by Vince Flynn
Black fell to his knees and looked down at Malse. His previously good leg was bent sideways at a ninety-degree angle and his head was twisted all the way around backward. Somewhere, there was a witch doctor who owed him a refund.
“Couldn’t sleep?”
The quiet voice sent a surge of adrenaline through Black, bringing him back to full alertness.
“Mitch? What are you doing here?”
A gun appeared and a moment later there was a silencer pressed to Black’s forehead.
“I was about to ask you the same thing.”
A thousand lies passed through his mind, but he knew that every one of them would end with his brains splattered over what was left of Malse.
“There’s information on you and the others inside the church, Mitch. I don’t think anyone would be able to find it, but I didn’t want to take chances.”
“I asked you about this a few days ago. You told me the place was clean.”
“That wasn’t entirely accurate.”
“What kind of information?”
Black didn’t answer.
“You have one chance to convince me you’re just an idiot, Kent. Because if I start thinking that you’re playing both—”
“It’s an entire dossier on everyone involved and what we’re doing,” Black blurted. “I’m sorry, Mitch. I told an old friend that if I were to disappear, he should come get it and release it on the Internet.”
“Why would you think that you were going to disappear?”
“I don’t know, man . . . Because why would someone like you give a shit about someone like me? Particularly when you’ve got Donatella and the fucking Russian terminator to watch your back. I’m pretty sure that next to the word ‘expendable’ in the dictionary, there’s a picture of me.”
“No one on any of my teams has ever been expendable, Kent.”
“I understand that now. That’s why I’m here. I was going to get the stuff and destroy it. I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want you to think . . . you know . . .”
“That you’re an idiot?”
“Yeah. That.”
As much as Rapp wanted to put a bullet in this little dipshit, there was no point. When he’d started out, he’d made similarly boneheaded moves that Stan Hurley would have been justified in burying him for.
“What exactly are we talking about?”
“A single eleven-by-fourteen envelope.”
“No electronic files? Nothing on a server somewhere?”
“No way, man. I swear. That shit’s too hard to control.”
He lowered his weapon. “Okay.”
“What do you mean, ‘Okay’? That’s it?”
Rapp didn’t answer. The ringer on his phone was turned off, but he’d felt it vibrate three separate times over the last few minutes. When he pulled it out, he found multiple messages from Claudia. Not a great sign. She wasn’t a woman prone to calling repeatedly to deliver good news.
He dialed and, not surprisingly, she picked up immediately.
“Mitch! Where are you? I’ve been trying to get in touch.”
“I’m at the church. What’s up?”
“I found Joel Wilson.”
“Where?”
“I’m sorry, Mitch. My man at the airport let me down. Wilson’s on the ground and bearing down on your position with four cars.
“ETA?”
“Call it five minutes.”
“Can you slow him down?”
“I have people along every route to you. We can probably improvise something.”
“Do what you can. Kent and I are going into the church—”
“Going in? Why would you—”
“Don’t talk, Claudia. Listen. Put Grisha on the north roof with a rifle. Put Donatella east.”
“Okay,” she said reluctantly. “I’ll do it.”
“And don’t worry. I’ll see you in a few hours.”
Black, still on his knees, started to protest before Rapp could even disconnect the call.
“Donatella on the east roof? That should be me, Mitch. She’s crap with a rifle. She says it herself.”
Rapp shook his head. “You’re coming with me.”
“What, to help you find the envelope? I can tell you right where it—”
“No, so I can use you to stop bullets when this thing goes to shit.”
CHAPTER 46
HOW much farther?” Wilson asked.
“We good,” his driver responded enigmatically. It was likely that he hadn’t understood the question and that those two mangled words were the only English he knew. Nassar had handed over his entire team and arranged for Wilson to be met by a further contingent of men at the airport. The dilapidated SUV he was riding in was at the center of a three-car motorcade picking its way through the city of Juba. While the local team’s English skills were lacking, all the men were well armed and all seemed familiar with the operating theater.
Still, it was less than ideal. The lack of U.S. personnel—an FBI team at least, but even better some SEALs—added to the sense that he had stepped off the edge of the world. Despite the demands of his former job, he’d never much liked traveling. Even vacations to places like London and Paris had made him feel vaguely uncomfortable. The loss of control that went along with being in a foreign land never sat well with him.
Intermittent intel was still filtering in, but he probably wasn’t going to get anything else useful. The problem wasn’t that sources weren’t available, it was that he couldn’t bring himself to trust most of them. Irene Kennedy had her hands in everything, and half the world’s intelligence community was either loyal to her or afraid of her. That left him with no choice but to rely on a patchwork of people who either hated her or were too long retired to be influenced by her.
It appeared to have been enough, though. They’d managed to sift through all of Claudia Dufort’s emails and tease out every piece of relevant information they contained. A friend at Immigration had provided the critical piece in all this—the names of former residents of Juba now residing in the U.S. They had independently confirmed the location of the church Rapp had referred to and given a fairly detailed description of its surroundings. Combined with satellite maps and a series of photos they’d found on a travel blog, Wilson had a reasonable sense of his tactical situation.
