Lethal Agent

by Flynn Vince

  Surprisingly, the knife was razor sharp, and it took only about fifteen minutes to fashion part of the man’s fibula into the appropriate tools. Once the lock had dropped off, Rapp swapped clothes with the corpse and shoved it in the cage. It wouldn’t fool anyone who was really interested, but it’d be enough for someone casually glancing through the trees as they passed.

  A quick recon of the compound confirmed his first impression—minimal physical or electronic security, but a lot of armed guards. None looked particularly attentive, but their sheer number made getting by them unlikely even in the remaining darkness. Quietly killing a couple more was definitely doable, but how high a body count could you run up in a popularity contest? It wasn’t really his area of expertise, but he guessed that anything over zero was a move in the wrong direction. So he waited.

  Dawn brought what he was looking for: a fairly sloppy changing of the guard. Taking advantage of a temporary gap along the northeast corner of the compound, Rapp slipped out of the jungle and through a door partially hidden by foliage.

  It opened to a storage room and probably provided access for deliveries. Past the well-stocked shelves was another door that led to a spacious industrial kitchen. There were a couple of pots steaming on the stove but no sign of the cook, so he crossed the tile floor into an airy dining room.

  Human activity continued to be nonexistent as he crossed a surprisingly tasteful living room and entered a hallway at the back. Most of the doors were open and led to stylish bedroom suites that looked like they’d never been used.

  He slipped into one of them and locked the door. A quick search turned up a closet full of designer clothes, some of which still had the tags hanging from them. As luck would have it, he and Esparza were around the same size. The loafers looked a little small but would undoubtedly be more comfortable than the guard’s damp, torn-up boots.

  The bathroom was behind a massive stone barrier that doubled as the headboard of the bed. The back wall was constructed entirely of glass and looked out into dense, flowering jungle. Rapp spotted a switch set apart from the ones for the lights and flipped it. The glass turned opaque.

  This was more like it.

  CHAPTER 32

  RAPP pushed his hair from his face and examined himself in the still steamy bathroom mirror. With a belt, Esparza’s designer slacks stayed up and the fact that he wore his shirts loose allowed them to accommodate Rapp’s broad shoulders. The loafers were definitely on the tight side but that was probably a good thing—they’d stay on if he had to run. But that wasn’t the goal. If there was any running happening today, his mission had failed.

  Satisfied that he was appropriately groomed for a job interview, Rapp strode back out into the hallway. It was still empty and he headed unchallenged toward the large, palm-frond-covered terrace he’d noticed when he arrived.

  On his way across the living room, a plump woman in her fifties appeared from a door to the right. She stopped short, giving him a quizzical look as she wiped her hands on an apron that appeared to have seen some serious action. Just the person he was looking for.

  “Breakfast?”

  Her eyes narrowed as she tried to decipher what he’d said.

  “Comida?” he managed to dredge from his memory.

  That got a nod.

  “Cómo se llama?”

  “María, señor.”

  “María. Café?”

  That got another nod, but he wasn’t through his Spanish repertoire yet.

  “Huevos rancheros?”

  “Sí, señor.”

  “Perfecto. Y orange juice.” He pantomimed holding a glass. “Uh, naranja. Sí? Muy grande. Mucho hielo.”

  “Entiendo. Tortillas de harina o maíz?”

  He had no idea what she’d just said, but on the subject of food his instinct was to just agree with whatever this woman recommended. “Sí.”

  She didn’t seem to fully understand his response, but he wasn’t worried. “Dónde está Señor Esparza?”

  She pointed. “En la terraza.”

  Esparza was right where María said he would be, sitting at a table with a plate of fruit and a newspaper in front of him. The entire terrace—including the fountain and massive fireplace—were shaded and protected from overhead surveillance by foliage. The bugs were a little thick, but at least they weren’t for breakfast anymore.

  The cartel leader didn’t look up until Rapp sat down across from him. His confused expression only lasted a split second before recognition set in. He looked like he was about to shout for help from the surrounding guards, but Rapp spoke first.

