Consent to Kill:

by Vince Flynn

  “Fuck.” He pointed to the two dead men on the ground next to the Suburbans. “I suppose they were killed by ricochets too.” Castillo tossed the crowbar to the man and said, “Open that window.” Looking back at the other two guys he said, “One of the guards must still be alive.” He was looking one of his men straight in the eye when the guy’s face literally exploded, showering Castillo with blood and chunks of brain and skull. Castillo froze, his eyes trying to comprehend what had just happened, everything slowing down for a second or two, and then suddenly he snapped out of it and lurched for his Uzi, which was resting on a chair only a few feet away. He almost had his hand on the grip when he remembered the thing was still jammed. He kept reaching and then something slapped his hand away. Castillo looked down in shock, his brain not yet registering that a bullet had torn through his hand. To his left and right he noted two more of his men falling to the ground as he clutched his shattered hand. By the time he looked up a man was already coming at him from the far end of the porch, his gun extended. Castillo recognized the eyes. They belonged to the man he’d been sent to kill.

  59

  ZIHUATANEJO, MEXICO

  T he moon floated over the Pacific Ocean casting a shimmering wake that danced straight across the bay to her balcony. The hotel was beautiful, only thirty-six rooms, almost all of them suites, each with its own private gravity pool and unobstructed view of the tranquil bay. Under normal circumstances the setting would have been extremely romantic. The humid tropical air, the waves lapping at the cliff beneath her balcony, a gentle breeze blowing in off the salty water, a small cluster of sailboats anchored for the night rocking gently in the water. Down on the beach couples were out walking in the surf.

  Claudia had never been to this particular hotel before, but she had been to many others like it, and always with Louie. The mere thought of him, the man she thought she knew, brought the tears back. How she had gotten to this point in her life, she wasn’t sure, but she knew she had never felt so alone, and so utterly disgusted with herself. She looked back on the last six years with a clarity that can be reached only when the journey is over. When you have told yourself there is no going back. It was resolution inspired by pain, the type of thing that steeled the psyche against future assaults. What had caused her to reach this tipping point, she hadn’t been sure of when she arrived at the hotel a day and a half ago. The reflective solitude of the place coupled with her own isolation left memories and aspirations to battle it out in her mind, debating her possible salvation, and whether or not she ever deserved it.

  Claudia Morrell had been raised a devout Catholic, by a beautiful, gentle, and traditional mother. Her father, a lifelong military man, was a ruggedly handsome soldier who had barely enough time for his wife let alone his children. Claudia knew now why she had chosen this drastic course. Ten years ago she would have laughed at any shrink if they’d told her she had been lashing out at her father—making him pay for his years of neglect. Looking back on it now it was obvious. She got back at him by dating one of his junior officers. She saw her father in Louie, there was no denying it. When her father tried to sabotage their relationship by having Louie transferred, that was the beginning of the end. It was the catalyst that had set things in motion. That much she understood.

  He had driven her away, but it was she who had chosen this morally corrupt life. The transformation from a God-fearing Catholic to this wasteland of ethical ambiguity did not take place overnight. It was, like most lives of crime, one that had started off small. At first her role in the partnership was nothing more than moving money around to make sure it wasn’t tracked, and that it was tucked away in a place where certain governments couldn’t get their hands on it.

  Sure enough, though, it progressed. She’d begun to guess what Louie was up to. All of the secrecy, and his vigilant, almost paranoid behavior, was not without reason. When she’d discovered that Louie was a contract killer, she had been surprisingly unaffected by the revelation. She supposed it had its roots in the fact that her father had killed men in battle. In Louie’s case, it was not a stretch to feel ambiguous about him killing sociopaths, capitalist pigs, corrupt politicians, and unethical businessmen. But this Mitch Rapp was a different story. She had felt it was wrong from the moment she heard his name, but she had not protested enough.

  Alone, looking back on her decisions with a healthy dose of self-loathing and maturity, she knew that the simple embarrassing truth was that she had been raised better. She had been given the tools to know right from wrong and she had consciously chosen not to use them—to ignore that little voice that told her every step of the way what she was doing was wrong. She’d used her own issues with her father as an excuse to discard the moral compass she’d been given as a child. And her lame excuse was that her father had not given her enough attention.

  Claudia looked up at the moon and wiped the tears from her face. She was filled with self-loathing. Her childhood had been good. Her parents had taken good care of her. They had never hit her or screamed at her. They were still married, and they still loved each other. Claudia had no excuse for why she had allowed herself to sink so low. She had rationalized condoning Louie’s actions for a very long time but no longer. The moment she’d met with the German, she did not trust him. She’d known it was wrong to target Rapp. The undeniable, harsh truth was that she had allowed herself to sell every ounce of her morality, everything her parents had taught her about right and wrong, for ten million dollars.

