Kill Shot

by Vince Flynn

  Rapp reached the back entrance, and he could just barely make out Greta in the faint glow of the streetlights. He reached out and touched her arm, asking, “Any trouble?”

  “No. I parked right where you showed me, waited until the right time, and walked straight here.”

  “Good.” Rapp extracted the key and slid it into the brass lock with a steady hand. He turned, pushed, and stepped into a small back landing that smelled of equal parts garbage and bleach. Greta followed on his heels and the spring-loaded door closed quietly behind them. Rapp paused and listened for any noises that would tell him someone was moving about on the floors above them.

  The next door was metal with glass on the top half. It had been painted the same cream color so many times to cover up the scuff marks from furniture, luggage, grocers’ carts, and garbage and whatever else people hauled in and out the service door that the paint was uneven and lumpy, especially at the bottom. Rapp nudged the door open and looked up the winding back staircase. There was another staircase at the front of the building and a small elevator as well. He was greeted with silence, so he motioned for Greta to follow and started up the carpeted stairs two at a time.

  There was a simple reason he had decided to ignore Kennedy’s orders. If they could keep secrets from him, he could keep secrets from them. Besides, something had told Rapp that this place might come in handy one day. He reached the second floor and moved quietly but quickly down the length of the hallway to the last door on the right. The key was out and Rapp slid it into the old lock without hesitation. His greatest fear at this point was a nosy neighbor. He knew the key would work, because he had tried it before. The deadbolt opened with a faint click and Rapp turned the handle and stepped into the apartment. Greta was close behind. Rapp softly shut the door and did not reach for the light switch. Instead he stood there and listened. He was almost certain the owners weren’t home, but he wanted to know if anyone was moving about in the hallway.

  Rapp had already filled Greta in on the owners of the apartment. It belonged to the McMahons, Bob and Teresa. Rapp had run into big Bob McMahon at Le Ponte Café five months before. A snobbish French waiter was doing his best to not understand McMahon’s simple order. Rapp had seen it before. Because he was fluent in French, it wasn’t a problem for him, but it was not uncommon for a bored waiter to pretend that he didn’t understand a thing that an American patron was trying to say. At first Rapp found it a bit amusing himself, until he thought about the number of Americans who passed through Paris daily and who by staying a bit, sightseeing and eating, pumped millions of dollars into the Parisian economy.

  The big American looked as if he was about to grab the waiter by the scruff of the neck and drag him over the counter, so Rapp stepped in and translated McMahon’s order for him. The waiter snorted and marched off. McMahon turned to Rapp and asked, “What just happened?”

  Rapp switched to English and said, “He understands English. He was just jerking you around. I told him to knock it off and get you what you wanted or I’d never tip him again.”

  McMahon laughed, thanked Rapp, and then asked him where he was from. Rapp told him Orlando. It was part of his legend that Kennedy had meticulously prepared. Orlando was vanilla. People visited, but were hard-pressed to actually know anyone who grew up in the city that Disney had built. The metropolitan area had grown from several hundred thousand people to over a million in just two decades and it was still expanding. Tourism and retirement communities were the anchors of the local economy, and they both attracted a lot of workers from out of state. It was also home to the University of Central Florida, the second-largest university in America behind Arizona State University, which according to Rapp’s legend was his alma mater. The fast growth of the population and the transient nature of the workforce gave Rapp a near ideal cover.

  The best way to protect a legend, though, was not to sit around and answer questions. You needed to turn the tables and be the one asking the questions. Rapp had found out Bob had helped build Target Corp into the successful company that it was today and that now he was retired with a boatload of stock options and a wife who wanted to live in Paris and travel across Europe. Bob wasn’t so keen on the idea, but then again she’d raised the kids and held the family together while he was off expanding one of America’s most successful retail chains.

