by Vince Flynn
Cameron would have liked to have gone up against Rapp in an urban environment. He felt confident he would have the advantage on the busy streets of Washington, where he had practiced his spy craft for decades. That would have been a real pleasure, to have hunted Rapp in Washington. Cameron smiled and shook his head as he walked—happy that the mission was a success and a little disappointed that he would never again experience the thrill of stalking Rapp.
As Cameron neared the dirt road, he veered off the path and found his transportation. Underneath some camouflage netting was a black BMW K 1200LT motorcycle. Cameron folded up the netting and placed it in one of the saddlebags. Then, after wheeling the bike back out onto the path, he put on a helmet and started the sleek machine. Its powerful headlamp lit up the path ahead. As it purred to life, he climbed on and slipped the bike into gear. Cameron slowly moved onto the dirt road and turned toward the cottage, in the opposite direction from the way the Jansens were headed. If everything went according to plan, he’d see them at the airstrip in another twenty minutes. The mission was a success.
HIS EYELIDS FLUTTERED and then snapped open. Mitch Rapp tried to focus, but his vision was blurred. His senses were coming back slowly, one at a time, like a computer booting up programs. His sense of smell came on-line first, the burnt odor of gunpowder filling his nostrils, and then there was a thumping noise, coming from where he did not know. Slowly, he let out a noise that started as a groan and ended as a growl. Rapp tried to move, but the pain was excruciating—in both his head and his chest.
He lay on his back staring up at the ceiling, trying to figure out where he was and what was wrong. The glaze on his eyes began to clear, and then it hit him. Rapp’s first reaction was to try to sit up. His head was barely an inch off the floor when sharp pains shot through his chest, forcing him to give up. Looking back at the ceiling, he brought his right hand up to his chest and felt under the folds of the heavy black leather coat. He pulled his gloved hand out and looked at it for signs of blood. The leather was dry—no blood. Forcing himself to ignore the pain, Rapp rolled onto his left side, and from there he got up on one knee and looked around the room.
“That fucking bitch,” he mumbled to himself. His head was still cloudy, but things were coming back to him. Rapp ran his fingers along the outside of the leather jacket and felt the two slugs that had been caught by the kevlar liner. Rapp remembered them asking him in the cottage if he was wearing any body armor. The way they asked the question at the time seemed unusual, and now he knew why. Thank God she didn’t shoot me in the head, he thought.
Remembering that he had started his stopwatch when they passed through the gate, Rapp looked at the watch to find out how much time had passed. He stared in disbelief as he realized he had been out for nearly four minutes. A new sense of urgency kicked in as he looked at the other bodies strewn about the room. Rapp started to stand and had to reach out and grab the edge of the desk to keep from falling over. When he’d steadied himself, he checked the back of his head and was confronted with a black leather glove shiny with blood. He looked at the floor where he’d been, and sure enough, there was a pool of blood the size of a dinner plate. Rapp cursed as he looked around the room. If things weren’t bad enough, he now had to clean up his blood; leaving it behind would be worse than a thousand sets of fingerprints. Rapp knew he had to move, and move fast, if he was going to make it out. There were a lot of questions to be answered, but they would all have to wait. Right now, it was Psychology 101—Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs—survival.
Ignoring the stabbing pain in his chest and the throbbing welt on the back of his head, he knelt down and picked up his Ruger pistol. While grabbing the gun, he noticed the bodyguard had been shot. Rapp filed it away and moved on, checking the room for any other evidence that might tie him to Hagenmiller’s death. He checked the lawyer and the butler and was relieved to find that they were still breathing. He moved to the main doors, locked them, and then went to the windows to check the driveway below. As he expected, the Audi was gone. With his back against the wall, Rapp looked around the room and scrambled to come up with a plan. He needed to get rid of the blood, and just wiping it up wouldn’t do the trick. Fear of getting caught was helping to clear his mind. After a few seconds his eyes fell on the fireplace, and then he looked around at all of the expensive artwork. He didn’t want to do it, but he saw no other solution. Rapp recalled the mansion’s floor plan and looked to the study’s other set of doors. They led to the game room and then through another door to the solarium. From there he could get outside onto the grounds near where the limousines and cars were parked. The decision was made in a split second.