  That was her price tag, and now she found herself embroiled in this Greek tragedy, bloodstained hands and all, a life growing inside her, sired by a man who had just killed a pregnant woman and had not shown an ounce of remorse. Louie’s complete lack of shame, or even regret, had been the thing that woke her up from this bad dream. She understood that mistakes were made, but to be so headstrong as to not even acknowledge them was repulsive. For the first time in all the years she’d loved him she did not like what she saw. In her eyes Louie had turned into a monster.

  What the gods had in store for her and her unborn child she was too afraid to even consider. Somehow, though, she knew she needed to make things right. There was the past, and there was nothing she could do about that, but she could try to make amends. She doubted she could redeem herself, but maybe she could make things right for her baby. She could not bring Anna Rielly and the beating heart of her baby back, but she could repent and do her best to make things right. Claudia now knew with complete conviction what she must do.

  Wiping the tears from her face she stood and walked into the living room. She hit the space bar on her laptop to bring it out of sleep mode and then logged onto the Internet. There were two more messages from the German. She read them quickly. They were essentially angrier versions of ones he’d already sent. Abel wanted the money back or the job finished. If they didn’t comply he was going to hunt them to the ends of the earth. The German was lucky Louie wasn’t here to read them, because if he had, he’d get on the next plane to Europe and Abel would be dead before Monday morning arrived. Claudia had already decided he wasn’t going to get the money back. In fact, Abel was about to have much bigger problems.

  Claudia had found the person’s e-mail account earlier in the day. It had not been difficult. She simply punched in the person’s name and then added @cia.gov. The initial try didn’t work, so she added a period between the first and last names and sent it again. This time it went through. With her fingers poised above the keyboard she took a deep breath and began typing. Claudia worked on the message for nearly an hour, and then deleted nearly everything she had written. There was too much. She would have to start out slow, with a simple apology, and see where it went from there.

  Claudia maneuvered the arrow until it rested on the send tab. Her finger remained poised above the pad ready to tap it and send the message on its way. Claudia hesitated a moment, and then the little voice in the back of her head, the one she had ignored for the last six years, told her to do it. Claudia ta
pped the mouse pad, and the laptop beeped. The words MESSAGE SENT popped up on the screen, and she knew there was no turning back.

  60

  CAMP DAVID, MARYLAND

  W hat do you mean, he’s gone?” snapped Ross.

  Kennedy regarded him carefully, jammed her fingers into the pressure points on each palm and told herself to stay calm. “He’s gone, Mark.”

  “I heard you.” Ross brought his hands up like he wanted to choke someone. “How in the hell did he just vanish?”

  “Maybe we should wait for the president,” Kennedy said in a reasonable voice. She didn’t want to have to repeat herself, and she had no doubt that Ross would be more civil with his boss in the room.

  It was Sunday afternoon, and Ross had just finished playing eighteen holes with the president, the party’s chairman, and one of the party’s chief fundraisers. Kennedy had been tempted to call the president after the attack, but by the time she’d caught her breath it was past midnight, and as a general rule she never disturbed the president’s sleep unless she needed him to make a decision. She’d thought about calling Ross, thought about how the call would go, and knew immediately that the longer she could put off bringing him into the loop the easier her life would be. There was too much to do, and he would want to be calling the shots.

  So she had delayed it as long as she could, and now she was here to deliver the bad news and watch Ross freak out. Kennedy had not slept a wink. In addition to her professional duties, she had to contend with her son and how he was handling the trauma. Fortunately, Steven Rapp had understood that she needed to manage the situation and that Tommy needed someone to reassure him that everything was all right. So while she tried to sort out the mayhem, Steven and Tommy were escorted back to her house by a beefed-up security detail. The most difficult part had been explaining to Tommy that Vince Delgado and Mike Burton had been killed.

  She’d arrived back at her house a little before ten in the morning. Tommy woke up, came down the hall, and the first thing he asked her was what happened to Vince and Mike. They had been on her personal protection detail for more than a year and she knew Tommy was attached to both men, especially Vince. She would break the news to their family members herself, but it would have to wait until she took care of a few things.

  Ross was her chief concern. There were several things that she had done in the last fourteen hours that he would not like, but he was not someone who was well suited to consider the long-term needs of the CIA. She had timed her arrival at the presidential retreat to coincide with them getting back from their golf outing. She’d been waiting in the Aspen Lodge by herself for a little more than fifteen minutes, which had given her some extra time to think about how she would handle Ross. It was during this brief calm in a tumultuous week that she stumbled upon the key to dealing with Mark Ross. She was a little surprised she hadn’t thought of it before, but she was not the type of person who tried to play her superiors.

  Ross had no intention of waiting for the president and he pressed Kennedy by asking, “When did this happen?”

  Kennedy glanced over Ross’s shoulder toward the door. “Last night.”

  “When?”

  “Around ten o’clock.”

  Ross’s jaw went slack and his eyes narrowed. Now it was his turn to look over his shoulder. When he was sure they were still alone he turned his angry eyes back to Kennedy and said, “It is two in the afternoon. Would you mind telling me why in the hell it took you so long to inform me?”

