Mitch Rapp 11 - American Assassin

by Vince Flynn

  “Keep moving. We’ll talk about it in the barn.”

  “This is bullshit. He told me who he was and where he was from. Same as me,” Bill complained.

  Victor laughed. “I gave you a fake name, you stupid hick.”

  “Why the hell would you do that?” one of the guys farther down the line asked Victor.

  “Asshole,” someone else grumbled.

  “You guys should all be thanking me,” Victor said in an easy voice. “One less guy to worry about.”

  Sergeant Smith silenced all of them with a growling order to assume the position. “The next one of you who opens his pie hole is gone. Now push ’em out.”

  Rapp dropped his chest down to the dewy grass and pushed straight up, quietly counting out each push-up as he went. He’d done so many in the past five days that they were becoming second nature—almost like breathing. Somewhere past number forty and before number fifty, Rapp began feeling some serious ill will toward Victor. If only the big jackass would stumble and break an ankle. He was too risky to have around. For the rest of the morning, as they ran from one thing to the next, Rapp couldn’t shake the feeling that he and Victor were on a collision course. With Dick quitting and Bill getting the boot, that meant two fewer people to run interference. Victor could focus more of his time on pestering Rapp.

  The long run was actually nice, since Victor was the slowest of the group. They were spared his running mouth. When breakfast rolled around they all gave him the cold shoulder. It didn’t matter to Victor, though. He stayed chatty, continuing to dole out insults and the occasional wise-ass comment that the instructors seemed to take better than they should have. They spent an hour on the obstacle course and another hour on the pistol range before heading back in for lunch. The attitude among the recruits was decidedly sour. It was as if they had a traitor in their midst. After lunch they went over field-stripping various handguns, and then it was announced that they were heading into the barn for a little hand-to-hand combat.

  For Rapp it was his first time back on the mat since the day he’d arrived. He had wondered where the mean old cuss had gone, and had almost asked Sergeant Smith, but the guy wasn’t exactly keen on sharing information. Jones and Smith paired the men up. Since there were five, someone had to be the odd man out and it turned out to be Rapp. The rules were simple: no blows to the head or groin. Choke holds were encouraged, but they warned the men to be careful not to crush anyone’s larynx. If you wanted out all you had to do was tap the mat. Right before they started the blond-haired shrink quietly slipped into the barn.

  The first two men up were Roy and Glenn. Rapp hadn’t figured out where either of them was from, and wasn’t about to ask. Like all of them, the two men were dark-featured, with black hair, brown eyes, and tan skin. Roy was five-ten and Glenn was perhaps an inch taller. Rapp guessed they were both around twenty-seven. He was not overly impressed with their fighting styles. They both used standard judo techniques. Lots of holds and throws, but nothing that could be used to incapacitate an enemy in one quick flurry. Technically, they were sound, and they were both tough enough, and in good enough shape, to draw out a lengthy, tiring, boring match.

  After about four minutes they ended up in a sweaty tangle in the middle of the mat and Sergeant Smith stepped in. Victor and Fred were up next. Fred was six feet tall and about 175 pounds, and had done a really good job of keeping to himself. He finished in the top three on every run, handled the obstacle course with ease, and was the top marksman after Bill. Victor, at six-two and 220 pounds, was by far the biggest of the group. His neck was nearly as thick as his thighs, which meant, as Rapp had noticed when he met him, that he would be really hard to knock out with a shot to the head. From all of the talking he’d done, Rapp half expected to the see the second coming of Muhammad Ali.

  Victor bounded across the mat, shadowboxing as he went. “You ready to get your ass kicked, Freddy?”

  Fred said nothing. He walked to the center of the mat in his bare feet and took up his fighting stance. Rapp pegged him for a wrestler by the way he moved. Victor was such an oversized peacock that it was impossible to tell what he was capable of. Most guys his size were not boxers, but he did move pretty well on his feet. Sergeant Smith dropped his hand and the two men charged at each other. Fred went low just as Rapp expected him to. Victor tried to sidestep him, but his right leg got looped by his opponent. Fred hooked onto Victor’s knee and pulled it tight to his chest. He stayed low and kept driving with his legs, trying to tip the bigger man over. Victor hopped back on his left leg and started delivering punches to Fred’s back. The first few were misplaced and lacked power. Rapp watched Victor lose his balance and begin to go down. He changed his tactic and smacked Fred in the back of the head with a closed-fist punch. Fred appeared to slow for a split second, but he didn’t lose his grip.

