Consent to Kill:

by Vince Flynn

  Normally the FBI would have no jurisdiction over something like this, but Rapp was a federal agent, and if it turned out the explosion was intentional, they would take over the investigation. For now, though, McMahon and the agents he’d brought from the Washington Field Office were there to watch and try not to upset the apple cart. The Anne Arundel sheriff’s department was well funded and professional. McMahon had worked with local law enforcement enough over the years to know that coming in and acting like you were hot shit did nothing but aggravate an already difficult situation.

  McMahon leaned against his government-issue sedan and took a swig of lukewarm coffee. The sheriff approached and stopped a few paces away. He knew the Anne Arundel County sheriff from the DC-Baltimore Joint Terrorism Task Force. The man started talking, and despite the fact that McMahon disagreed with him he listened patiently.

  “I’m telling you, Skip, I know it’s hard to believe, but we get one of these explosions every year or so. Usually no one’s home, but it happens.”

  McMahon looked at the smoking pile of debris that was once Rapp’s house. “Pat, I’m only going to say it one more time. Guys like Mitch Rapp don’t get blown up by accident.”

  “And terrorists don’t fake explosions. You said it yourself. They like machine guns, they like suicide bombers, they like headlines. They don’t kill people and try to make it look like an accident.”

  McMahon had to admit he was having a hard time squaring this one glaring inconsistency. The sheriff was right; terrorists liked big explosions. That’s what got them news coverage. McMahon didn’t know a lot about the forensics of bombs, but so far the local experts were saying all evidence pointed to a propane explosion. McMahon wanted to be sure, so he’d put a call into headquarters and asked for them to send the bureau’s forensic bomb people out here. They were the best in the world, and if they couldn’t find anything, he doubted they could prove it wasn’t an accident. If that was the case the FBI would pack up its bags and head back to DC. The only thing left to take care of would be the insurance.

  “Has anyone taken credit for the explosion?” the sheriff asked.

  McMahon shook his head. The agents back at the Joint Counterterrorism Center were monitoring all news outlets for mention of the attack. McMahon had been tempted to pass on what Kennedy had told him about the threat on Rapp’s life that had come in the week before, but for now he decided to withhold the information. Investigations were always tricky when they involved multiple jurisdictions, but they were never more complicated than when they involved the CIA. For good reason, the CIA didn’t like sharing its sources and methods. Especially when judges ordered them to hand such information over to lawyers who represented suspected terrorists.

  The sheriff was hammering his point home to McMahon when one of his deputies came up. Two men in street clothes were following him.

  “Boss,” the deputy said to the sheriff, “these two guys say they’re here to see a Special Agent McMahon.”

  The sheriff jerked his thumb toward McMahon. “Here he is.”

  “There’s also a news van at the checkpoint.”

  “Crap,” said the sheriff.

  “It’s the NBC affiliate from Baltimore,” the deputy offered. “They know the wife died. They said the network sent them down to get some footage for a tribute they’re going to run in the morning.”

  “What do you think?” the sheriff asked McMahon.

  One of the men who had come up with the deputy looked at McMahon and shook his head. McMahon was not surprised that the man did not want cameras around. He looked over at the smoking house and turned to the deputy. “Tell them we’re checking for gas leaks. It’ll be about another hour.”

  The sheriff nodded his consent and the deputy left.

  “Sheriff,” said McMahon, “if you’ll excuse me for a minute, I need to talk to these gentlemen.”

  “I’ll go make sure the TV crew doesn’t weasel their way in here.”

  “Good idea.” When the sheriff was gone, McMahon looked at the two men. He knew the blond-haired man, but had never met the other guy. He could tell a great deal, though, by taking a quick inventory of him. He was wearing jeans, hiking boots, and a black Mountain Hard-wear fleece jacket. He had a large black rubber dive watch on his right wrist, his hair was dark and shaggy, and although he was a good seventy-five pounds lighter than the FBI agent, McMahon had no doubt the little scrapper could kill him without breaking a sweat. The guy was Special Forces from head to toe.

  All of this was easy to surmise since he already knew for a fact that the other man had indeed been Special Forces. McMahon turned his attention back to the taller of the two. “Scott Coleman,” he said, “I was about to say you’re the last person I expected to see, but now that I think about it I should have expected you.”

  “Irene called me.” The former SEAL was all business. “She wanted us to take a look around.”

  McMahon thought about that for a second. He wasn’t so sure he agreed with the director of the CIA. “Who’s your friend?”

  Coleman started to answer, and then McMahon put his hand out and cut him off. “Never mind,” the agent said. “I don’t want to know. Do I?”

  Coleman shrugged. “It wasn’t like I was going to give you his real name.”

  McMahon shook his head and turned toward the house. “You ever been here before?”

  Coleman nodded.

  “I suppose you and Mitch are pretty tight.”

  “Yeah.” Coleman looked at the other man he’d come with and made a slight gesture with his head. “You know what to look for.”

  The man looked each way down the road, nodded, and was gone.

  “They’re saying it’s a gas explosion.”

  McMahon nodded. “Propane.”

  “Who?”

  “The sheriff and the fire chief.”

