by Vince Flynn
The women were pure eye candy. Three-inch platform shoes and skimpy dresses of every cut and fabric and lots of heavy makeup and wild hair. They looked more as if they were in line to audition porno than for a night on the town. Every thirty feet or so, a couple of buttoned-up preppy kids from the Hill could be seen trying to fit in. Their efforts consisted of losing their ties and unbuttoning their dress shirts two whole buttons. This had never been Rapp’s scene and it sure as hell was no place for a fifty-six-year-old former Agency employee.
Coleman could tell by the way his jaw was set that Rapp was looking for a fight. His brow was slightly knotted and he was looking at the group with a disapproving frown. “I know what you’re thinking,” Coleman said in an easy tone, “and I don’t think it’s a good idea.”
Rapp kept his eyes on the front door. “What am I thinking?”
“You’re thinking of jump-starting this thing. You have other shit you need to take care of and you’re really not in the mood to sit around in a car all night doing surveillance.”
Rapp’s gaze didn’t waver. “Anything else?”
“Yeah . . . you’re frustrated. You’re thinking this Max Johnson should know better and the fact that he doesn’t means he deserves a good ass kicking.”
“And the Russians?” Rapp asked.
“You don’t like that they come over here and break all of our rules.”
“Anything else?”
“Yeah . . . I see the way you’ve been eyeballing those four bouncers at the door.”
Rapp grinned.
“You’re itching,” Coleman said in a not-so-happy voice.
“Sometimes,” Rapp said as he unbuckled his seat belt, “the best way to handle these situations is to force the issue.”
“These Russians are nasty people, Mitch. They don’t play by the rules.”
Rapp turned to Coleman and arched his left eye. “And we do?”
“No . . . not exactly,” Coleman stammered for a second, “but we’re not crazy like they are.”
“Well maybe it’s time we get a little crazy. Make them feel a little uncomfortable about coming into our backyard and recruiting some jackass like Johnson.”
“They don’t scare easy.”
“We’ll see about that.”
Coleman sighed. He knew there was no changing Rapp’s mind when he got like this. “So what are you going to do?”
“Improvise.”
“And if the locals show up?”
Rapp dug into his suit coat pocket and asked, “You said Marcus is monitoring the club’s network?”
“Yes.”
Rapp pulled out a leather ID case. He opened it, reached behind his CIA ID and pulled out a second laminated piece of paper. This one said HOMELAND SECURITY in dark blue block letters. He slid it between the CIA ID and the clear plastic window. He showed Coleman. “Works like a charm. Who’s not for Homeland Security?”
Coleman shook his head. “If the cops show up I’m out of here and I’m taking my guys with me.”
“Understood. Tell Marcus that in about two minutes I want him to crash their security cameras and their phone lines and kill the mobile phone traffic.”
“Who’s going in?”
Rapp thought about it for a second, looked at the four big guys at the door, and assumed there were at least another six or eight inside. “I think you and I can handle it.”
Coleman half laughed and said, “Fine, but I’m telling Mick to stay close.”
Mick Reavers was Coleman’s one-man wrecking crew. He was built like an NFL linebacker, only meaner. “Fine by me.” Rapp got out and popped the trunk while Coleman issued instructions to the rest of the team. He dialed in the two three-digit codes on a large black rectangular case and then slid the buttons out. Both hasps popped up with the thud of an old-fashioned briefcase. The inside of the case consisted of a large gray block of foam. Sections of the foam had been cut out in the silhouette of a variety of weapons. Rapp already had his 9mm Glock on his hip. As was almost always the case it was loaded with subsonic hollow-point ammunition. Rapp took his wallet out of his left pocket and set it next to the case. He grabbed the shorter of two silencers and put it where the wallet had been.
Rapp never went anywhere without a gun, and he had all the proper paperwork to carry the thing anywhere he wanted, but even so, the quickest way to land yourself in hot water was to fire your weapon in the District. Whether the action was warranted or not, the District was very sensitive to gunplay. Rapp looked toward the door and considered the crowd. He wasn’t going to go in without a gun, but he would have to be in big trouble before he used it. The Glock would be for defensive purposes only. He stared at the cutouts, trying to decide between several other less-than-lethal options. There was the pepper spray, but it wasn’t exactly his favorite, especially in a crowded place like a club. If you used enough of it, the next thing you knew, it got sucked into the ventilation system and the entire place would empty as if there were a fire, people coughing and spitting, emergency crews showing up to give medical aid. That was the type of thing that might attract a local TV station.
Rapp didn’t want to cause that kind of stir if he could avoid it. He decided on an expandable tactical baton, an ASP F21 in a small belt holster. It was a heavy black piece of steel about eight inches in length with a foam grip. With the proper flick of the wrist the eight inches extended to twenty-one. It was a nasty little weapon that was great to use against bigger people with long reaches. It also worked well if you needed to clear a path through a crowd of people. A couple of flicks and people would start moving like spooked cattle.