  Over the ensuing months Rapp would occasionally bump into McMahon and his wife, Teresa, or Tibby as she was known to her friends. More often than not Bob, bored out of his mind, would jump at the chance to, as he put it, talk to someone who was normal. They invited him over for dinner and Rapp was trying to figure out a way to get out of it when Bob pointed up and showed Rapp where their apartment was located. It was directly across the street from the front entrance to Rapp’s apartment. Even back then Rapp realized that this place could come in handy. The rest was easy. He showed up for dinner with a bottle of wine and some flowers and while they were busy finishing the meal Rapp made an imprint of the key.

  He and Greta walked through the dark apartment to the living room and the window that looked down onto Rapp’s stoop. They stopped a few paces from the window and Rapp said, “We don’t want to get too close.”

  “I know, you told me. Even though the lights are off, they might be able to see us.”

  Rapp angled to the left so he could see down the length of the diagonal street where the surveillance van was parked.

  “How do you know these people won’t just show up at their apartment?”

  Rapp kept his eyes on the van. “Because the only thing Tibby loves more than this apartment is the fact that her first grandchild was born last week. They flew home for two weeks. Bob hopes longer.”

  “How much longer?”

  “Forever, I think.”

  Greta moved behind him and looked around his shoulder. “What are you looking at?”

  “That van, halfway down the block.”

  “The black one?”

  “Yep.”

  “You think there are men in it?”

  “Pretty sure.” Rapp’s eyes were scanning the roofline across the street.

  “So what do we do?”

  “You’re going to go stand on the other side of the window so you have a good view of anyone approaching from the east, and we’re going to wait for the show to start.”

  CHAPTER 31

  BRAMBLE was about to shove his fist through twenty-five grand worth of electronics. Why the hell was Hurley pulling him? They were on the same page. He was as gung ho to catch the little fucker as Bramble was. Rapp was an arrogant, reckless little prick and Bramble had asked for point and Hurley had given it to him. He’d been waiting for more than a year for his chance and he sure as hell wasn’t going to fold up shop and go sit in some hotel bar and wait for orders.

  What could have changed Hurley’s mind? Bramble wondered. He started sorting through possibilities, and pretty quickly realized that it wasn’t what, but who. It had to be someone high up on the food chain. In fact there was only one man Bramble could think of who issued Hurley orders. It was Thomas Stansfield, but the last Bramble had heard, Stansfield was on board with yanking Rapp’s leash.

  That meant Stansfield had been given some information that they weren’t privy to, or someone had intervened on Rapp’s behalf. Bramble rapped his scarred knuckles on the small metal shelf that created the base of the surveillance console and sifted through the possibilities. His mind stuck on one person. She was a royal pain in the ass and Bramble couldn’t understand for the life of him why she had anything to do with their unit. He’d heard she was smart, but he had yet to see any proof of it. All she did was get in their way and thwart Hurley at nearly every turn. She was the one who had found Rapp, recruited him, and forced him onto the team. Bramble couldn’t understand it, and in a moment of frustration he’d asked Hurley why he put up with the stupid cunt.

  Hurley’s reaction had been swift and decisive. He stepped toward Bramble without a hint of violence and kicked him
so hard in the groin that Bramble collapsed into the fetal position and stayed there for five full minutes. After that, he never brought Irene Kennedy up to Hurley again. She continued to meddle in their training, selection, and deployments, though, and Bramble watched with increasing irritation as she seemed to have her way with every major decision. The only reason was that she worked at Langley and had Stansfield’s ear. After they were all placed on the sidelines and Rapp was given free rein to start taking out targets, Bramble was on the verge of quitting. He’d rather freelance, or move out to Hollywood and start tagging a little ass while pretending to protect some teenage superstar from imagined killers. He’d heard there was a lot of money to be made, but he also suspected he’d end up killing someone. It was one thing to smoke some turd in a Third World shithole. That was like going on safari. Do it in the United States, though, and he was likely to end up behind bars.