  Victor went down and rolled immediately onto his stomach. He flared his arms and legs out so he couldn’t be flipped. Fred scrambled over the top of him and shot his right arm under Victor’s neck. He wrenched the bigger man’s head back and placed his left forearm across the back of Victor’s head. The hold was commonly known as the sleeper hold, and if it wasn’t broken in short order it performed as advertised. Victor got hold of a couple of Fred’s fingers and twisted with everything he had while turning into the man. Victor used his strength to reverse out of it. At first it looked as if he was getting the upper hand, and then Rapp saw what Fred was up to. He had allowed Victor to think he was initiating the move, but in truth it was Fred’s idea. Once on his back, Fred wrapped his legs around Victor’s waist and clamped down with a vicious scissor lock. Victor only made things worse by trying to pull himself up and away.

  As Rapp had learned the hard way, the best way to get out of that hold was with a well-placed elbow to the inner thigh. Earlier in the summer, his instructor had put him in the same scissor lock and made him pay dearly. By pulling away you stretched out the torso, which allowed the person initiating the hold to clamp down even tighter. Then you emptied your lungs to take in a big breath, and the person squeezed even tighter. The next thing you knew you were desperately in need of oxygen, writhing in pain and genuinely concerned that you were about to end up with a broken rib or two.

  Victor made that mistake, and it was obvious by the worried look in his eyes that he knew he was in trouble. He swung hard, trying to hit Fred in the solar plexus, but the blow was blocked. Next he tried to twist away, which only allowed Fred to tighten his hold a few more notches. Victor’s face was beet red. Rapp knew it would only last a few more seconds, and he was silently hoping to hear a few ribs pop between now and then. It looked as if Victor was going to quit. He started to wave his left hand, and then just as Fred relaxed a touch, Victor brought his big right fist smashing down. The blow hit Fred square in the face. His head bounced off the mat, and he released his legs. Then blood began to pour from his misshapen nose.

  Rapp took a step forward, ready to kick Victor in the head. He was on the verge of delivering the blow when Sergeant Smith stepped onto the mat and began barking orders. Rapp took a step back and watched as Victor rolled off Fred, flopped onto his back, and began laughing.

  CHAPTER 16

  SERGEANT Jones was attending to Fred’s broken nose. Roy and Glenn were talking quietly and shooting Victor daggers. Rapp looked to the door and noticed the shrink studying him. Twice now, Rapp had seen the rules of engagement broken, and so far, there had been no punishment handed out. Not that the old codger could be punished, but Victor was one of them, and if he could get away with it then Rapp could as well. It got Rapp thinking that maybe it was time to bend the rules a little bit. While he was working out the details of what he wanted to do, Sergeant Smith ordered him onto the mat and then pointed at Glenn.

  “I would rather fight Victor,” Rapp said.

  “Well, you’re not running the show around here,” Smith snapped.

  “He’s doing you a favor,” Victor said, still out of breath. “A little pussy l
ike you wouldn’t last five seconds against me.”

  Rapp stayed calm, but there was something unmistakably ominous just beneath the surface. “Let’s find out,” he said evenly.

  “Suicide,” Victor retorted.

  “I think you’re afraid.”

  “Shut up, all of you,” Sergeant Smith said. “Glenn, get your ass on the mat.”

  Rapp moved to his left, cutting off Glenn. He stayed facing the wiry instructor and said, “I’m confused. Do rules matter around here, or does Victor get to do as he pleases?”

  “We have rules, dammit! Now get in the middle of the mat and shut up.”

  “No disrespect, Sarge, but this is bullshit. How are we supposed to trust each other … how are we supposed to trust you when he keeps doing whatever the hell he wants without getting punished?”

  “You think there’s any rules out there,” Victor laughed, “in the real world? Hell no!”

  “But in here … we should just let you do whatever you want?”

