There were no posted signs. He didn’t need to say anything to Claudia, she just followed him. As far as Gould could tell it wasn’t maintained by anyone. It was simply a dirt path, worn by use and use alone. They followed it for just under a mile through the woods until it split. The trail to the left led to a small public beach and to the right it joined up with a dirt road that ran along the edge of a small grass landing strip. Gould followed the dirt road until it hooked up with a county road and noted the spot on the map. On the way back he noted a few places where he could leave a vehicle.

  He was now on that road, and so far his luck was holding. There wasn’t a soul around. Up ahead he spotted the big oak tree he’d seen the day before and he pulled the truck as far off the road as he could. Gould put on his backpack and helmet and took out the mountain bike. Right as he was about to get on the bike, the tracking device in his backpack beeped. Gould took the pack off and looked at the GPS locator. Rielly’s car was on the move. He clipped the device to one of the backpack’s shoulder straps with a carabiner and got on the bike. He wanted to be settled in well before they got there.

  It took him only five minutes to bike through the woods, and then he continued past Rapp’s house for a few hundred yards and came back. He was fairly confident that no one was about, so when he got back to Rapp’s house he hopped off the bike and picked it up with his right hand. He stepped over the first bit of grass carefully and then had to duck under the leafy branches and twist around others. He did not have to go far to find decent concealment—maybe twenty feet. He set the bike down on its side and took off the backpack. He pulled out a camouflaged hunting poncho and the 9mm Glock. He screwed the silencer onto the end of the Glock and chambered a round. The underside of the backpack had a large pocket. Gould unzipped it and slid the pistol in, silencer first. He shouldered the backpack again and checked to make sure he could reach around and grab the weapon. It wasn’t ideal, but it worked.

  Gould opened his phone and punched in Claudia’s number. She answered on the first ring and he said, “They’re on their way.”

  “Good. Is everything set?”

  “Yes.”

  “If you need me let me know.”

  “Absolutely. I’ll see you in a little bit.” He hit the End button and switched the phone over to the silent mode.

  Gould lay down flat and covered his upper body and most of the bike with the hunting poncho. Its muted green and brown pattern blended in perfectly with the surrounding foliage. The air felt heavy like it was going to rain, which would be welcome as long as it didn’t come too early. He needed the fire to destroy the majority of the evidence. After that the rain would help destroy it even further.

  Gould was keenly aware of the GPS tracker and followed the progress of the vehicle closely. When they were two miles away, Gould turned the device off and picked up the handheld remote for the switch. It was a small black device similar in looks and size to the keyless door remotes sold with cars. Gould was careful not to press the button. He held the device gently in his right hand and focused on his breathing.

  A short while later he heard a car approaching. He closed his eyes and listened intently. It had to be them. The noise grew and he looked to his left to get a glimpse of the vehicle but the woods were too thick. Gould held his position and waited. Patience was an integral part of any ambush. It would all be over in a minute as long as he held still. Rapp would walk in the house and he would die. No American would ever know he’d been here, and although they might suspect foul play, there would be no way to prove it. Rapp’s enemies were terrorists, men who were not known for their subtle skills. What terrorist would ever go to the effort to make Rapp’s death look like an accident? The answer was none. If it was a terrorist group, they would have driven a car bomb right through the front door and then called every media outlet available and taken credit for the death of Mitch Rapp. As much as they would hate the fact that their great counterterrorist operative had been killed by a gas explosion, a mere accident, the Americans would have no choice but to believe it, no matter the suspicions they harbored.

  The car approached from the left and was almost even with his position when he got his first glimpse of it. The BMW slowed and then turned into the driveway. Gould caught a quick glimpse of Rapp’s profile, and the hair on his arms rose. He forced himself to stay put for a little longer. He watched the
car as it came to a stop in front of the garage and then rose up on one knee. Even though it was doubtful that Rapp would ever look in this direction, Gould was careful to keep most of his body behind a tree. The driver’s side door opened first. Rapp’s wife hopped out and Gould watched her with complete detachment. He’d already rationalized it away. She was well aware of who her husband was. She was what the Americans liked to call collateral damage. In the larger scope of the mission she was an acceptable loss. Gould had no doubt that Rapp would feel the same way if the roles were reversed.