  “I figured you’d probably heard something back from your contacts by now.”

  There was a place setting in front of him, so Rapp shook out the cloth napkin and set it on his lap.

  Esparza was frozen, eyes flicking to the knife near Rapp’s right hand. His body language suggested he was going to throw himself backward and call in a little machine gun fire, but then María appeared with a cup of coffee and a pitcher of icy, fresh-squeezed orange juice.

  “Gracias,” Rapp said, accepting it with a disarming smile. Esparza’s desperation to escape seemed to wane as Rapp poured himself a glass of juice and downed it in a few gulps.

  “I see you’re making yourself at home,” he said, examining the clothes Rapp was wearing.

  “I figured you wouldn’t mind,” Rapp responded, testing the coffee. Not surprisingly, it was top-notch. “What have you been able to figure out?”

  Esparza remained silent for a few seconds before finally speaking. “That it’s possible you’re who you say you are. There’s a surprising amount of information available on the recent activities of Mitch Rapp but getting confirmation is difficult. My assistant is supposed to have a more thorough report for me this morning.”

  María returned with the huevos rancheros and Rapp dug in as the cartel leader looked on.

  “It appears that you stole a fair amount of money over your career.”

  “Stole, my ass.”

  “So you deny the accusations your government is making?”

  “I took money from terrorists and the people who funded them. I’ve been hanging it out there for America for twenty fucking years and my annual salary wouldn’t cover the clothes I found in your guest bedroom. And what if one of my enemies came after me and I had to run? You think the politicians would help me out? I sure as hell wouldn’t bet my life on it. So, sure. I had a few rainy day funds.”

  “Invested stupidly, apparently.”

  “I got some bad advice. Not really my area of expertise.”

  “A man with friends like yours could make these kinds of problems go away with the snap of a finger.”

  Rapp shoveled another forkful of María’s amazing eggs in his mouth and shook his head. “Could is the operative word there, Carlos. Past tense. President Alexander isn’t going to get anywhere near a scandal during this clusterfuck of an election. And Christine Barnett wants nothing more than to hang me up by my balls.”

  “An uncomfortable position.”

  “You think?” Rapp said, letting the volume of his voice rise. “I’ve been shot, stabbed, set on fire, and blown up. Twice. All in the defense of the Stars and Stripes. And all I asked in return was enough money to survive my retirement.” He was almost shouting now, demonstrating the kind of passion that a man like Esparza would appreciate, but not so much that it would worry the guards. “But what am I looking at instead? A jail cell and a piece-of-shit president who’s never lifted a finger for anyone but herself.”

  It was pretty much a retread of all the things Claudia had been telling him, but there was no reason it wouldn’t work as well on Esparza as it had on him.

  “And your woman? My people tell me she left you for a friend of yours.”

  “Her boss and my backup man Scott Coleman,” Rapp spat out. “Who knows how long that’s been going on? Turns out that when the money and power goes away, so do they.”

  “It seems you’d want to kill
them,” Esparza said, interested enough to keep probing, trying to find a crack in Rapp’s story.

  “I wouldn’t mind. Believe me. But Scott’s a dangerous son of a bitch and the Agency’s going to be looking for me to make a move like that. For now, I’m just going to have to let it go. When all this dies down and I get my feet under me, though, you can bet your ass I’m going to be paying them a visit.”

  Esparza fell silent, watching the man in front of him. As insane as it seemed, all indications were that he really was Mitch Rapp. And that created both opportunities and dangers that he never thought he’d be contemplating. Over the years, he’d managed to put many important people on his payroll. But Mitch Rapp? None of his competitors—even those with revenues that would get them on a Forbes list—had anyone who could compare.

  Vicente Rossi appeared, took a few steps across the terrace, and stopped dead. It was an understandable reaction, but one that Esparza couldn’t be seen sharing. Instead, he cut a slice of the pineapple on his plate and casually waved his business advisor over.

