Lethal Agent

by Flynn Vince

  “Copy. We’ve got a car about twelve miles ahead of your position. You can pull off and make a switch. Bruno, when he does, you can close in and take over surveillance. From now until the border I want one of you close. Claudia, you’re going to have to coordinate personnel and vehicle changes along the route.”

  “I’m already working on it.”

  “Mitch,” their pilot cut in. “I’m seeing brake lights on the target.”

  “Is there an obstacle?”

  “Not that I can see. Looks wide-open. Wait . . . He’s turning into the median.”

  Rapp put the binoculars to his eyes as Fred Mason banked in an effort to keep their interval. All that was visible was a dust cloud. When the truck emerged, it had reversed course.

  “The target has crossed the median and is accelerating back west,” Rapp said. “I repeat, the target is now westbound. Bruno, cross over and get in front of him. Stay out of sight. Wick and Mas, cross over and get behind. Wick, close the gap and get eyes on him. Mas, you stay back far enough to keep out of sight. Claudia, patch in Irene.”

  A moment later, Kennedy’s voice came on the line. “Go ahead.”

  “Looks like Halabi reads the news. Attia’s jumped the median and he’s headed toward Monterrey.”

  She started to speak, but Wick drowned her out. “I’ve got him in sight and he’s hauling ass. Eighty-nine miles an hour by my speedo.”

  “Mitch,” Kennedy said when she came back on. “Monterrey is an urban center with over a million people. Based on the satellite image I’m looking at, he can make it to the outskirts in less than thirty minutes. If he has a way to offload those people, they’ll scatter and we’ll never find them. Letting him reach Monterrey isn’t an option.”

  Rapp considered her words for a moment. “We’ve got an RPG. We could go for the cab and crash it.”

  “That just puts us back in the situation that we talked about earlier. The scattering of Attia’s potentially contaminated body parts. The chance of infecting animals. Possible damage to the trailer, blood, police, Good Samaritans . . .” Her voice faded for a moment. “The plan hasn’t changed. We need to get that truck over the border and into the hands of Gary’s team.”

  “From where I’m sitting, that’s easier said than done, Irene.”

  “I’m going to call the president and see if there’s anything he can do. But I’m not hopeful. Time is against us and his counterpart in Mexico is—”

  “A scumbag with the IQ of a head of lettuce?” Rapp offered.

  “I’m afraid so. I’ll get back to you as soon as I can. In the meantime do not let that truck reach Monterrey.”

  She disconnected and Coleman spoke up. “He’s got the hills in front of him. The first time he went over them, he was barely able to hold twenty-five miles an hour.”

  “Yeah, but we have the same problems at twenty-five miles an hour that we do at eighty-nine.”

  “We’ve got the chopper, a few guys, and some weapons,” the former SEAL said. “If we disable the truck and take him out inside the cab, we could keep the cops and any bystanders back for a while. Maybe long enough for Alexander to explain the situation to the Mexicans?”

  Rapp shook his head. It left too much to chance. The only thing more unpredictable than viruses was politics.

  “Fred,” Rapp said to their pilot. “Get us over those hills ahead. Let’s see if we can find something.”

  Mason pushed the chopper to its less-than-impressive top speed while Rapp examined a tractor-trailer hauling pipes on the road below. Less than a minute later, they buzzed another semi, this one pulling a trailer emblazoned with the logo of a fast-food company.

  “You got something?” Coleman said, recognizing his expression from years of working together.

  Rapp remained silent, craning his neck to keep eyes on Attia’s truck as it disappeared behind a rise.

  • • •

  “That one’s not going to work,” Rapp said, watching a tractor-trailer make its way up the steep slope they were hovering over. It was already more than a hundred yards into the climb and had barely slowed. Likely empty.

  “We’ve still got the two we saw earlier,” Coleman said. “Fast food and pipes.”

  Rapp nodded. “How’s our fuel, Fred?”

  “We’ve got another forty minutes in the air. Thirty if you count the time it’ll take to get to our closest fuel stash.”

  The semi with POLLO FELIZ painted on the trailer reached the bottom of the hill and immediately started losing speed. “That’s the one. Scott, what’s Attia’s ETA?”

  “Call it just under five minutes.”