  Vanity, Kennedy thought to herself. That’s the key. “Mark,” she leaned in and spoke as if they’d known each other for years, “you know what’s going on here today?”

  Ross looked confused.

  “No one is thrilled with Vice President Baxter’s performance.” Kennedy paused and let the innuendo hang there for a few seconds. “He’s been a drag in the polls, and there’s been a lot of talk about replacing him on the ticket.” She moved in even closer and whispered, “I know there was a reason the president asked you to play golf today.”

  Ross took in a deep breath and nodded.

  Kennedy could tell by the expression on his face that he’d already thought of this. It didn’t matter that he didn’t know the president wasn’t running for reelection and it wouldn’t matter in a month when he announced that he wasn’t. Ross would take that news as an opportunity. He’d just have to wait and see who was going to be the front-runner and get them lined up in his sights.

  “You’re on the short list, Mark. Today was your interview. I didn’t want to screw that up by dropping this on you right before you teed off, or worse, cut your round short.”

  Ross was speechless for a moment and then just as he was about to comment on Kennedy’s revelation the president entered the room.

  “Irene,” Hayes said as he came over to them. He was dressed in a golf shirt, sweater vest, and slacks. “I’m sorry to keep you waiting. What’s the problem?”

  Kennedy shared a brief look with Ross and then said, “Mr. President, one of our safe houses got hit last night.” Kennedy explained to the president and Ross that she had picked up Steven Rapp and brought him to the safe house so he could see his brother. They had just finished dinner, it was around 9:30, she was in the kitchen with her son cleaning up, when suddenly they heard gunshots and several explosions. Rapp rushed herself, her son, and his brother into the basement. Kennedy took a moment to explain the physical setup of the safe house, and how they took a tunnel over to the subterranean interrogation facility and locked themselves in a cell. About an hour after the incident had started, a CIA quick response team arrived on site and secured the facility. Kennedy explained with some difficulty that two men on her security detail had been killed, as well as two other CIA guards who were tasked to the facility. She ended the summation by telling them that Rapp was gone.

  “What do you mean, he’s gone?” Ross asked in a far more subdued tone than he would have five minutes ago.

  “He literally wasn’t there,” Kennedy answered. “We assumed the worst at first…that he was captured and taken away, or killed and taken away, but then we ran the security tapes.” Kennedy stopped, and it was obvious by the expression on her face that there was more to the story.

  “And?” Ross asked, his curiosity fully piqued.

  “The house was hit with a total of seven RPG rounds and over a thousand bullets. In addition to the four CIA employees killed, there were thirteen other bodies discovered.”

  “Thirteen?” Ross was shocked by the number.

  “They were the men who we think were hired to attack the facility. They used three black Chevy Suburbans equipped with emergency lights.” Kennedy turned to the president. “Like the kind the Secret Service uses to get through traffic. They tore down the main gate, and then drove up to the house with their emergency lights flashing. They were wearing blue coveralls with FBI baseball caps. My bodyguards didn’t even draw their weapons. I think they thought it was the FBI showing up to place Mitch under protective custody.”

  “Back up a minute,” said Ross, “or move forward. You said the four guards were killed. There were other guards, right?”

  “No.”

  “Then what happened to these thirteen guys?”

  The president looked at Kennedy and said, “Mitch was what happened to them.”

  Kennedy nodded. “Each man was killed with a single nine-millimeter shot to the head.” Kennedy frowned and added, “Here is where it gets interesting. There was a fourteenth individual. The tapes show Mitch putting him in the back of one of the Suburbans and leaving.”

  “Why?” asked Ross.

  “Why do you think?” Kennedy replied. “Somebody has now tried to kill him twice, and his wife is dead. He’s going to squeeze everything he can get out of this guy and find out who hired him.”

  Ross didn’t like the sound of this. “So we have no idea where he is?”

  Kennedy shook her head.

  “Have you identified any of the thirteen?�
� asked the president.

  “We think they are members of a Latino gang based out of Alexandria.”

  “A Latino gang,” Ross said. “Why in the hell would they want to kill Rapp?”

  “Since we don’t have anyone to interrogate, I’m going with the assumption that they were offered cash. Mitch has never operated in Central America. A gang like this would have no reason to go after him.”

  “What does the FBI have to say?” Ross asked.

  Kennedy hesitated briefly. “I haven’t brought the FBI in on this.”

  “What?” Ross was shocked.

  “Mark,” Kennedy said, “we don’t need this kind of publicity. This facility is off budget. With your political career still ahead of you, it would be wise for you to stay as far away from this thing as possible.”

  “But we have four dead federal employees and thirteen dead…citizens. I assume these men are citizens.”

  “Mark,” Kennedy shook her head, “the murder of my people will not become an issue. These families are briefed about this type of possibility and they will not make a stink.”

  “It’s a domestic federal facility, though. It falls under the FBI’s jurisdiction.”

  “If we bring the FBI in on the investigation, we’ll end up with reporters crawling all over this and you will end up sitting in front of a committee on the Hill answering some very uncomfortable questions, and all for what?”