  “Can I talk to the fire chief?”

  “Sure, follow me.” They walked roughly halfway down the driveway and found the county fire chief nudging a piece of debris with his boot. The man had gotten rid of his jacket, but he was still wearing his heavy boots, helmet, and fire-resistant overalls. McMahon made a quick introduction, telling the chief Coleman’s first name and nothing more.

  The fire chief started by pointing back toward the left side of the charred house. “We found some traces of an accelerant over there where the garage used to be and near where the propane tank used to sit.”

  McMahon gave the fire chief a quick “See, I told you so” look and said, “So it isn’t an accident after all.”

  “I wouldn’t say that.”

  “I thought you said you found traces of an accelerant.”

  “I did, but it’s not unusual to find traces like that in and around the garage. I see he has a couple of boats, it’s a pretty big yard to mow…I’m sure he stored gas in the garage. He may have even had one of those gas caddies with a long hose. They’re real popular around here. You save about fifty cents a gallon if you buy it at a gas station rather than filling up at the marinas.”

  Coleman nodded.

  “A gas caddie?” asked McMahon.

  “Yeah…they’re a cross between a two-wheeler and big gas can.” The chief gestured with his hands to show McMahon the approximate size. “They usually hold between twenty-five and fifty gallons. They’re red, they have a hand pump, a hose, and a nozzle. You can wheel them around, but you’d never want to take it down stairs like the ones going down to the dock here. You’d just walk the hose down, leave the caddie up at the top, and fill the boats.”

  McMahon got the picture. “Can you tell if the accelerant was gas?”

  “Pretty sure.”

  “How sure?”

  “Ninety percent,” answered the chief.

  “Can you tell how much was used?”

  “I’m not sure any was used,” the fire chief said cautiously. “I’m just telling you it’s pretty common for people to keep gas in their garage, especially around here, and when there’s an expl
osion like this one, the gas goes up just like everything else.”

  “Can you show me where you found the traces?” Coleman asked.

  “Follow me.” The chief led them past the charred hulk of a burned-out car and pointed at the ground. “This is where the outer wall of the garage used to sit. You can see here where the slab starts.” The chief kicked at the ground with his boot.

  “Where did you find the traces of accelerant?”

  The chief stepped over some debris and said, “It was concentrated in this area right here. From the outer wall of the garage to roughly over here.”

  Coleman remembered where the propane tank used to sit.

  “My guess is,” the chief pointed at the ground, “he had a small utility shed right there where he kept the gas. We think this might have been a two-banger. The first explosion came from the gas that had leaked into the house, and then the second explosion was the tank itself touching off a short while later.”

  “Any other hot spots?”

  “We got a couple reads in the garage, but relatively small compared to this one.”

  The former SEAL nodded and said, “Thanks, Chief.” He took McMahon by the elbow and led him back toward the road. When they were far enough away he said, “Mitch never had one of those gas caddies. At least not that I ever saw, and I can guarantee you, he didn’t keep gas stored in a shed outside the garage a few feet from his propane tank.”

  “You know that for a fact.”

  “I know how the man thinks. He was very careful. There was no way in hell he would have stored gas in an outdoor shed, let alone that close to a propane tank.”

  “So what are you telling me?”

  “I’m telling you Mitch didn’t leave any gas outside his garage. You can figure the rest out on your own.”

  When they reached the street, Coleman looked back toward the house and beyond. He could see a few navigation lights out on the bay. “Irene tells me a fisherman pulled Mitch from the water.”

  “Yeah.” McMahon pulled a small notebook from his suit coat pocket. “A local guy from Shady Side. Harold S. Cox.” McMahon pointed north. “He was only a couple hundred yards away when the explosion happened. He says he literally saw Mitch flying through the air. He saw him hit the dock and then roll into the water. If the guy hadn’t been there Mitch probably would have drowned.”

  Coleman was putting himself in the shoes of whoever it was who had tried to kill his friend. As a former SEAL he was drawn to the water. “Any other boats?”

  “Two. They both called nine-one-one and helped Mr. Cox give CPR.”

  “Have they been thoroughly checked?”

  “We’re working on it right now.”

  “Did any of them see anything out of the ordinary?”

  “Nothing came up during the initial interview that was handled by the sheriff’s department.”

  Coleman’s companion emerged from the woods. He held up his forefinger and said, “One guy. He had a bike, and he wasn’t here long.”

  McMahon was completely dumbfounded. “Where? Show me?”

  The guy walked over to the edge of the road and pressed his thumb down on the end of his tactical flashlight. The tiny device was extremely powerful. “See how the tall grass is pushed toward the street in that single line? Those are bike tires. The markings on the right are footprints. The tire track curves this way.” The man pointed south. “The street dead-ends down there, but there’s a trail that cuts through the woods.” He looked at Coleman. “I’ve run it with Mitch before. After about a mile the trail forks—east to a beach and west, where it hooks up with a dirt road that runs along the edge of a small airstrip back out to one of the county roads.”

  “Back up a minute,” said McMahon. “There were a fair amount of people running around here after the explosion. When I arrived on the scene I remember at least one person with a bike and who knows how many had already come and gone. How do we know it wasn’t some neighbor who made that track?”

