by Flynn Vince
“The police received an anonymous tip about gunshots at the facility where the men were being held. When they arrived, they found the suspects dead and three DEA agents gravely wounded.”
Barnett leaned back in her chair, a satisfied smile exposing overwhitened teeth. She motioned to Woodman, who finally got an opportunity to talk. He didn’t seem happy about it, though.
“Rapp tortured at least one of the suspects and murdered both. Then he attacked my men and stole a significant portion of the narcotics being held on-site.”
Kennedy paused to consider what she had just heard. Conclusions weren’t hard to come to. Rapp had wanted answers from those drug traffickers that the DEA weren’t able to get. A murkier question, though, was on whose authority? Was he working under political cover that she wasn’t aware of. The president had gone directly to him before. Was this another case of that?
“Are your people going to be all right?” Kennedy asked finally.
“They sustained substantial injuries, but I’m told they’ll recover.”
“Thanks to their body armor and training,” Barnett cut in. “Otherwise they’d be in the morgue with those two suspects.”
Woodman’s face was expressionless. He knew full well that if Rapp had wanted those men dead, they would be.
“Please continue, Bob.”
His expression suggested continued reluctance. What was causing that reluctance, though, was difficult to say. Even if Kennedy had known the man well, it was hard to predict how someone would react to a situation like this. He was smart enough to know that something didn’t smell quite right. But he was also smart enough to know that Barnett was likely to be his boss in a few months.
“Rapp also said something.”
“Yes?” Kennedy prompted.
“That he had financial problems and needed the drugs to settle his accounts.”
“Are you aware of Mr. Rapp’s financial situation?” Barnett interjected.
Kennedy folded her hands in front of her on the table. “Yesterday, my office received a file that seems to detail a number of financial improprieties on Mitch’s part. It’s my understanding that the FBI and IRS received similar files. Of course, we’re looking into the allegations, but they’re complicated and far-reaching, so I don’t have anything to report yet.”
“Financial improprieties,” Barnett repeated incredulously. “My people’s initial review of that file suggests something more like an organized crime syndicate that would put Al Capone to shame.”
It was an exaggeration, but not an outrageous one. The maze of hidden accounts, foreign partnerships, and shell corporations had almost certainly been created by Rapp’s brother Steven. And if that was the case, it would take years—perhaps decades—to get to the bottom of it. His gift for complex financial transactions rivaled his older brother’s abilities with a gun.
The question was why? Rapp had very little interest in money and was already worth millions—as was Claudia Gould. Why had he created a phony financial crisis and then purposely told the DEA that he was stealing the drugs to deal with that crisis? The answer was as obvious as it was dangerous. He was trying to make contact with the cartel that had smuggled the anthrax and infiltrate them.
“As I said, Senator, we’re looking into the allegations. But I’d urge caution. That file gives every impression of having been compiled by a hostile foreign government.”
Of course, that was completely nonsense. The faint whiffs of Russia and Iran were much more likely Claudia’s doing. She was an extremely clever woman.
“An ad hominem attack, Dr. Kennedy? I would have thought that was beneath you. It doesn’t matter where the information came from, only whether or not it’s true. And even if it isn’t, Mitch Rapp murdered two drug trafficking suspects in cold blood as well as—”
“They weren’t drug trafficking suspects, Senator. They were transporting a bioweapon across the U.S. border. The rules of engagement are different for men like that.”
Barnett laughed. “Ah, yes. That’s the comic book, isn’t it? Mitch Rapp, the great patriot, desperately interrogating two hardened terrorists in order to save us all. Don’t insult my intelligence, Doctor. The questions Rapp was asking those men had nothing to do with America. More likely he wanted to know how to get top dollar for the coke he stole and how to stay ahead of the cartel he stole it from. And now while you sit there trying to spin the situation, he’s using the skills you taught him to disappear.”
She didn’t respond, prompting Woodman to speak up.
“We have two separate informants saying that an unknown party has put word out on the street that he’s got a couple hundred kilos of quality product and he’s looking to unload it fast. There’s no question in my mind that this is your man, Irene. There’s a possibility that we can track—”
Barnett put a hand on his arm, silencing him. Clearly, she believed that any information Kennedy gained in this meeting would be passed on to Rapp. The human species’ ability to believe whatever it wanted was truly incredible. Barnett would overlook everything Rapp had done for America and believe any attack on him—no matter how far-fetched—without question.
“I think we’ve said enough on that subject, Bob.”
And then something completely unexpected happened. Woodman glanced at Barnett and moved his hand to scratch his left temple. When he was sure the senator wasn’t looking, he raised his middle finger.
Kennedy barely managed to suppress her smile. The DEA chief would be fully aware of what went into creating an undercover legend sufficient to get close to a major cartel. At a minimum, he would keep his mouth shut. With a little luck, he could be counted on for some minor assistance if it could be kept under the table. Kennedy gave him a nearly imperceptible nod as Barnett started into one of her infamously indignant speeches.