Rapp moved across the room to a collection of crystal bottles sittingin the middle of a sterling silver tray. He pulled the top off one of the bottles, brought it under his nose, and got a stiff whiff of cognac. Rapp took a swig from the bottle and then walked over to the pool of blood, dousing the area and then the bodies of Hagenmiller and the bodyguard. With the remaining bottles he began soaking the rug, curtains, and whatever else he could think of. He raced over to the fireplace, took a stick of kindling from an old brass kettle, and stuck it into the flames. Seconds later the skinny piece of birch was aglow. Rapp took one lap around the room, lighting everything that had been doused in alcohol, and then tossed the stick of wood into the far corner.
Rapp grabbed the butler by the shirt collar and dragged him across the floor to the doors by the game room. He did the same with the lawyer, who was starting to stir. Flames were licking their way up the wall, and the heat was rising rapidly. Rapp burst through the doors into the game room and dragged the two men in with him. He stopped for just a second to catch his breath, worried that one of his ribs was probably broken. He told himself there was nothing he could do about it right now and then moved to lock the doors to the study from the inside. He took one last look around—the bodies were completely engulfed in flames, and the fire was spreading rapidly. Rapp pulled the door shut and ran across the long room, past the billiards table, the stuffed heads of exotic animals, a suit of armor, and finally an antique wood bar.
He stopped at the next door, listened for a second, then opened it and checked the hallway. To his right he could hear voices coming from the general direction of the kitchen and the main hallway. He stepped into the hallway, pulling the door closed behind him, and moved quickly through the open glass doors of the solarium.
The room was an annex that had been added thirty years after the original construction. The three exterior walls were dominated by large sheets of paned glass that ran fifteen feet from the floor to the ceiling. Plants and wicker furniture were arranged in various patterns to give visitors the impression of walking through a garden. Bright lights shone down from above so the guests could take in the brilliance of the room from the circular drive as they arrived and departed.
Rapp quickly extinguished the lights and checked back down the hall toward the kitchen. There were still no signs that the fire had been discovered. He moved across the solarium, crouching behind various plants. When he reached one of the patio doors, he looked beyond a row of hedges where a group of limousines were parked. The drivers stood around smoking and playing cards. Rapp needed to get past them to the other cars that had been driven by the guests. He hoped a valet might have been kind enough to leave the keys in the ignition.
The shouts came from the direction of the kitchen at first, and then almost instantly the limousine drivers noticed something was wrong. The drivers ran toward the front door of the mansion to investigate. Rapp sprang from the solarium and ran across the patio, his chest aching with each breath of air. He went down the steps to the crushed-rock driveway, shot to the right, and ran past the limousines. The first car he passed was a Jaguar. Rapp didn’t bother to check for keys. He needed something that would blend in a little better, preferably something that was made in Germany. Next was a red Mercedes-Benz; he passed on that one, too, but stopped at the third, a black Mercedes coupe
. Rapp breathed a sigh of relief as the door opened and he saw the keys dangling from the ignition.
The car started, and Rapp eyed the gas gauge as it rose to two-thirds of a tank. He was in luck. Rapp shifted the car into first gear, and instead of pulling out onto the driveway, he turned the opposite way onto the grass. He drove the car across the side lawn toward the rear of the house. He looked over to his right to see if anyone had noticed him. Everyone appeared to be focused on the fire. The headlights lit the way as the sporty car picked up speed across the level, plush lawn. Rapp got a little too anxious with the accelerator several times, and the wheels spun out on the dew-covered grass.
