Enemy of the State

by Vince Flynn

  “Not now,” Rapp responded. A slight glow was becoming visible in the distance, but it wasn’t the approaching patrol that made him grip the wheel tighter. It was Mohammed’s face in his peripheral vision.

  “I need to ask you a question.”

  Rapp remained silent, hoping that the young Iraqi would lose his train of thought as the threat of the men coming at them increased. Not surprisingly, the opposite was the case. Mohammed didn’t want to leave this world without knowing how his sister had died.

  “What happened to Laleh, Mitch? General Mustafa was stabbed to death and we found her body lying next to his with a gunshot wound to the chest. You were there, weren’t you? When she was killed?”

  Again Rapp didn’t answer. The oncoming patrol vehicle wasn’t going to save him, though. It seemed to be moving in slow motion.

  “She had a knife,” he said finally. “I didn’t see it. She attacked Mustafa.”

  Mohammed nodded, a vengeful smile just barely visible in the glow of the gauges. “My brother thought it was you who had killed that pig. But I knew. Laleh was the strongest of us. Ever since we were children.”

  Rapp pressed harder on the accelerator, but the truck wouldn’t respond. Even downhill, thirty-five miles an hour was all it would give him.

  The silence between them lasted only a few seconds before Mohammed broke it. “So one of General Mustafa’s guards shot her?”

  Rapp knew he could lie. No one would ever know. He was the only living witness to what had happened.

  “Mitch?”

  “It wasn’t one of the guards.” He’d known this conversation was inevitable when he’d come back for Mohammed and his people. And he’d made his decision about what to say long before he’d set out for Iraq. Laleh deserved to have her story known. Her real story.

  “Who then?”

  “I shot her. The general was bleeding out on the floor. His guards were going to take her.”

  He wasn’t sure how Mohammed would react but was surprised when he just sank a little deeper in his seat.

  Where the fuck was that patrol? Anything would be better than having to sit here and talk about Laleh. He was just starting to be able to sleep through the night without her memory jerking him awake.

  “I know what ISIS does to women who defy them,” Mohammed said finally. “Like you, I’ve witnessed it personally. And I’ve seen what’s left of their bodies after.”

  He put a hand on Rapp’s shoulder. “Me and my brother are the only people left from my family. And on behalf of both of us, I want to thank you for having the courage to do what had to be done. I know how hard it would be for an American. Even one like you.”

  A set of headlights appeared from over a rise in front of them and Rapp tried to determine whether the road’s shoulder was solid enough to divert onto if the oncoming patrol tried to block them. Not a chance. The sand had drifted into a soft ridge alongside the roadbed and ahead it grew into a low cliff.

  “What are we going to do?” Mohammed asked.

  “Nothing. For now, just sit there.”

  The intensity of the headlights grew until Rapp had to pull down the visor in an effort to protect what night vision he had. He eased as far right as he could and hovered a foot over the brake in case the patrol turned sideways in the road. At one hundred yards it became clear that the vehicle was similar to their own—a small pickup with two men in the cab and more standing in the bed. Unless the driver was an idiot, he would resist the urge to do anything sudden out of fear of throwing his men into the road.

  At fifty yards Mohammed reached for the pistol in his waistband. “Are you sure we shouldn’t—”

  “Don’t do anything.”

  He heard Gaffar shout a greeting that wasn’t returned. The men in the truck just stared at them as they passed. Rapp drifted back to the center of the road, focused on the rear view mirror. Twenty-five yards. Fifty . . .

  Suddenly the men in the bed of the ISIS truck crouched to steady themselves.

  “Shit . . .”

  “What?” Mohammed twisted around in time to see the truck skid ninety degrees to a stop.

  Rapp shoved the accelerator to the floor without much effect as the truck behind them struggled to turn around without getting bogged down.

  “Take the wheel,” he said, throwing open the door and stepping onto the running board. He found Gaffar already in motion, gathering mags from the terrified people around him.