  Anna hurried around to the passenger side and opened the back door. She bent in and came out with a pair of crutches. The front door opened and a leg swung out. Gould tensed only slightly. Rapp grabbed the door frame and pulled himself from the car. The dog that had followed Gould around earlier came running up. They appeared to be more concerned with getting Rapp in the house than saying hello to the dog, so Gould couldn’t tell if the dog was theirs or the neighbors’. Gould noted that Rapp didn’t look very good. It was probably from the surgery. Rapp hopped on one leg, got the crutches right, and then the two of them started down the sidewalk. The dog followed them. They now had their backs to his position. Gould got to his feet and kept the poncho over his head and shoulders. He stayed in a crouch and began quietly working his way to the road. There were no other noises. No cars, only a few birds chirping.

  He reached the edge of the woods as she slid the key into the door. Gould dropped the poncho and extended the small black handheld remote. He was ready to sprint across the street if the distance was too great. The door opened and she stepped in first. Rapp remained on the threshold for an excruciating second and then he followed her in. Gould pressed the remote and there was nothing. He pressed it again, and began walking across the road. He pointed the device toward the garage. Still nothing happened. Gould had reached the start of their driveway and he was about to press the button yet again when he realized they had left the car door open. He paused for a split second and realized Rielly would have to come back out and close the door. His thumb remained poised above the button. He heard Claudia’s words, asking him to not harm the wife. Gould swore to himself.

  Straight ahead there was no cover, only the openness of the driveway and their front lawn. To the left there were trees and a few bushes. Gould broke into a sprint and started counting. He knew the house door could remain open for easily a minute if not longer, but he wasn’t going to wait anywhere near that long. He would give her ten seconds and that was all. When he reached the clump of light blue hydrangeas he was at five seconds and a good twenty feet closer to the house than where he’d tested it from this morning. It was then that Gould realized the weather had changed. The air was heavier. Instead of hiding behind the hydrangeas he started moving again and kept his eyes on the front door. At eight seconds he heard her voice from inside the house. His arm was still extended. When he finished his count he pressed the button. At exactly the same moment she appeared in the doorway. Gould swore that for the briefest of moments they made eye contact, and then the explosion tore through the still afternoon air. An orange fireball burst from the house, sending glass, splintered wood, and Rapp’s wife flying.

  Gould dropped to a knee and buried his head between his arms. He wasn’t overly worried about the first explosion. It was the big propane tank that gave him the greatest concern, and he was right. The second explosion, far more violent than the first, let loose a concussive blast that hit Gould with a heat wave that knocked him from his crouched position to the ground. Debris rained down all around him and he struggled to get to his feet. His glasses and bike helmet were still on but knocked askew. He straightened them and noticed a stinging sensation on his left arm. He looked down to find the hair on his forearm gone and his skin turning a bright pink. His ears were ringing, and he felt a bit disoriented. He remembered there was one thing left that he had to do. He ignored the pain and took a step toward the BMW. He wanted to get the bug and tracking device from the vehicle. He didn’t make it more than a step. The vehicle was on fire. He hesitated for a second and a voice told him to get the hell out of there.

  Gould ran back into the woods, picking up the poncho and stuffing it in his backpack. He picked up the bike and hustled back to the road. Before coming out he looked both ways to see if anyone was coming. The street was still empty. He wheeled the bike up onto the road and looked at the house, or what little was left of it. The roof and most of the garage were gone. Trees were on fire, as was the BMW, and none of it showed any signs of slowing. Gould started pedaling. He swerved to miss a chunk of wood with shingles still attached. The entire lawn was littered with junk. Next to a tree about thirty feet from the front door Gould saw two legs sticking out beneath a pile of debris. She had been in the doorway when the blast occurred and that would have been about where she’d landed. Gould didn’t give it much thought, but it was possible that she was still alive. The important thing now, though, was to get as far away from here as quickly as possible. The blast would have been heard for miles around and it was sure to attract people. Gould raised his butt off the seat, put his head down, and started pedaling as fast as he could.