“It’s hard for even me to believe that this is happening, Dr. Kennedy. The two men that Mitch Rapp murdered were our only lead in finding Sayid Halabi and intercepting the next package of anthrax that’s probably already on it’s way. This is your fault and the fault of your agency. The fact that for twenty years you haven’t noticed that you have a psychotic working for you is hard to believe. That you didn’t notice the multimillion-dollar house of cards he’d built, though, frankly suggests more than incompetence.”
And there it was. Barnett was going to play this as complicity. She was going to drag Kennedy in front of an endless string of congressional hearings in an effort to find something that could be used to prosecute her criminally. And to send a message to anyone else who might be feeling defiant.
Barnett let the accusation hang in the air, hoping to coerce Kennedy into responding to it. Instead the CIA director reached for her briefcase and stood.
“If there’s nothing more, I obviously have a lot of work to do.”
She turned and went for the door, barely getting her hand around the knob before Barnett spoke again.
“Have you heard about Rapp’s partner Claudia? Apparently she left him for Scott Coleman and they’re now in hiding because they’re afraid that he’ll kill them.”
The malignant glee in Barnett’s voice was clearly audible and Kennedy took comfort in it. The senator wasn’t as calculating as she was given credit for. At her core, she was at the mercy of her infinite greed for power.
This was going to get ugly and no one was going to escape without getting bloody. But, as Stan Hurley had been fond of saying, it’s not how you play the game, it’s whether or not your opponent ends up dismembered in the woods.
CHAPTER 29
SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA
USA
WHERE were these assholes?
It was Rapp’s second night sleeping in a foxhole stacked with five hundred pounds of coke. And while the drugs themselves were surprisingly comfortable, the impermeable tape wrapped around them left him wallowing in a shallow pond of sweat.
Even worse was the tree above him. Coleman had undoubtedly chosen that location for the addi
tional cover the foliage provided, but hadn’t considered the sizable spines that constantly dropped from it. So while he was all but invisible and had a good line of sight to the house, his back and ass were covered with tiny, infuriatingly itchy wounds.
How hard could it be for Esparza to find him? Maybe Claudia had overestimated the capabilities of his outfit. At this point, she’d dropped enough hints to lead a nine-year-old to his door.
Rapp looked past the offending tree at the stars and then glanced over at the vague outline of the house. It contained a comfortable bed, a well-stocked fridge, and satellite TV. Just twenty-five yards of dead-flat terrain away.
When he was in similar holes in the Middle East, he never thought about creature comforts. He was almost always in the middle of nowhere, often surrounded by people who had never even seen a microwave or automatic coffeemaker. But lying there within earshot of the air-conditioning unit somehow made every cactus spine, scorpion, and tarantula that much more irritating.
Not that there was anything he could do about it. Esparza’s men were coming and there was no way to be certain from what direction or in what kind of numbers. The design of the house made it more of a trap than a viable defensive position, and if the team the cartel sent was smart enough to surround it, he’d have a hell of a time fighting his way out. Particularly if they brought anything heavier than the expected handguns and assault rifles.
He moved the M4 carbine to one side and tried to find a slightly more comfortable position. Six more hours to dawn. With a little luck, he could get some sleep.
• • •
The quiet crunch of tires or approaching footfalls that Rapp expected didn’t materialize. Instead, two massive SUVs roared up the road and skidded to a dramatic stop in front of the house before firing up their light bars. He pushed himself to his elbows, peering over the top of the hole as an improbable number of men poured from the vehicles. Despite all the weapons and the glare of the lights, it had kind of a clown car quality to it.
They started firing at the house on full automatic as one of the vehicles’ powerful sound systems started blasting something that to Rapp’s ear sounded a little like polka music. He reached for his rifle and slid into a position that allowed him to keep an eye on his six, concerned that the fireworks at the house had been designed to cover the approach of foot soldiers from behind.
He decided he might be overestimating the enemy when one of them abandoned his position behind the SUVs and sprinted toward the front door. His comrades didn’t have time to divert their fire and the man was cut down before he could even make it to the porch. His body skidded to a stop by the porch steps as the others focused their fire on the windows.
In a somewhat better-organized move, two men pulled a tactical battering ram from the back of one of the vehicles and managed to lug it onto the porch without getting shot. They struggled to coordinate their efforts, but on the second swing the door flew open. When they disappeared inside, their comrades reluctantly stopped shooting.
Everything went silent, but it lasted only about five seconds. A muffled explosion flashed in the empty window frames and Rapp figured it was from the grenade he’d wired across the hallway. Though it could also have been the mine he’d put under the carpet behind the sofa. It was pretty obvious in good light, but with all the dust and half the bulbs shot out, you never knew. These assholes didn’t seem to be the sharpest knives in the drawer.
That assessment was confirmed when the men reacted to the explosion by running to the windows and door in order to randomly spray the interior. The fact that one or both of their men might have survived the blast didn’t seem to concern them.
Some were running out of ammo and struggling to get new mags in weapons that they clearly weren’t familiar with. Rapp considered picking off a few with his silenced Glock, but it seemed unnecessary at this point. Better to just settle in and watch the show.