  Fortunately, Hurley had talked him out of it. He assured him that Rapp would stumble, and more than likely, he’d stumble in a spectacular fashion, and when that happened they would move in and clean up the mess. And by clean up the mess, Bramble took Hurley to mean that he would be allowed to kill the little shit and end this dumb-ass experiment.

  Bramble had heard the arguments between Hurley, Kennedy, and that faggot shrink Lewis. Kennedy had created this problem, and Lewis and God himself Thomas Stansfield had abetted her. The shrink was worthless. If any of them needed to talk about their feelings they were in the wrong line of work. Kennedy was nothing more than a glorified desk jockey with a hold over Hurley that he couldn’t understand. And Bramble had spent far too much time trying to figure it out. The only thing he could come up with was that Kennedy had caught Hurley doing something so embarrassing that he had no choice but to back down every time there was a confrontation. Ultimately though, it was Stansfield who was the problem. He was a damn relic from way back when. Rumor was he’d been OSS during World War II and had parachuted into France and then Norway, and Bramble could give a shit. So the guy knew how to cross-country ski, operate a ham radio, and live off pine needles and tree bark—big deal. The fossil needed to be put out to pasture and let guys like Hurley run the show.

  None of it made any sense to Bramble, not then and especially not now. Based on what had happened over the past thirty-six-plus hours, Hurley’s order to stand down seemed downright stupid.

  “Was that Stan?”

  Bramble slowly turned his head to look at Steve McGuirk. “Shut up. I’m thinking.”

  McGuirk smiled and asked, “Does that hurt?”

  “Does what hurt?” Bramble asked.

  “Thinking.”

  Bramble was in no mood for McGuirk’s smartass attitude. He sprang from his chair and smashed the smaller man against the back of the driver’s carriage. “Did I somehow give you the impression that I was in the mood to listen to your bullshit today? Because I’m not.”

  McGuirk was wiry and strong, but in such close quarters he was no match for Victor’s size. He wedged his right arm up under the bigger Bramble’s and pushed back just enough so he could breathe. “You need to lighten up, Victor.”

  “I don’t think so. I think I’m done taking your shit. I think I’m going to tell Stan to cut your ass loose. What do you think of that? Or maybe I’ll just break your fucking neck right now.” Bramble felt something hard press against his back.

  Todd Borneman, the third man in the van, held his silenced pistol against Bramble’s lower spine. “Take your hands off, Steve, or I’m going to lodge a hollow-tipped bullet in your spine, and you can spend the rest of your life wearing a diaper.”

  Bramble slowly backed off, holding his hands up in the air. Borneman was former Delta, the kind of guy who measured his words very carefully. If he said he’d shoot him, Bramble wasn’t about to doubt him.

  McGuirk sat up straight and said, “You’re a real prick, Victor. We’re on a fucking stakeout, for Christ’s sake. Take a joke.”

  Bramble looked at McGuirk and then Borneman, who still had his gun out. “Sorry . . . I’m frustrated. Put that thing away,” he said to Borneman.

  Borneman pointed the gun at the floor, but kept it out. “Who was that on the phone?”

  Bramble considered lying but decided it would do little good. “It was Stan.”

  “What did he want?”

  “Nothing.”

  McGuirk shook his head and said, “So you were pissed off about nothing. You’re so full of shit.”

  Victor wished Borneman would put his gun away so he could slug the shit out of McGuirk. “He wants us to hang out here for another hour or two and then head back to the hotel and wait for orders.”

  “And what could be so bad about that?” Borneman asked.

  “This is our only lead. That little prick is going to show up eventually, and we need to be here. Not sitting on our asses back at the hotel.”

  Borneman cocked his head an inch to the right and asked, “Why do you hate him so much?”

  “Who . . . Rapp?”

  “Who else would he be asking about, you mental midget?” McGuirk snapped. This time he was ready, sitting on the edge of his seat, ready to move if Victor came after him a second time.

  Bramble stifled his anger and ignored McGuirk. Looking at Borneman he said, “It’s a long story. There’s a lot of stuff you two don’t know about. Stuff Stan hasn’t shared with you.”