  “I don’t think formal introductions have been made. This is Vicente.”

  Rapp nodded in the man’s direction but otherwise didn’t acknowledge him.

  “What do you have for me?” Esparza said, taking a bite of fruit to cover his nervousness. He had killed countless men. Tortured them and their families. Built a cartel that commanded fear and respect that far outstripped the scope of its operation. He refused to allow his fear of this unarmed American to show.

  Rossi, still standing, had no similar qualms. “Perhaps this is something that would be better done in private?”

  Had he discovered something that would cause the CIA man to go for the knife still within his reach? Esparza met Rapp’s dead gaze, refusing to turn away. “Now.”

  Rossi gave a reluctant nod. “I’m satisfied that this is indeed Mitch Rapp.”

  It wasn’t a surprising conclusion at this point, but still the cartel leader felt a surge of adrenaline. “And the DEA men?”

  “We were able to get people into the hospital where they’re being treated. There’s no question that they were shot, but because of their body armor, their injuries are relatively minor.” He paused. “Unlike our men, who are dead.”

  Esparza leaned back in his chair, gazing up at the younger man. The reason the DEA men had survived was obvious. There would have been no reason for Rapp to antagonize the Americans any more than necessary. And the reason so many of his men were dead was equally obvious.

  “Did my men talk?” Esparza asked.

  Rapp shook his head. “That’s why I didn’t know the shipment was yours. My compliments on your management style. I took off one of their hands with a set of bolt cutters and they were still more afraid of you than they were of me.”

  Esparza smiled at that. In the end, he and Rapp were much alike. Two predators who got what they wanted. “Go on, Vicente.”

  “Mr. Rapp seems to have left his official capacity at the CIA some time ago to pursue what appears to be a vendetta in Saudi Arabia, though it’s impossible to know how much Agency involvement there was. Irene Kennedy is quite clever at covering her tracks. He was recently in Yemen, most likely working as a private contractor in her employment.”

  “And now?” Esparza said.

  Rossi seemed reluctant to continue but understood that he had no choice. “The allegations of long-term financial impropriety combined with the shooting of the DEA agents and the murder of two Mexican nationals has very much changed his status. Not surprisingly, everyone is backing away from him as quickly as they can.”

  “Including Kennedy?”

  “Unclear. But her ability to support him at this point is nonexistent. People are abandoning her almost as quickly as they are Rapp. If Senator Barnett wins the presidency it’s hard to see how she’ll escape being indicted.”

  “So you can see my problem,” Rapp interjected. “And why your organization is an interesting solution. Half those politicians would be dead if it weren’t for me. But now they’re turning on me without a second thought. You, on the other hand, have a reputation for loyalty and rewarding competence.”

  Esparza watched María approach and begin collecting their empty plates. “I think you’d find working for drug traffickers much more predictable than working for politicians.”

  “I don’t doubt it.”

  “Why don’t you go with María. Since my men can’t perform the simple task of keeping you in a cage, you might as well stay in the house.”

  Rapp stood and Esparza studied his confident gait as he retreated across the flagstone patio.

  “Thoughts?” he said when the CIA man had disappeared through the glass doors.

  “Kill him now.”

  The cartel leader laughed.

  “I’m serious, Carlos. You can’t trust this man.”

  “Didn’t you just tell me that you confirmed his story?”

  “He and Irene Kennedy have the capacity to create any illusion they want.”

  “But why? I think your lack of balls might be clouding your vision, Vicente. The CIA doesn’t give a shit about drugs, other than maybe to sell them to finance their black ops. And I think it’s unlikely that the rise of Christine Barnett is just a trick to allow Mitch Rapp to infiltrate a medium-sized Mexican drug operation. And then there’s the matter of the DEA agents. Even with the vests, one could have easily been killed. The Americans don’t take those kinds of risks. And they don’t torture drug traffickers to death.”