Two more men ran inside, but the ones shooting through the windows didn’t seem aware of it. Rapp assumed they’d get gunned down in a few seconds but he was proven wrong. The garage door suddenly billowed outward, sending a cloud of dust drifting lazily through the spotlights. One of them had gotten far enough to find the charge he’d hidden beneath the owner’s stash of lawn furniture.
Rapp took the foil off a home-baked cookie and shoved it in his mouth as a man with an impressive collection of tattoos finally managed to get everyone to stop shooting. A moment later, all that could be heard was the polka music and the dull hum of a model plane circling above.
The tattooed man started shouting at someone standing near one of the windows and pointing at the doorway. Rapp didn’t speak Spanish, but it wasn’t hard to figure out what was being said. Tattooed Guy wanted Guy By The Window to go inside. And Guy By The Window, not being quite as stupid or high as some of his companions, wanted to stay where he was.
The conversation ended abruptly when Tattooed Guy shot the man in the chest. That lit a fire under the others, and a few moments later, three men were crossing the threshold. Their cautious movements suggested that the group’s initial enthusiasm was fading.
Rapp finished his cookie and reached for a box of Pop-Tarts. Popcorn probably would have been more appropriate, but how could Claudia have known?
Four relatively uneventful minutes passed before an explosion blew off part of the back of the house. He’d gotten pretty artistic with that charge. It had been hidden in an AC vent with the tripwire woven through the top of a shower curtain.
It took another three minutes or so before the surviving two men reappeared in the doorway and began giving their report. Again, Spanish fluency wasn’t necessary to understand what they were saying. They’d found neither the man nor the coke they’d come for.
There were five men left outside and their discussion quickly went from heated to a full-blown shoving match. For a moment, Rapp thought they were going to start shooting at each other, but he didn’t get that lucky. Tattooed Guy managed to get control and dialed a phone while the others huddled in tight around him. They looked like they were working out the next play in MS-13’s annual football scrimmage. Did these people receive no training at all?
Rapp picked up the suppressed M4 and fired at the tightly grouped men on full automatic. Not surprisingly, they were all down before half his magazine was expended.
He stepped out of the hole, ducking under various low-hanging tree branches as he approached the men on the ground. All were dead or headed in that direction so he glanced up at the circling drone and raised one of his hands, palm up. The sentiment would be clear in any language.
Is that all you’ve got?
One of the men on the bottom of the pile started moving and Rapp shot him in the side of the head. He wasn’t going to get anywhere with these soldiers. That had already been proved during his interrogation of the men the DEA had picked up. He needed to talk to the man in charge.
Rapp walked over to the nearest SUV and turned off the music. At this point, there wasn’t much he could do other than load the product and drive off in one of Esparza’s pimped-out vehicles. If that didn’t piss the man off enough to reach out, nothing would.
He was about to climb in when the ring of a cell phone became audible. Rapp had to search through the pile of men, but finally found the phone in Tattooed Guy’s lifeless hand. The blood on the screen confused its touch sensitivity but Rapp finally managed to pick up.
“What?”
The screaming on the other end started with what he assumed was a stream of Spanish epithets.
“Speak English, dipshit.”
“I’m going to carve you up and feed you to my dogs, you . . .”
The sentence devolved into Spanish again.
“Who is this?” Rapp said, crafting his tone to sound vaguely irritated. “Lorenzo Varela? Why don’t you shut the fuck up and let the big boys work.”
The name belonged to the leader of an upstart cartel run by a college-educated kid from Mexico City. Just t
he kind of guy someone like Carlos Esparza would despise.
“Varela? You stupid piece of shit! This is Carlos Esparza!”
Rapp didn’t respond immediately, instead glancing nervously up at the drone. “Bullshit.”
“You want me to prove it? How about I send a hundred men with pliers and blowtorches up to you? I’m going to—”
And more with the Spanish.
Rapp waited for the cartel boss to run out of oxygen before he spoke again. “Look, man. The DEA said this was Varela’s shipment. They didn’t say anything about you.”
More Spanish. Rapp was starting to regret not paying more attention in high school.
“I don’t want a war with you, Carlos. I just needed some money to disappear with. Your product’s in a hole to the northeast of the house. Why don’t you send some guys over to get it.”
“And are you still going to be there when they show up, pendejo?”
“I could be, but I don’t think you can afford to lose any more men.”
“Fuck you!”
Rapp didn’t respond immediately, making a point to look thoughtfully up at the drone he hoped Esparza was watching from in real time.
“Maybe we can make this work for both of us,” he said finally.
“What?”
“I need money and to get as far from U.S. law enforcement as I can. And you clearly need men who can tell one end of a gun from the other.”
Esparza laughed hard enough that Rapp thought he might choke. “You just stole my drugs and killed eighteen of my men. Now you’re asking me for a job?”
“Why not? I said I’d give the coke back.” He thumbed at the bodies behind. “And you’re suddenly light on personnel.”
“Then why don’t you get on a plane to Mexico and we can have a talk face-to-face.”
“Okay.”
Esparza started laughing again, this time sounding less enraged and more incredulous.
“What’s so funny?”
“You’re either crazy or you’ve got balls too big to fit on a plane.”