  “All right, listen to me,” Rapp said to Mohammed as the man slid into the driver’s seat. “We’re going to start up the hill and when we circle behind that cliff, you’re going to slow down enough for me and Gaffar to jump. Use the parking brake—we don’t want the brake lights to go on. Do you understand?”

  He gave a jerky nod, keeping his hands locked around the wheel at two and ten o’clock. Rapp swung into the bed and accepted an assault rifle along with three magazines.

  “What’s the plan?” Gaffar shouted over the wind.

  “We’re getting out. You take the high ground to the east of the road. I’ll set up in the sand to the west. You shoot first—drive them to me.”

  Gaffar nodded.

  The patrol vehicle finally managed to turn around and its engine was audible as the driver pushed it to the limit. Unlike the little service vehicle they were stuck in, the one chasing them was a late-model Toyota Tacoma. By the time Mohammed got them around the cliff and started to slow, the patrol truck had already cut the distance between them in half.

  Velocity was hard to judge in the dark, monochromatic landscape, so Rapp looked through the back window, waiting for the speedometer to reach fifteen miles an hour. When it did, he threw his AK over the side and jumped out after it, clearing the road and landing in the softer sand at its edge. Gaffar, heavier and less athletic, came up short and hit harder, rolling across the road surface before coming to a stop.

  Rapp scooped up both weapons and ran to him.

  “You alive?”

  “I’m fine,” he said, rising unsteadily.

  Rapp grabbed the man’s hands and jerked back on them. Gaffar managed to resist and maintain his balance without too much difficulty. He was just shaken up. No damage done.

  Rapp handed over one of the weapons. There wasn’t much time. The approaching engine was getting louder.

  The Iraqi ran toward the cliff at the edge of the road while Rapp retreated into the desert on the other side. He glanced back and saw Gaffar scrambling to high ground, looking solid and making decent time. The glare of headlights was growing in intensity, increasing the sense of urgency but also allowing Rapp to move more quickly over the uneven ground. He crested a small sand drift and dropped to his stomach on the other side.

  Aiming into the oncoming headlights wouldn’t be optimal, but Gaffar didn’t have to be all that precise. He just needed to put the fear of God into these pricks.

  The truck rounded the corner fast enough to lift onto two wheels. It had barely managed to straighten out when Gaffar opened up on the windshield. Unfortunately, the men in back were well braced and the truck didn’t roll. Instead it just lost power and slowed as the driver slumped against the steering wheel. The men in the bed leapt out as the vehicle began to grind against the cliff. There were eight of them and all looked uninjured. By contrast, both men in the cab appeared to be either dead or incapacitated.

  Four went for the cliff, taking cover directly below Gaffar, where they would be invisible to him. The others were running directly at Rapp. Gaffar took one out when he was still fifteen yards away, but it was a lucky shot. The truck’s headlights had been damaged by its impact with the cliff and Gaffar wasn’t going to be able to reliably hit crouched, running men in the moonlight.

  Rapp’s earpiece crackled to life but this time it wasn’t Marcus Dumond. The voice belonged to Fred Mason, his go-to chopper pilot on operations like
these. “Mitch, I’m inbound and I’m seeing a lot of commotion to the southwest. Are you kicking up dust over there?”

  “That’s an affirmative.”

  “You need help?”

  The three remaining men had closed to within ten feet and Rapp fired, sweeping across them. Two dropped immediately, but one made it a few more steps, before falling into the sand right in front of Rapp.

  “No. Continue on your heading. Your cargo should be arriving at the LZ in about fifteen.”

  “What about you?”

  “We’ll play that by ear.”

  The men huddled at the base of the cliff had seen the flashes of his rifle and began pummeling the dune Rapp was ensconced behind. The body in front of him jerked with bullet impacts and Rapp slithered back a few feet before starting to crawl south. After a few seconds, the guns went silent. The terrorists would have no way to confirm a kill and would want to conserve their ammunition. After covering fifty yards, Rapp slung the rifle across his back and darted across the road. The scramble up the cliff took longer than it should have, but he had to remain silent. Not because of the assholes behind the truck, though. Because of Gaffar. They had no way to communicate and he was going to be looking for anyone coming up behind him.