  40

  BALTIMORE, MARYLAND

  R app’s eyes fluttered and then opened. He looked up at the faint light and the acoustic ceiling tiles. Where the hell am I? he thought to himself. He tried to lift his head, but his body wouldn’t cooperate with his brain. He lay there completely still for a long moment. Nothing made sense. Finally, with what seemed like a monumental effort he got his head to roll to the left. There was a window with the shades drawn. There was no light around the edges so he assumed it was nighttime. There was an empty chair and railing on the side of the bed. Things were looking vaguely familiar. He blinked and looked at his arm. An IV was inserted in the back of his hand. I’m in a hospital. He remembered his knee surgery and for a second everything made sense. Then an unsettling feeling of déjà vu rolled over his body. Things weren’t adding up. He’d already left the hospital.

  What in the hell am I doing back here?

  He rolled his head to the other side and saw that his right arm was in a cast. His brow furrowed. Nothing was making sense. He looked up at the door and something clicked. He had left the hospital. He remembered driving home with his wife. He remembered coming in the house and not feeling well. He remembered being on crutches and going for the back door, feeling that a little fresh air might help. He’d just gotten the door open and hopped onto the deck when he…he couldn’t remember anything after that. Rapp looked up at the ceiling again, and wondered if he’d blacked out. He tried to lift his right arm to scratch his face, but it didn’t cooperate. He remembered the cast. For a split second he thought he was paralyzed, and then he was able to wiggle his fingers.

  I must have blacked out. It’s the only thing that makes sense.

  Rapp had never done well with drugs before. He went back to his last memory of standing on the deck, leaning against the railing and taking some gulps of air. There was no denying it; the fast food he had devoured was not helpful. Rapp thought of the steep stairs that led down to the dock and the crutches.

  I must have lost my balance and fallen. That’s how I broke my arm.

  There was movement near the door, and Rapp turned his head to see who it was. Just that small effort sent pain screaming up his neck to his forehead. Rapp winced as his head began to throb. That pain led to the realization that more than just his head hurt. He took a deep breath and suddenly felt as if someone was sticking a knife into his side. A figure came through the door, but his eyes couldn’t focus. He thought it was his wife for a second, but as the form stepped from the shadows into the faint circle of light that surrounded the bed, he realized it was Irene Kennedy. As she came closer, Rapp realized she’d been crying. It occurred to him that his injuries must be pretty serious.

  She placed a hand on his cheek and said, “You had us worried there for a while.”

  “Where am I?” Ra
pp whispered.

  “You’re at Johns Hopkins.”

  A second person entered the room. It was a man Rapp did not recognize. “Where is Anna?”

  Kennedy started to say something and then stopped. Her eyes filled with tears, and she said, “Mitch, there was an explosion.”

  “Where’s Anna?” he asked in a much louder voice. Suddenly two more people entered the room. They were big guys wearing surgical scrubs. Rapp looked at Kennedy, panic in his eyes. The tears were now rolling down her cheeks and her bottom lip was trembling.

  “Dammit!” he yelled. “Where is Anna?”

  Kennedy lowered her eyes and said, “She was killed in the explosion.”

  Rapp’s entire body tensed as he let loose an agonizing scream. With anger, shock, fear, and misery coursing through his body, he somehow managed to jerk himself halfway out of the bed before the two large orderlies and the doctor could wrestle him back down.

  Kennedy had warned the doctor there was a good chance Rapp would need to be restrained when he came to. The doctor listed off the injuries: two broken ribs, a broken right arm, a deep contusion on the right thigh, a left knee that had just been operated on, and swelling on the back of the brain. He assured Kennedy that the patient wouldn’t be going anywhere for some time.

  As the orderlies held him down, the doctor jabbed a needle in his thigh and hit the plunger. After about ten seconds the fight was out of Rapp. The orderlies released him and took a step back. Rapp lay there motionless, staring up at the ceiling, a single tear moving slowly from the corner of his right eye and tracing a path down his cheek.

  THERE WASN’T MUCH left of the house other than the reinforced steel door frames, the chimney, a small section of the staircase, and a few charred studs that jutted up from the smoking hulk of the first floor. The entire scene was illuminated with portable floodlights. Gas-powered electric generators hummed in the night air while firefighters picked through the rubble with axes and long crowbars. Skip McMahon surveyed the scene from the end of the driveway. He was a big man, over six feet tall and closer to 250 pounds than he was to 200. He’d been with the FBI thirty-five years and this one hit close to home. He knew both Rapp and his wife and liked them. Kennedy had called McMahon and asked him to treat the house as a potential crime scene even though the sheriff for Anne Arundel County was calling it an accidental explosion.