Rapp hooked the ASP onto his belt on his right side and then decided on one more thing. He grabbed a Taser X26 and two extra cartridges. It looked pretty much like a gun except parts of it were yellow. He put the two extra cartridges in his front right pocket and stuffed the taser between the small of his back and his pants. Coleman joined him at the back of the car and Rapp asked, “Do you need anything?”
Coleman looked at the case as if he were shopping for watches. “Is that your new M-4 rifle?”
“Yep.”
“I’ll take it.”
“Funny.” Rapp handed him the pepper spray and said, “Don’t use it unless you really think we need it.”
“Got it.” Coleman hooked the bottle to his belt and buttoned his suit coat. “So what’s your plan?
Rapp shrugged and closed the trunk. “We go in like we own the place . . . which we do. This is Washington, not Moscow.”
“And then what?”
“We grab the little prick by the scruff of his neck and we pull him out of there.”
Coleman had a worried expression on his face. “And if they try to stop us?”
Rapp thought about it for a second and then said, “A few of them will probably end up in the hospital.”
Coleman moaned, “I’ve got a bad feeling about this.”
Rapp shook it off and started walking toward the club and its four massive gatekeepers. “You always say that.”
Coleman fell in a half step behind and under his breath mumbled, “And I’m usually right.”
CHAPTER 40
NORTHERN ARKANSAS
OTHER than the four years he’d spent in the army, Dan Stewart had worked his entire adult life for the same employer. A Lowell, Arkansas, native, he’d practically fallen into the job when he returned from his second tour of duty in Vietnam. A new low-price retail chain just up the road was hiring. Stewart took a job as an assistant manager and moved to Eureka Springs a few hours east. Within a year he was rewarded for his strong work ethic by being promoted to manager and moved to Branson, Missouri, to open one of the company’s new stores.
That was where he’d met his Kelly. She was one of his cashiers and after a courtship of just five months he married the daughter of the local Baptist preacher. Not a big deal for most, but Stewart was a Methodist, and in Lowell, Arkansas, the Methodists were warned to stay away from the Baptists and vice
versa. Fifteen years, four kids, nine stores, and six states later, he was transferred to headquarters in Bentonville, Arkansas, and promoted to senior management. The timing was perfect in the sense that it allowed all four kids to put down some roots and attend Bentonville High School. The kids all graduated and three of them went on to college and one joined the army like his dad.
As the years trickled by Stewart took part in the employer stock plan. During all those moves he had promised Kelly they would return to Branson when he finally stopped working. It was during his thirty-ninth year with Wal-Mart that she found out they had accumulated over three hundred thousand shares of preferred stock. With the price hovering around fifty dollars a share at the time the math was not difficult. On his fortieth anniversary with the company his wife forced him into retirement. They bought a cabin on Table Rock Lake where Kelly had spent the summers of her youth. After the first year Stewart bought the hobby farm just down the road. Kelly’s relatives seemed to drop by the lake a little too frequently and he was getting way too much crap from his friends for living in Missouri. So he convinced his wife they needed the hobby farm so he could store all of his stuff and avoid paying the outrageous Missouri taxes.
Stewart was sound asleep in his big leather recliner when his German shepherd started to make noise. Her name was Razor the Third. Two and three had lasted ten and eleven years and the Third was going on nine. She was a good dog, perfectly obedient to her master, protective of Kelly, and reasonably tolerant of the grandkids. Stewart was sleeping in the chair because his shoulder was giving him problems. He’d been putting off surgery for years and had finally decided it was time to fix the darn thing. All of his friends were playing golf and hunting and he was in so much pain he could do neither.
He came to hearing the low growl of Razor, and then she let loose two unhappy barks. Stewart was about to shush her when the exterior lights snapped on, and then he could hear the grumble of an engine. Stewart was a motor guy, and he could tell immediately it was not a car. It was something bigger. He pushed forward in the chair, dropping the footrest and springing to his feet. The blanket fell to the floor and he watched as the headlights washed across the opposite wall, above the TV. The first thing he thought of was the meth heads who had been causing all the trouble with local law enforcement over the past few years. There had been a home invasion at the lake just after Christmas. An elderly couple had been beaten, tied up, and robbed at gunpoint.
Stewart had vowed he would never let a couple of hopped-up pieces of white trash get the draw on him. He yanked open the front hall closet and stuck his hand in, shoving the collection of fall, winter, and spring jackets from the right to the left. Without his having to look, his right hand found the back corner and the cold tempered steel of his Remington 870 shotgun. He closed the closet door, threw back the bolt on the main door, and opened it. Stewart stepped into the cool evening air, wearing a pair of maroon Arkansas Razorbacks pajamas his grandkids had given him for his sixty-sixth birthday.