  “Can you give me one good reason why a neighbor would carry their bike twenty feet into the woods, lay it down on the ground, and then lie down next to it?”

  “Not off the top of my head.”

  The man looked back at Coleman. “I’m going to take a look at the path and see what I can find.” He held up a Nextel two-way mobile phone. “I’ll check in with you in fifteen.”

  “You want me to come with?”

  The guy shook his head. “This tango is long gone.” Without another word, the man took off jogging down the street.

  “Who the hell is he?” asked McMahon.

  “He’s the best sniper I’ve ever seen. He can track anything.”

  “He works for you now?”

  “Yep.”

  “Lovely. God, I hope you don’t end up with the FBI on your doorstep someday.”

  “You and I both.”

  The sheriff returned, mumbling something under his breath. It was obvious things hadn’t gone so well at the roadblock. “This TV crew is getting really pushy. They know we’re stonewalling them. I spoke to their news director myself and he says we have five minutes until he gets a lawyer and judge involved. They’re demanding to know the status of the husband, and they said they don’t care if he worked for the CIA and neither will the judge.”

  Before McMahon could answer, Coleman said, “Sheriff, will you give us just a minute?”

  The sheriff appeared hesitant at first and then consented. Coleman pulled McMahon a few feet away. “Can you take your FBI hat off for a second?”

  “Do you really have to ask me that?” McMahon had proven to Coleman in the past that he was willing to look the other way.

  “Throw the TV crew a bone. Have the deputy tell them Mitch is dead.”

  “Why in the hell would I want to do that?”

  Coleman stared at him with a look that said, Do I really have to explain this to you? He would have preferred to not have this conversation with a law enforcement officer, but there wasn’t a lot of time. “This was not an accident. It was a contract kill. One guy, maybe two.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Yes.”

  “So why do you want us to leak to the press that Mitch is dead?”

  “Theoretically speaking, in this line of work you get paid anywhere from a third to half of the fee as a down payment, and then when you complete the job you get the rest of the fee. If you don’t complete the job, you don’t get the rest of the money.”

  “And your point is?”

  “If the media reports that Mitch is dead, this person will get the rest of the fee. Money will have to change hands. Probably a lot of it. That creates a trail.”

  “What if they get paid cash?”

  “No trail, but my guess is a professional contract on Mitch would run at least four million dollars, maybe double that.”

  “And your point?”

  “That’s a lot of cash. Not the type of thing you want to try and get through customs. When you start talking that kind of money you’re better off setting up dummy offshore corporations and transferring it electronically. The amount of money that’s moved around every day is astronomical. It’s like the old needle in the haystack.”

  “Then how in the hell are we going to find it?”

  Coleman grinned. “We wait a few days…maybe more, and then we let it be known that Mitch is still alive. Whoever ordered the hit is going to be pissed. They’re going to demand that this guy finish the job or give the money back.” Coleman shrugged his shoulders. “Maybe we get lucky and they simply reverse the wire transfer. Same banks…same amount. The original transfer will be made tomorrow or the day after, and the refund will be made within a day or two from when it’s announced that he’s still alive. We could trace it.”

  “And if these guys decided they’d rather finish the job than give the money back?”

  Coleman’s face took on a wolfish smile. “Well, now that’d be even better, wouldn’t it?”

  McMahon got real uncomfort
able. “Scott, you guys need to sit this one out and let us handle it.”

  Coleman let loose an ominous laugh. “Yeah, right. I talked to Irene on the way over here. He’s awake.” The former SEAL stopped and looked at McMahon for a long moment. “He knows she’s dead. When he gets out of that hospital what do you think he’s going to do? Sit on the sidelines like a good little Boy Scout while you guys push your subpoenas through the courts and try to get foreign governments to cooperate? Best-case scenario your investigation will take two years.” Coleman shook his head. “It ain’t gonna fuckin’ happen. I’m telling you right now he’s going to kill every last motherfucker who had anything to do with this, and there is nothing any of you can do to stop him.”

  McMahon ran a hand over his face and sighed. He knew Coleman was right. “Jesus, this is going to get ugly.”

  “You’re damn right, and I’ve got a word of advice for you. Skip. Just get out of the way and tell anyone you care about to do the same.”

  41

  INDIANAPOLIS, INDIANA

  G ould awoke to the sound of the TV and Claudia crying. It took him a moment to even remember where he was and he looked at the TV and saw a photo of Anna Rielly. They’d first heard the news on the radio the night before, driving through Columbus, Ohio. Claudia cried for the better part of an hour. Fortunately, he had told her the truth, which was that he didn’t know if the woman had survived. He had waited as long as he could before triggering the explosion and when he left the scene she was in the front yard.

  When they reached the hotel in Indianapolis, Claudia cried herself to sleep and now here she was in the morning shedding yet more tears. This pregnancy thing was really screwing with her emotions, and Gould didn’t know how much more he could take. He’d tried to console her with words, he’d tried to comfort her by holding her, but nothing was working. This was not the first time he’d killed someone other than the primary target, and she had never so much as had a sniffle before.