  “This wouldn’t have anything to do with him breaking your arm . . . would it?” Borneman hadn’t been there that day, but he’d heard the story. Victor was a real prick, especially to the new recruits. Hurley had come up with the idea to insert Victor among the recruits so he could gain their confidence and then trip them up. Supposedly Rapp had seen right through it, and when given the chance he removed Victor from the equation. As far as Borneman could see, Rapp had only done what everyone else had dreamed of doing.

  “He should have been washed out because of that. Even Stan says so.”

  “Did Stan say that before or after Rapp saved his life?” McGuirk asked.

  “Don’t believe every rumor you hear. Stan was doing just fine on his own. If anything he saved Rapp’s life.”

  “That’s bullshit,” Borneman said. “I was part of the extraction team. Stan was too fucked up to walk. Rapp saved his ass and all you two can do is bitch about him.”

  “And I’m telling you,” Victor said, leaning forward, no longer caring that Borneman had a gun in his hand, “there’s a lot of shit you don’t know. I have orders to kill him if he so much as looks like he’s going to run.”

  “And why haven’t we been given those orders?” McGuirk asked.

  “Because you’re on the bottom of the totem pole.”

  “Does Irene know about this order?” Borneman asked.

  “How the fuck would I know? Stan doesn’t read me in on every aspect of every order.”

  “This is going to be interesting.”

  “What?”

  “Kennedy’s on her way over.” Borneman checked his watch. “She’s due to land within the hour.”

  Just the mention of her name soured Bramble’s already foul mood. That must be why Hurley was pulling the plug. If Bramble could only figure out a way to kill both Kennedy and Rapp. He was at the beginning of exploring that fantasy when the surveillance console began to beep. Bramble spun around in his chair, his heart already picking up the pace. His eyes flashed to the blinking light on the panel. The motion sensor in the front hallway of the apartment had been tripped.

  Bramble’s eyes darted from one monitor to the next.

  “What is it?” McGuirk asked.

  “While you two ladies were asking a thousand questions and distracting me, someone walked up the front steps, climbed one flight of stairs, and is now poking around the apartment.”

  “How do you know it wasn’t the back door?” McGuirk asked.

  “I don’t, so why don’t you get over here and find out how he got in.”

  McGuirk stood in front of the fa
r side of the console and began typing in commands and winding dials. A few seconds later they had footage of a man walking up the front steps of the building and into the entryway.

  “That’s him,” Bramble announced.

  “Are you sure?” Borneman asked.

  “I’d put a million bucks on it.” Bramble’s eyes danced over the other monitors. McGuirk and Borneman traded an oh fuck expression.

  “Damn!” Bramble grabbed a radio and an earpiece. “You two shitheads stay right here and don’t move a fucking muscle unless I tell you to do so. Am I clear?”

  Both men nodded, McGuirk a little more enthusiastically than Borneman.

  “Good, and if I call for the van be ready to move!” Victor suddenly had the beginnings of a plan forming. He clipped the radio to his hip and ran a wire up the inside of his brown leather jacket. After wrapping the coil around the back of his ear, he wedged the little flesh-colored earpiece into position. Bramble turned up the volume and did a quick radio check. The last thing he did was tell them to give him constant updates on what was going on inside the apartment, and then he was out the back door of the van like a shot.

  CHAPTER 32

  GEORGETOWN, WASHINGTON, D.C.

  TWO suits from diplomatic security were posted at the front door of the five-story brownstone. Their black Suburban was parked directly in front of the house between two orange cones meant to keep the space available 24/7 for the men and women who babysat the secretary of state. Security here in the United States wasn’t a big deal. The biggest threat on a weekly basis was the Georgetown students who wandered past late at night smashed out of their minds. Always loud and short on common sense, they sometimes thought it was a good idea to stop in front of Secretary Wilson’s house and try to bait the security personnel. The men and women on the detail were professionals, but every once in a while they had to strong-arm someone on their way.