The lead car turned down a side street and Wilson twisted around, looking through the dust at the vehicle behind. Normally he relished being in command, but this was something different. His lack of knowledge about this part of the world and his difficulty in communicating with the men working under him made him feel less like the captain of this ship than someone caught in its wake.
As much as he hated to admit it, he wished that Aali Nassar hadn’t been called back to Saudi Arabia. Unlike Irene Kennedy, Nassar had a straightforward manner that instilled confidence in everyone around him. He had combat experience and a reputation for backing up his comrades in arms.
Wilson faced forward again as his driver turned to follow their lead car. What would it be like to capture the infamous Mitch Rapp? To drag him back to the U.S. in chains? To expose him and Kennedy for what they were? There would be the massive media circus, of course, and the political posturing that always came with it. Then there would be the endless hearings and the inevitable vicious attacks by the people who benefited from the status quo. Even as the hero of this story, Wilson knew it would be a difficult couple of years. At the end, though, he would be able to write his own ticket.
Returning to his position as an FBI executive had its benefits but seemed like small thinking. While he’d never fancied himself a politician, it was impossible not to consider that as an option. With the Saudis’ financial backing and his newfound notoriety, it was hard to imagine that a Senate seat wouldn’t be his for the taking. Was it feasible that he could take Car
l Ferris’s place as chair of the Judiciary Committee? He’d love to see the look on that backstabbing old prune’s face if he did.
Wilson was blinded by a sudden flash ahead of his lead car. A moment later the sound of the explosion reached them, mixing with the static of machine-gun fire.
“Go right!” Wilson screamed, all thoughts of his future suddenly extinguished. “Right, you idiot!
He crammed himself onto the floorboard as his driver spun the wheel and jammed the accelerator to the floor. The sound of gunfire faded, and Wilson rose just long enough to confirm that his motorcade was still intact. Arabic chatter was audible over the walkie-talkie lying on the seat next to him and he picked it up.
“What the hell was that? Report!”
“It is fine,” a voice responded. He recognized it as belonging to one of the men who had been with him in Cape Town—the only one of a handful of English speakers he had.
“What the hell are you talking about? You call that fine?”
“Just a skirmish between two of the factions trying to control the city. We can route around. It won’t be a problem.”
“Are you sure? Do we know where we’re going? We could end up heading down a dead end and getting pinned down.”
“Be calm, Special Agent Wilson. It’s nothing. Much like your Chicago, no?”
CHAPTER 47
RAPP kept Kent Black in front of him, taking in the grounds of the church as they moved through the gate and toward the rear entrance. Abdo hadn’t stationed a man inside the wall, probably out of fear of spooking them if they returned. The precaution was negated by a dim flicker visible around one of the boarded windows. Black didn’t seem to notice, instead focusing on getting through the courtyard without making any noise.
They arrived at the door leading into the office and took positions on either side. Rapp had his Glock drawn, but Black hadn’t brought a sidearm. Even a silenced one would have been too loud to use against Abdo’s men, and he was smart enough to admit that he couldn’t hit much with one anyway.
Rapp gave a short nod and Black slid his key into the lock. It clicked, and the door swung open on quiet hinges. The younger man seemed surprised when Rapp thumbed him inside. Apparently, he’d thought the part about him being there as a human shield was a joke.
Unarmed, he swung around the doorjamb and disappeared into the gloom. Rapp followed, scanning over the sights of his weapon. There was just enough illumination for him to confirm that the room was empty.
He moved to the door leading to the nave and immediately spotted two men huddled around a small fire near the middle. One was sitting in a pew sideways to Rapp’s position, and the other was directly facing him. The night had turned cool and both were leaning forward, warming their hands. They seemed to have settled in for the evening, so Rapp signaled for Black to retrieve the envelope. Instead, the former Ranger crept over to him.
“It’s not in the office, Mitch. It’s out there.
Rapp swore under his breath.
“I’m sorry. I really am.”
There wasn’t much Rapp could do about the man facing him. Fortunately, he was staring directly into the fire and it was reasonable to assume that he wouldn’t be able to see beyond the ring of warmth and light. There were no guarantees, though.
With little choice, Rapp moved through the door, keeping movements painfully slow. When there was no reaction, he allowed himself to pick up the pace a bit, finally escaping the man’s line of sight and angling in on them. He stopped just beyond the circle of firelight and holstered his Glock. While the noise from the silenced weapon wouldn’t be a problem inside the structure, the flash would penetrate the cracked boards covering the windows.
Neither of the men was carrying a sidearm, and their rifles were just outside of easy reach. Killing them was doable, but killing them silently was going to be a trick. If he’d been with Azarov, they could each take one. Involving Black, though, would likely cause more problems than it solved.