  Rapp swung well into the desert before cutting back. Moving slowly and focusing on every footfall, it took another three minutes before he spotted Gaffar lying at the edge of the cliff. Rapp came up directly from behind and put a hand on the man’s back.

  He jerked and started to spin, but Rapp held him to the ground. “Relax. It’s me.”

  The Arab let out a long, wavering breath as Rapp dropped next to him. “Don’t ever do that again.”

  “They’re not moving?”

  “No. They seem suspiciously comfortable where they are. I think we can assume that they’ve called for help.”

  Rapp nodded in the darkness. “How fast are you on foot?”

  “Middle of my graduating class in the army.”

  So not very fast.

  Rapp activated his throat mike. “Marcus, you copy?”

  “Yeah, I’m here.”

  “Have you got a bead on us?”

  “You’re kind of hard to miss.”

  “Do we have incoming?”

  “Four trucks. All full. ETA to your position is probably ten minutes.”

  “Can you reliably track a man in the desert?”

  “With thermal. Sure.”

  “Okay, I’m handing my radio over to Gaffar. You’re going to have to give him instructions on how to get to the LZ from here. He doesn’t speak English, though, so call down for a translator.”

  “Okay, Mitch. No problem.”

  “Fred,” Rapp said. “Are you copying this?”

  “Affirmative.”

  “Give me a sitrep.”

  “I have eyes on your people and I’m getting ready to land.”

  “Pick them up and get back in the air. Then stand by.”

  “Roger that.”

  He removed his earpiece and throat mike, handing them to Gaffar. “Your heading is due east to the LZ. It’s going to be about eight kilometers over moderately difficult terrain. Keep a reasonable pace. Don’t blow yourself up and don’t fall in any holes.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “Keep these guys down long enough to give you a head start.”

  “No. I won’t leave you here. We should—”

  “You’ll be too slow for me out there. Go now and I’ll catch you.”

  The Arab reluctantly turned and crawled a few yards before getting to his feet and accelerating to a careful jog.

  Rapp settled into the silence. The wind was completely dead and nothing around him moved. He was completely on his own. A pleasant change from the babysitting he’d been doing over the last few hours.

  He didn’t have to wait long for the illusion of peacefulness to be shattered. Not by the sound of oncoming trucks but by a quiet rustling from below. A moment later he saw the dark outline of a man break cover for a split second and then jerk back. Rapp just sat there. A few moments later the man showed himself again. This time for a bit longer. Again Rapp did nothing.

  Finally the shadow came out from behind the truck and began skirting the cliff. Rapp gave him a long leash, hoping that his companions would get overconfident and follow. When he started climbing toward Rapp’s position, though, it became clear that the other surviving men had decided to sit tight and wait for reinforcements.

  Rapp fired a single shot, hitting the man in the stomach and sending him toppling back to the road. A few shouts followed but no one was stupid enough to go to the aid of their wounded companion. Not a big surprise, but it had been worth a try.

  A few minutes passed quietly before headlights appeared to the south. Rapp watched them as excited voices once again became audible below. Four vehicles coming fast. Whatever Gaffar’s head start was, it would have to be enough.

  Rapp stood and began running into the desert as the convoy continued to bear down. He figured he was about doubling Gaffar’s pace, slowed slightly by the fact that the only way for him to navigate to the LZ was to follow the man’s tracks in the moonlight.

  He’d only made it about five hundred yards when the shooting started. It sounded like the reinforcements had arrived and that all of them were firing on full auto. No point in looking back. He assumed that they’d pulverize the top of the cliff he’d been staked out on and then charged en masse. ISIS was not known for its subtlety.