  “Sarge,” Victor said as he got to his feet, “I got this one. Don’t worry. I can take care of this little college puke with one arm tied behind my back.”

  Sergeant Smith looked as if he was about to lose it, but the blond-haired shrink stepped in and said, “Sergeant, I think we should allow Victor and Irving to have a go at it.”

  The sergeant’s head snapped around. Rapp noticed a brief exchange of thoughts between the men before the sergeant retreated. “All right,” he grumbled, “both of you, center of the mat, square off, and on my mark you start.”

  “Do we bother with rules this time, or should I assume Victor will break them?” Rapp asked, stone-faced.

  “The head and neck are off limits, dammit!”

  “I appreciate the effort, Sarge, but I’d prefer no restrictions,” Rapp said.

  “I don’t care what you prefer. I make the rules.”

  Rapp hesitated. He wanted clarification on this point, and he’d rather not have to worry about Victor cheating. “And if Victor accidentally punches me in the face?”

  “God dammit!” the sergeant boomed. “This isn’t a debate club. Do you ladies want to go for a nice long run?”

  Rapp silently moved to the center of the mat, satisfied that he had made his point, but nonetheless wary that Victor would do whatever it took to win. A strategy was already forming in his head. Victor had shown that he was a fairly one-dimensional fighter. Against the uninitiated he could probably hold his own on the mat, but boxing was his preference. That was plain enough to see.

  Victor was all smiles as he slapped one fist into the fleshy palm of the other. “I’m gonna kick your ass, you little puke.”

  Rapp brought his fists up close to his face like a boxer, elbows in tight. “And if you can’t, Victor?”

  “Oh! … there’s no doubt. You’re going down.”

  Rapp drew him in. He feigned that he was out of position and allowed Victor to initiate the first salvo. Two slow left jabs were launched straight for Rapp’s face. Rapp blocked them with his right hand and then ducked under a big hook that would have knocked him off his feet if it had connected. Rapp noted that three punches had been thrown by Victor and all three had been directed at his supposedly off limits head, and more important, Sergeant Smith didn’t seem to care that Victor was breaking the rules yet again. That would make things easier for Rapp. He changed directions and bobbed back to his left as Victor threw two hard right jabs. The first one Rapp dodged and the second one hit him in the left shoulder. The blow was solid, but Rapp played it up, intentionally stumbling to his right as if he were in trouble. Victor took the bait and charged in, his left hand trying to push Rapp’s hands out of the way so he could deliver a knockout blow with his right.

  As Victor brought his fist up by his right ear, Rapp sprang forward with such quickness that he caught Victor completely off guard. He grabbed the bigger man’s left wrist with his right hand and threw up his left arm to block the coming punch. Rapp launched himself at Victor, his head arching back and then whipping forward. His hard forehead slammed into the soft cartilage of Victor’s nose, making a sickening crushing sound. Before Victor could counter, Rapp wrapped his hands around the back of the big man’s neck, pulling him down and in. Rapp delivered two harsh knee strikes to the big man’s sternum before releasing him. Victor staggered back, blood pouring from his nose, gasping for air.

  “Sorry about that, Victor,” Rapp said, egging him on. “I didn’t mean to break your nose.”

  “I’m going to fucking kill you,” Victor screamed.

  Rapp simply motioned for Victor to bring it on.

  The big man charged. Rapp expected the bull rush. He feinted to his right and then back to his left, and as Victor lumbered by he hit him with a punch to the kidney which stood him up. Victor pivoted to meet the next blow, and rather than gain distance, Rapp engaged, moving in and wrapping his left hand around the back of Victor’s neck and his right hand around Victor’s biceps. Victor reared his head back and was prepared to deliver a head butt of his own, but before he could strike, Rapp did something that none of them expected. He jumped up in the air, swung his left leg under Victor’s right armpit and then his right leg around Victor’s neck as he allowed himself to fall to the mat. Rapp was now upside down hanging on to Victor’s left arm and pulling him down on top of him. Rapp raised his hips, and the pressure toppled Victor to the mat. Rapp had him in a version of the same arm bar that he had put the mean old cuss in on the first day, except that Rapp wasn’t looking for submission this time.