His bare feet hit the white-painted porch. Razor growled at his side, showing her menacing teeth. Stewart saw a man coming at him out of the near-blinding white lights on the front of a big motor home. He racked a shell into the chamber and flipped off the safety with the smooth, practiced motion of a man who had hunted game since he was seven. He kept the muzzle pointed at the intruder’s feet and said, “Who’s there, and what in the hell do you want?”
The next part happened fast. Somewhere to his right, Stewart heard a slapping noise and then he heard Razor’s nails sliding around on the glossy porch floorboards as if she were wearing roller skates, and then she was down. Stewart glanced at her to see what was wrong and right as he noticed the blood pooling against the white backdrop of the porch, something big and heavy smacked him in the upper left chest. There was no time to figure out what it was. He was spinning and falling, his bare feet giving him no traction. He landed hard on his left side, the shotgun clattering away as it bounced down the steps.
Another moment passed and Stewart’s brain still wasn’t processing what had happened, but as he lay there, a warmth began to spread beneath his left side. Stewart realized he’d been shot. He thought of Razor for a second and then his wife. He heard a scraping noise on the gravel and knew it was the shotgun being picked up. Then there were footfalls on the porch steps, slow and deliberate. Stewart tried to crane his neck around to see who it was, but a stabbing pain in his left shoulder stopped him. The intruder used his foot to roll him onto his back. Stewart winced in pain and clutched his shoulder as he took in the shadowy figure standing above him.
“What do you want?” Stewart asked in a pain-laced voice.
“How many people in the house?”
Stewart had never met a meth head, but this man sounded far too calm, and he had an accent he couldn’t place. “It’s just my wife and me. Take whatever you need and leave us alone. We haven’t hurt anyone.” Stewart could see the shotgun in one hand and something else in the other. The man began to point the mystery object at him and Stewart realized a split second before he died that it was a gun.
CHAPTER 41
WASHINGTON, D.C.
RAPP was still wearing his dark suit and white shirt. He didn’t bother unbuttoning the shirt an extra button. He was either a three-button or two-button guy. He’d never really put any thought into it, but he knew he wasn’t a four-button guy, way too much skin and hair. With his scruffy facial hair, Rapp did not scream cop or fed the way Coleman did. The retired SEAL officer was in a blue sport coat, black polo shirt, pleated khaki dress pants and thick-soled lace-up black dress shoes. Anyone with a decent amount of experience would notice the bulges under their jackets and guess that they were carrying.
Rapp, used to blending in, had to consciously tell himself to act more like a cop, make his fluid movements a touch more robotic, and instead of avoiding eye contact, make sure he made it, kept it, and left no doubt who was in charge. He decided to cross the street directly across from the front door rather than at an angle. As he stepped off the curb, he sized up the four bouncers. Three of them were black and one of them was white, big fellas, with big legs, big arms, big chests, and big necks. They were easy to pick out since they were in black jeans and black polo shirts and they were two to three times larger than anyone else in the vicinity.
When Rapp was five steps from the sidewalk, one of the black guys did a sweep of the area and noticed the two men coming for them. His eyes screwed in on them and his face betrayed a split second of surprise that these two were different from all the other partiers they dealt with. Rapp locked eyes with the man and headed straight for him. No one was wearing any indication of rank, so it was impossible to see who was in charge. Instincts told him, though, that the most alert of the four would be the best place to start.
Rapp stopped just his side of the velvet ropes and glanced over the guy’s broad shoulder at the open doorway. Through a crack in the red velvet curtain he could see strobes and silhouettes of bobbing and swaying people. Loud music, with a heavy thrumming bass, rolled out the door and hit them like a strong gusting wind. Rapp put his eyes back on the big man. Rapp was six feet tall and he figured with the pitch of the sidewalk running away from the building to the curb, the guy was probably a few inches shorter than he looked. Rapp guessed he was about six and a half feet tall. The height didn’t concern Rapp. The taller the better when it came to a street fight, and if you wanted proof all you had to do was watch an Ultimate Fighting Championship match. The big guys had the reach but their center of gravity was way too high for no-rules fighting.
Rapp opened his suit coat on the left side and reached into the breast pocket. He watched as the bouncer’s eyes moved down to his waist. The guy noted the gun on Rapp’s left hip and didn’t bat an eye. Rapp pulled out the ID case in a smooth one-handed motion and held it open next to his right ear, so the bouncer wouldn’t have to work too hard.
The guy’s eyes flickered back and forth and then he nodded
and said, “What’s up?”
“National Security. Nothing to do with the club directly. I just need to get in there and talk to someone.”
The bouncer started to answer, but was stopped by another bouncer who had been standing next to the door. This guy was even taller. He had to be six-nine and easily tipped the scales at 350-plus pounds. His white head was clean-shaven and tattoos peeked out from under his shirtsleeves and collar. Rapp noted a hammer-and-sickle tattoo with a sword on the man’s forearm. He repeated what he’d already said to the other bouncer and for good measure held up the Homeland Security ID.