  He covered another quarter mile before temporarily losing Gaffar’s footprints on a rocky plateau. The man was smart enough not to change direction, and Rapp picked them up again in the sand on the other side.

  The news wasn’t all good, though. Behind, he could see no fewer than ten flashlights coming his way. The lead one was using the advantage of artificial illumination to good effect and actually seemed to be closing. Rapp considered abandoning Gaffar’s tracks in favor of speed, but it wasn’t time for that yet. There was a whole lot of desert out there.

  To the east, a dull glow was starting on the horizon. The light improved his speed, but it also robbed him of his cover—something that became evident when shots sounded behind him. He glanced back and estimated the distance to the closest chaser at more than six hundred yards. A doable shot with the right equipment and training, but they seemed to have neither. Just a little youthful jihadi enthusiasm.

  The question was how long this was going to go on. Did Marcus have a position on him? Was Fred willing to fly in on a force of probably thirty armed men?

  His question was answered a moment later when the thump of rotors became audible ahead. With the sunlight angling in, he was able to pick up his pace to the maximum his lungs would allow, increasing the gap between him and his pursuers. If he could gain some ground, the chopper would be able to touch down long enough to get him aboard.

  Apparently, Mason didn’t want to wait. He passed overhead, banking north as the sound of his door gun shook the air. Rapp glanced back and saw the arcing laser light of the tracers sweeping across the ISIS force. He kept pushing, dropping his rifle to get rid of as much weight as possible as he angled down a steep slope. It was a risky move that could give ISIS the high ground, but if he moved fast enough, it would provide temporary cover.

  The door gun went silent, replaced by the roar of rotors. The chopper came in low enough for him to feel the pressure of its downdraft. The skids were still two feet above the ground when Rapp dove through the open door. Mason started climbing again as Mohammed pulled Rapp the rest of the way inside and Gaffar opened up with the door gun again. The terrorists managed to get off a few shots, but none came anywhere near them as they turned toward the sunrise.

  CHAPTER 6

  Rabat

  Morocco

  THE Saudi and his men are back i
n the car and on the move,” Charlie Wicker said over Maslick’s earpiece. “Alghani is hauling ass to the north. He’s got the case, but it looks too light to have anything in it.”

  “Copy that. Let me know when I should go.”

  “Probably about a minute.”

  “Copy.”

  Maslick would have preferred to take the courier during his meeting with Alghani, but there were too many uncontrollable factors. The apartment building had no fewer than thirty residents packed into it, including nine women and twelve kids. Worse, the souk where it was located was too narrow for a vehicle. That would have forced them to go in on foot and then drag their target back to the car. While it was true that there wasn’t much activity on the street at this hour, it was also true that Murphy’s Law ruled the business he’d chosen.

  The plan they’d landed on was pretty simple, which was the only kind worth dealing with as far as he was concerned. There was just one way out for the courier—a road that was barely wide enough for a single car. Maslick would pull out in front of the Mercedes and Bruno McGraw would come in from behind. When they were directly beneath Wick’s rooftop position, they’d box the target vehicle in, snatch this son of a bitch, and be gone. The whole thing had been slated to take less than a minute and with a little luck would go completely unnoticed.

  But now that elegant little plan had been blown to shit. Instead of a scrawny middle-aged Egyptian in a tin can of a car, he was dealing with three men—two undoubtedly armed—barricaded in an armored vehicle.

  “Mas, you’re a go,” Wicker said over his earpiece.

  He started the vehicle and moved out into the dark road. A man with a wheeled cart was coming in his direction, apparently getting an early start on setting up for the morning’s shoppers. Maslick eased to the right of the vendor, grinding off part of his side-view mirror on one of the buildings crowding the asphalt. Fuck it. It was a rental.

  “Okay, Mas. You’re about a hundred yards ahead, paralleling them. Maintain your speed after the turn and you should be good.”

  He stayed on course for another twenty-five yards and then took a left, keeping the vehicle at a leisurely fifteen miles an hour as he closed on a T in the road.