  Rapp grabbed Victor’s wrist with both hands. He twisted and pulled the arm until the elbow socket was on top of his right hip bone, and then he raised his hips while pulling down as hard as he could with his hands. Rapp did not stop, even when Victor started to scream. The entire thing took just under two seconds. There was a loud pop, and then Rapp released the arm, which was now bent at a very unnatural angle.

  Rapp got to his feet and looked down at Victor. The man was moaning, his entire body rigid with pain. Rapp didn’t smile or gloat. There was a touch of guilt over what he’d just done, but Victor was a bully and a jerk. Fred was sitting at the edge of the mat with cotton shoved up his nostrils and an ice pack on his nose. Fred nodded to Rapp and flashed him the thumbs-up. Roy and Glenn wandered over, each man quietly congratulating him for solving their problem. Sergeant Smith was too busy attending to Victor, who was flopping around writhing in pain. Rapp had no idea whether he was in trouble. He looked over at the shrink, who was watching him intently. The man’s lips were pursed in thought as if he appeared to have drawn some conclusion about Rapp. The only problem was, Rapp couldn’t tell if it was admiration or disappointment.

  CHAPTER 17

  LEWIS made the calls late in the afternoon, after he’d had an hour to put his thoughts and observations down on paper. As darkness approached, they descended one by one on the house by the lake in southern Virginia. Kennedy was the first to arrive, then Deputy Director of Operations Stansfield, and finally Hurley. Stansfield’s bodyguards remained on the porch. They were two of his most trusted and knew to be very selective about what they saw, and more important, about what they remembered. Stansfield suggested in his typical quiet way that they all adjourn to the basement. It was not a suggestion. It was an order.

  The four of them walked downstairs and proceeded to a free-standing room that sat in the middle of the basement. It served as the surveillance/communications shack for the property. The inside walls and ceiling were covered with an egg-carton-gray foam that absorbed sound. A bank of monitors and two listening stations occupied the wall on the right, and an oval conference table for six sat in the middle. When everyone was seated, Stansfield closed the soundproof door and threw the bolt.

  The number-three man at Langley took the chair at the head of the table and loosened his tie. He looked the length of the short table and said, “Doctor.”

  Lewis was leaning back in his chair, his hands steepled in front of his f
ace. “We’ve had an interesting development.”

  “I’d say so,” Hurley interrupted, unable to contain himself. “I heard one of my instructors is out of commission for six months. Three titanium pins in his arm. For Christ’s sake. He was one of my best.” Hurley held up the appropriate number of fingers to punctuate his point. “Three pins.”

  The doctor’s bright blue eyes locked in on Hurley with the kind of all-knowing stare that could only be flashed by a spouse or a therapist. The message was clear. I know you better than you do yourself. Shut up and let me speak.

  “Sorry,” Hurley apologized halfheartedly.

  “Irene’s recruit has proven himself quite capable.” Lewis directed his comments at Stansfield. “You heard what he did to Stan earlier in the week?”

  “No.” Stansfield turned his inquisitive gaze on Hurley. “The bruising on your face … that was caused by this Rapp fellow?”

  The swelling was down, and the bright red bruising had turned dark purple with a yellow tinge. Hurley shrugged his shoulders. “I made a mistake. It won’t happen again.”

  “You got thumped by a college kid with no military experience,” Kennedy said. “I still can’t get over it.”

  Lewis interceded before Hurley could blow his lid. Looking at Stansfield, he said, “Let me give you the narrative.” Lewis explained in detail what had transpired during the opening minutes of Rapp’s arrival at the complex. Hurley tried to interrupt twice, but Lewis shut him down with an open palm. Stansfield, for his part, listened in total silence. Kennedy had nothing new to add and knew how Stansfield hated too many people talking, so she kept her information to herself. In situations like this, Hurley was more than capable of scuttling his own ship.

  “Now to Victor,” Lewis said, turning his gaze from Stansfield to Hurley. “I have made it very clear from the outset that I am not onboard with your methods of deception.”

  “I know you have,” Hurley said, “and in your theoretical world I’m sure your points have merit, but this is where the rubber meets the road. I don’t have all day to dick around with these kids. I need to know who has the goods, and the sooner I find out the better.”