Rapp never went anywhere without an escape plan, and this was no exception. From the moment he arrived, he had started memorizing avenues of escape. He knew where the adjoining roads led, the nearest train stations and airfields, anything that would help him get away as quickly as possible if things went wrong—and something had gone horribly wrong tonight. He couldn’t even begin to imagine how he had been set up. Rapp smashed his fist down on the leather steering wheel and swore at himself for ignoring the warning signs that were now so obvious.
He turned the car onto one of the walking paths that cut through the large garden in the backyard. It occurred to him that the roofmounted security cameras were undoubtedly recording his movements, but he discarded the worry after only a second. The fire would keep everyone busy for quite some time. He reached the end of the large garden, and the car gained speed as it cut across another large swatch of grass and the tires found the soft gravel of a horse trail. Rapp shifted the car into third gear and then fourth. With the car climbing above sixty miles an hour, he checked the odometer and noted how far he would have to travel before the first turn.
The road rolled down and away from the mansion, and Rapp kept his focus on the path ahead, heading for the small bridge that would get him over a creek that separated the manicured lawn from the forest. Moments later, the car flew over a short wood bridge, its side mirrors inches away from clipping the railings. Rapp slowed, looking for a turn that, according to the satellite photos he’d studied, should be coming up on his right. Rapp glimpsed the fork and, downshifting, shot up a small hill and into the woods.
It was a little over a mile to the first paved road. Rapp eased off the accelerator, reminding himself that the twenty or thirty seconds gained by racing through the woods would be quickly negated if he slammed into a tree. As the car bounced its way along the winding, rutted path, Rapp began to run through his options. Denmark was one hundred miles to the north, and the Netherlands was one hundred miles due west. Rapp wasn’t crazy about going to either country. The subtle nuances of their language and culture were not second nature to him as they were in the countries to the south. Italy was an option. There was someone in Milan, someone who had been special to him once. Kennedy knew about her. She was former Mossad, Israeli intelligence, and still might be, for all Rapp knew. People in his line of work were never fully retired. Intelligence agencies had a way of hanging on to you whether you wanted them to or not. But Rapp could trust her. They had a bond that went beyond oaths to countries and organizations. They were the same person. Rapp knew he couldn’t go to her, though. Not now, not with Anna in the picture. If he went to Milan, he would end up in her bed. Milan would have to be a last resort.
France was the best choice. Rapp had safe deposit boxes in Paris, Marseille, and Lyon. Boxes no one at the Agency knew about. In France, there were friends he had made through his consulting business and his days as a triathlete, people he could trust from a life he had intentionally kept secret from his handlers. Not even Kennedy knew about the precautions he had set up.
Rapp downshifted into second gear and maneuvered the car through a sharp turn. The road snapped back around to the left and continued its meandering way through the forest. As he plotted the course ahead, he thought about Irene Kennedy. What was it in her voice when they had talked? Could it have been guilt over sending him to his death? Rapp shook his head. That was impossible. They were like family. Kennedy would never set him up. It had to be someone else, but who? Very few people knew about the Orion Team, and even fewer knew about this mission.
The car finally reached the firm traction of black asphalt. Rapp looked to the north and then the south. He hesitated for only a second and then turned the car toward Hanover, away from Hamburg. The E4 autobahn was only four miles away, and once he got there, Rapp could be on the other side of Hanover in less than forty minutes. From there, it was another hour and a half to Frankfurt. With the fire raging back at the estate, it would take at least an hour, he hoped, for them to discover that the car he was driving was missing, and even then they might not realize the importance of it. One thing was certain, however: when the German federal police found out that the assassins had gained access to the estate by posing as BKA agents, a dragnet would be thrown the likes of which the country probably hadn’t seen since the old divided days of east and west. Radios moved much faster than cars, and that meant he might have to part company with his new wheels before Frankfurt.
