by Vince Flynn
“Whatever works,” Rapp smiled amiably. He bent down and unzipped the bag, revealing five tightly shrink-wrapped packets of money. Stepping back, Rapp said, “Five million dollars.” Rapp figured it was cheap. The leadership of al-Qaeda all had price tags of twenty-plus million on their heads. Mukhtar at five million was a bargain. Especially when one took into consideration that based on Ashani’s information, they could easily clear that much, once they started raiding the Hezbollah accounts they now knew about. If Mukhtar could bribe Sunni cops in Mosul, Rapp saw no problem in offering a cash reward for one of the most-wanted terrorists in the world.
The chief clapped his hands together, and could barely contain his glee. “Oh, this is wonderful.”
“Yes, it is. Now, may I please see the prisoner?”
“Of course. Please follow me.”
The chief led Rapp down to the first floor. At the back of the station were a series of holding rooms with one-way glass. The chief stopped in front of one and said, “Everything has been arranged just as you asked.”
There sat Imad Mukhtar handcuffed to the metal table. His shoes, belt, watch, money, and cell phone were all on the table in front of him. He had shaved his head in an attempt to disguise himself. It didn’t matter, though. Now that they had his voiceprint and the home where he was staying it had been easy to find him.
“What about the security camera?” Rapp asked.
“This one is not working.”
“All right. You have the key for the handcuffs?”
The chief gave it to him. “I will wait right here until you are done.”
“Thanks.” Rapp grabbed a handkerchief, twisted the knob, and entered the ten-by-ten-foot interrogation room. Without turning around, Rapp flipped the handkerchief up onto the security camera directly above him. The chief seemed like a nice guy, but there was no reason not to be thorough. He then snapped on a pair of latex gloves.
Mukhtar looked up with tired bloodshot eyes and asked in Arabic, “Are you my lawyer?”
Rapp laughed, and as he pulled the curtain across the viewing window and said, “No, I’m your proctologist, you idiot.”
Hearing the visitor speak Americanized English caused Mukhtar to grow deeply concerned. “Who are you?”
“Who I am doesn’t matter, Mr. Mukhtar.” Rapp circled around him.
“I do not know who you are talking about.”
If all they had to go on were the photos taken in Mosul, there might have been a sliver of doubt, but Ashani had provided them with sixteen different quality shots. Those, combined with the voice analysis, guaranteed that the man he was looking at was Imad Mukhtar.
Rapp grabbed the belt off the table and stood directly behind the prisoner. Mukhtar sensed he was in some serious trouble and began yanking violently against the handcuffs. It was a waste of his energy. The metal table was bolted to the floor. Rapp slid the belt around Mukhtar’s neck and threaded it through the buckle. Mukhtar started screaming and thrashing even harder. Rapp put his left hand on Mukhtar’s shoulder and gave the belt a good yank with his right hand. Mukhtar began gasping for air and making choking noises.
Rapp leaned in close, his mouth hovering mere inches away from Mukhtar’s left ear and said, “This is for Irene Kennedy, you piece of shit.”
Rapp put his left foot in the center of Mukhtar’s upper back and grabbed the belt with both hands. He leaned back and yanked with everything he had. Mukhtar’s windpipe collapsed like an aluminum can. His eyes nearly popped out of his head, and his limbs went rigid. Rapp held the belt tight for another ten seconds to make sure, and then let go. Mukhtar slumped forward, his head thudding to a rest on the table. Rapp undid the handcuffs and leg restraints and tossed them on the floor. He then took the tail end of the belt, tied it around the metal bar that Mukhtar’s right handcuff had been attached to, and pulled the chair away. Mukhtar’s knees hit the ground and his head slid off the table. The belt caught and stopped his face a foot short of the floor.
Rapp took one last look around and then opened the door. On the way out he reached up and collected his handkerchief from the security camera and then took off the latex gloves.
The chief was waiting. “How did it go?”
“Exactly as planned.” Rapp thanked the police chief, turned, and walked straight out the front door.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
To Emily Bestler and Sloan Harris, my editor and agent, for your friendship and many talents. To David Brown for being the best publicist in the business. To Jack Romanos, Carolyn Reidy, Judith Curr, and Louise Burke, and the rest of the Atria, Pocket, and Simon & Schuster family; thank you for all of your hard work and support. To Sarah Branham, Laura Stern, Kristyn Keene, and Niki Castle, thank you for being so good at what you do, and for being nice while you do it. To Jamie Kimmes for making life significantly less cluttered, which to a writer is no small thing.
To Rob Richer for your friendship and wisdom. To Judd Stat-tine and Bob Olson for your integrity and professionalism. To Dr. Jodi Bakkegard for taking such good care of me. To Chad Harris at thethirdoption.net for keeping things rolling. To Sunny Wicka and Brad England for your generous contribution to the fight to find a cure for Duchenne Muscular Dystrophy, and to my wife, Lysa, for being my classy, calm partner in an otherwise chaotic life.
ALSO BY VINCE FLYNN
Act of Treason
Consent to Kill
Memorial Day
Executive Power
Separation of Power
The Third Option
Transfer of Power
Term Limits