Rapp’s eye moved to a machete leaning against the end of the pew closest to him. He’d initially registered it as a potential threat but now it was starting to look like an opportunity. A little more slasher flick than he’d normally go for, but this was no time to get picky.
He pulled a thin cord from his pocket and strode casually into the light. The man in the pew spotted him first, spinning as Rapp picked up the machete. The African threw his arms up but was too slow. The machete connected with the top of his head, penetrating a good two inches before getting lodged in his skull.
As expected, the other man went for his AK. The most practical way to get his hands on it was to simply turn onto his stomach and reach out. He did exactly that, presenting his unprotected back. Rapp slipped the cord around his throat and dropped onto him.
The African was young and powerful, managing to fight his way to his knees as he clawed at the cord. Rapp secured his legs around his waist and twisted back, flipping him into the fire. The flames had the intended effect, splitting the man’s focus between his lack of air and the coals igniting his fatigues. The battle intensified and then was suddenly over. Rapp dragged the body off the campfire and rolled it across the floor, making sure the flames were out.
“Damn,” Black said, approaching hesitantly from behind. “Have you ever thought about working in a hockey mask?”
“Get the fucking file, Kent.”
Rapp went to one of the windows and looked through a gap as Black started pulling up floorboards. There was no sign that any of the men watching the church had noticed anything. But it was hard to be sure. If they were aware of what had happened, would they attack immediately or call for backup?
Behind him, Black had gained access to a floor safe and was using a red penlight to work the combination. A moment later he came up with the envelope he’d described. Rapp pulled the flap and looked inside, scanning a few surreptitiously taken photos and a one-page explanation of what and who was involved.
“You know I should kill you for this,” Rapp said.
“Yeah,” Black responded, looking at the floor.
Rapp tossed the envelope on what was left of the fire and pointed toward the rear entrance. “Go relieve Donatella. But remember: Unless it’s absolutely necessary, don’t do anything. We’re just spectators.”
“You got it,” he said, obviously thankful to have a second chance. “What about you?”
“I’m staying here.”
It hadn’t been the plan, but now that he’d gone through the trouble of getting into the church, why not? Nassar, Wilson, and their people would be arriving soon, and Abdo would assume that they were connected with Black’s operation. Then the shit was going to hit the fan. With a little luck, Nassar would be killed in an attack by South Sudanese rebels who had nothing to do with Mitch Rapp or ISIS. After that, Claudia could focus on putting together enough intel to clear his name and to strong-arm King Faisal into excising any remaining conspirators from his country.
Then again, maybe it wouldn’t be that easy.
His phone vibrated and he inserted an earpiece.
“Mitch, are you there?” Claudia’s voice.
“Yeah.”
“I managed to detour Wilson’s motorcade once, but that was all. They’re two minutes out. What’s your situation?”
“I’m in the church.”
“Do you have time to get out?”
“I’m staying,” he said, starting to climb a ladder into the balcony. “I’ve got good position here.”
“And Kent?” Her tone suggested that she thought he might be dead.
“On his way to relieve Donatella.”
“I don’t need that boy’s help,” Donatella chimed in.
“Don’t argue. Just give him the rifle,” Rapp said.
Azarov’s voice came on. “I have eyes on three cars approaching the front gate. Moving fast. I
can’t see inside them, though.”
“Donatella?” Rapp said, moving to a partially intact stained glass window and peering through one of the clear panels. The sun was coming up, casting the city in a deep-orange glow. “What have you got?”
“I can’t see in the cars, either, but we have a lot of activity from Abdo’s sentries, and the civilians in the street are all running for cover.”
Rapp spotted the approaching vehicles in the dawn light. They skidded to a stop at the front gate, and four men got out of the lead car, fanning out as one of them went to work with a set of bolt cutters.
“I’ve taken over Donatella’s position,” Kent said. “Ready to rock.”
The gate was pushed open and the remaining passengers stepped out as the cars eased inside. To Rapp’s practiced eye, a few looked extremely well trained, but the others were a mess. Not what he’d expect from a team assembled from Saudi spec ops. Further, there were two men who looked like locals.
“Give me a sitrep on Abdo’s men,” Rapp said.
“They’re in the process of surrounding the building, staying out of sight,” Azarov responded.
Rapp pulled out his Glock and checked it. He wasn’t sure if any of this was going to work but, at the very least, it was going to be interesting.
CHAPTER 48
JOEL Wilson leaned forward between the SUV’s seats, scanning through the windshield. The sunrise was still just a weak glow on the horizon, but it provided enough illumination for him to watch his men spread out in the courtyard. A few seconds later they had breached the peeling front doors and disappeared inside the church.
What they would find was a complete unknown. He had no assets in Juba and there had been no time for meaningful reconnaissance. In a city full of war-weary and suspicious Sudanese, the presence of an advance team would have been reported throughout the region in a matter of hours. There had been no choice but to roll into town like a hurricane in an effort to stay ahead of the informants that Rapp undoubtedly had on the payroll.