The car flew down the road at more than eighty miles an hour. Rapp ignored the pain in his chest and his throbbing headache and focused on the problem. He had to disappear. He had to get out of Germany and find out who in the hell had set him up. A frightening thought gripped Rapp, driving him to near panic. Cursing, he pushed the accelerator all the way to the floor. There was a problem that needed to be dealt with immediately. Rapp weighed the risks of making the call from his digital phone. No, there were too many security issues. As much as he hated the delay, the call would have to wait.
Anna Rielly unlocked the front door of the small cottage-style home. Behind her, the day’s final shadows were stretching across the rolling Maryland countryside. She was happy to be out of the city after another hectic week of following the president. When she took the job as White House correspondent for NBC, she had never fully imagined how much running around it would entail. She stepped into the entryway, setting her black purse and an overnight bag down on the bench to her right. As she hung her coat in the closet, she noticed one of Mitch’s draped over the banister and hung it up, too.
Rielly grinned to herself as she started up the stairs. Mitch Rapp had lived alone for too many years. In the master bedroom, she dropped her overnight bag to the hardwood floor with a thump and began working the buttons of her blue blouse. She walked over to the French doors that looked out over the Chesapeake Bay and sighed. Rielly doubted she would ever tire of the view. She adored the cottage—it spoke volumes about the man she had fallen in love with—the man she wanted to spend the rest of her life with. Rielly stripped down to her underwear and discarded her bra with the hope that she wouldn’t have to put one back on until she left for work on Monday morning.
She looked out at the bay, enjoying the last reflections of Friday’s light, and then glimpsed herself in the closet mirror to her right. At thirty, her body was even better than when she had played volleyball for the University of Michigan. She knew this was in great part the result of a diet that was completely void of junk food, three or four weekly workouts, and, most importantly, her mother’s genes. There was one other thing that had added more than a little extra tone in the waning months of summer. Rielly brought her right arm up into a curl and smiled at the definition of her biceps. Then she ran a hand along her rock-hard right thigh and traced a finger along the vertical line that separated the hamstring from the quadriceps. As part of her new commitment to enjoy life more, she had purchased a Mastercraft ski boat back in June. Rielly, a Chicago native, had spent her summers on Lake Poygan in Wisconsin and was slaloming by the age of six. Mitch and Anna had spent a good three months carving up the glassy early-morning and late-evening water of the bay. There was no workout she could think of that could so tire the body and at the same time so awaken the mind.
Anna slid her hands around to her waist and tried to stick out as much belly as her little frame wo
uld allow. A soft smile covered her face as she imagined herself pregnant. Her best friend was due in four months, and Anna called to get daily updates. Mitch had whispered his hopes of a baby in her ear on more than one occasion, and she had always responded the same way, telling him that he had his priorities in the wrong order. Marriage came first and then the baby.
Rielly threw on a pair of old faded Levi’s, brown leather Cole-Haan slides, and one of Mitch’s worn and tattered sweatshirts. After grabbing a black scrunchie from the drawer of the bedside night table, she pulled her brown hair back in a ponytail and started downstairs. Mitch had gutted the first floor of the cottage, getting rid of the dining room and creating a space that flowed from kitchen to eating area to family room. Rielly went into the kitchen, grabbed a beer from the fridge, and then realized she had forgotten her book upstairs. She ran up, got the book, came back down, and went out onto the deck. She stood at the railing for a moment, looking out over the water, savoring the cold beer.
Sinking back into one of the Adirondack chairs, she crossed her legs and opened her book. A coworker had talked Rielly into joining a book club when she moved to D.C. At the time, she thought it would be a good idea. She was looking for ways to restore some normalcy to her life after the tragic events that had taken place at the White House during the first days of her new posting. Now, after five straight book club selections, she wasn’t so sure she could handle another novel about a dysfunctional woman whose life was a mess because her father never gave her the attention she deserved. The first month it was great, the second it was okay, the third was tolerable, the fourth barely tolerable, and this fifth was going to be her last try. The group was meeting on Monday night, and Rielly hadn’t even had time to read the jacket copy. After a big swig of beer, she cracked the book and started in.