  “But—”

  “The timing of this couldn’t be better for us, Vicente. We’re in a dangerous position because of the loss of the San Ysidro mall, and there’s no question that someone like Rapp could help with the Arabs. He speaks their language. He understands how they do business and what scares them. . . .”

  “The timing of this couldn’t be better for us,” Rossi repeated. “You don’t find this at all suspicious? That a man dedicated to fighting Middle Eastern terrorists arrived on our doorstep right after we sent through our first shipment of Middle Eastern heroin?”

  Esparza frowned and took a sip of his coffee. “Heroin has been flooding out of the Middle East for years. Between that and Saudi oil, the Americans finance virtually every terrorist operation in the world. And even if they did care, why would they come after us? There are cartels with longer-standing relationships with the Arabs.”

  “What about our exposure to American retaliation?” Rossi countered. “Mitch Rapp probably has more ugly secrets in his head than anyone but Irene Kennedy herself. You say the CIA doesn’t care about us and you may be right. But the day they find out we’ve taken on Mitch Rapp, we move directly into their crosshairs.”

  Esparza nodded thoughtfully. This was perhaps the most compelling argument for killing Rapp. The risks of having him there were incredibly high. Probably too high.

  Rossi sensed that he’d gained an advantage in their discussion and decided to press. “I can figure out how to deal with heroin, Carlos. There are a lot of Arab immigrants in Mexico, some of whom are already involved in the drug trade. We can hire as many as we need.”

  Esparza tapped his index finger absently on the tabletop. Summarily executing Mitch Rapp seemed like an incredible waste. Both of talent and opportunity for sport.

  Everyone he hired into a position of authority had to pass a test. Depending on the specific demands of the job, that test might relate to skill, toughness, loyalty, or intelligence. Some were relatively easy. María had been hired based on her ability to make food indistinguishable from Esparza’s own mother’s. For others, failure had meant death.

  “We’ll test him,” Esparza said, finally.

  “Carlos, I don’t—”

  “Relax, Vicente. We’ll create a test that’s impossible for him to survive. Do you have no curiosity at all? No interest in seeing Mitch Rapp in action? In seeing what he would do and how long he could last against impossible odds?”

  “What if he beats those od
ds?”

  Esparza considered the question for a moment. “Then we’d have to consider the possibly that the rewards of employing such a man might be worth the risks.”

  CHAPTER 33

  RAPP followed two armed guards through the house in the direction of the front door. With the exception of his phone, all the possessions he’d arrived there with had been returned. The green cotton slacks and brown shirt supplied by Claudia had been cleaned and pressed but would still allow him to blend into the jungle if necessary. The gray trail-running shoes were less stylish, but sturdy, light, and possessed a tread designed for soft surfaces.

  The barking of dogs became audible when they stepped into the humid morning, ahead and to the right but hidden in the foliage. They skirted the clearing that stretched along the front of the house, staying beneath the jungle canopy in an effort to foil possible overhead surveillance.

  The scene they finally came upon was, unfortunately, about what Rapp had expected. Two dirt bikes and three 4x4s sprayed with matte camo paint—one with a mounted machine gun heavy enough to nearly bottom out the suspension. The sixth and last vehicle was a spotless Humvee painted British racing green. Like Rapp’s clothes, designed to blend in anywhere.

  Seventeen men were either in the vehicles or standing around them. All were wearing full camo and equipped with assault rifles, sidearms, and light packs with water bladders. The exception was Esparza himself, who was wearing his typical five grand worth of designer linen. The only obvious change was that he’d traded his calfskin loafers for a sturdy pair of hiking boots.

  Worse were the six dogs. In Rapp’s estimation dogs were usually smarter than their human masters and always more motivated. The mix of breeds was designed more for intimidation than tracking but despite being heavy on the Rottweilers and pit bulls, the pack would still be effective. Particularly if they managed to catch what they were chasing. In this case, him.

  “Everyone who works for me has to pass a test first,” Esparza said, speaking in a voice loud enough to be heard over the frenzied dogs. “This will be yours.”