  “And we’re still out of sight?”

  “Yeah,” Mason said. “As long as we stay low, he won’t be able to see us until he crests that last rise.”

  “Okay, then let’s do it.”

  Mason dove toward the truck, coming to a stable hover about five feet off the ground and thirty feet in front of it. The driver reacted immediately, slamming on his brakes and sounding the horn. The steep grade combined with the weight of his trailer allowed him to bring the vehicle to a full stop in seconds.

  Mason dropped the chopper to within a couple feet of the asphalt and Rapp jumped out. The driver watched what was happening through his dusty windshield, not even bothering to lock himself inside the cab as Rapp ran toward it. He undoubtedly assumed this was a cartel operation and figured that complete cooperation was his only hope for survival. No point in dying over a bunch of frozen chicken.

  Rapp yanked the door open and dragged the man out before taking his place behind the wheel. He’d never driven a truck exactly like it, but had extensive experience piloting similar rigs in Iraq and Afghanistan. Finding first gear wasn’t as easy as he’d hoped, but once he did he was able to start the slow process of getting the loaded semi back up to speed. Mason climbed again and the truck’s driver retreated to the side of the road with his cell phone already against his ear. Not that it mattered. One way or another, this thing was going public.

  In his side-view mirror, Rapp saw an off-road pickup rolling up fast behind him. It moved into the left lane and slowed, coming alongside. Bruno McGraw leaned over the empty passenger seat and shouted through his open window. “You okay, boss?”

  “Yeah. Go forward. Find me a place to turn around.”

  McGraw sped off as Rapp continued to push the semi’s motor to its limit. He was almost to fifteen miles an hour when he saw Attia barreling toward the base of the hill. He hit the slope at almost ninety miles an hour, but the effect of gravity became immediately evident. His speed began to plummet as he closed the distance to the trailer Rapp was towing. When there was about a hundred yards between them Attia pulled into the left lane to pass, probably still traveling ten miles an hour faster than Rapp. By the time he’d made it to within twenty yards, that speed differential was almost cut in half.

  Rapp kept his eyes glued to his side mirror, waiting for Attia to close to with ten feet before swerving in front of him and hitting the brakes.

  Contact was almost instantaneous. Rapp was thrown back in his seat but managed to keep his hands on the wheel and his eyes on the mirror. Attia, now aware of what was happening, tried to swerve back into the right lane, but Rapp followed the move, gearing down and feathering the brakes.

  They swerved along the road for another ten seconds, slowing to four miles an hour before the pressure on the back of Rapp’s truck disappeared. Attia had applied his own brakes and disconnected from him.

  An assault rifle appeared through the terrorist’s open window and Rapp’s side-view mirror exploded, spraying him with shattered glass. Attia continued to fire short bursts as he drifted left, managing to get a few rounds into Rapp’s cab and punch holes in the windshield.

  Rapp had had about enough of their slow-motion car chase, so he twisted the wheel, bringing his truck to a halt across the road. Attia was forced to stop but now had a better angle. He took full advantage, forcing the CIA man to the floorboards a
s he emptied his magazine into the driver’s-side door. Somewhere beneath the roar of the assault rifle, though, a deep thump became audible.

  The sound of gunfire continued, but the ring of rounds hitting metal stopped. Rapp rose from the floorboard and spotted Coleman hanging out of the side of the chopper squeezing off careful individual shots in Attia’s direction. The terrorist reloaded and trained his fire on the former SEAL. A moment later a smoke plume sprouted from the back of the aircraft. Mason lost control and the helicopter started to spin, slipping away from the truck.

  Rapp escaped through the passenger door and landed shoulder-first on the running board before dragging himself behind the truck’s front wheel. He barely made cover before Attia began spraying the cab again.

  Rapp hadn’t had time to take the truck out of gear and it idled slowly toward the steep slope on the west side of the road. He pulled his Glock and paced the front wheel, dropping to the ground when the cab started to go over the edge. Dust kicked into the air as the trailer was jacked upward and dragged down the precipice. Attia lost sight of his target and stopped shooting. Rapp took his time, bracing the pistol with both hands from his location on the ground.

  When the trailer finally cleared his position and began tumbling down the slope, he spotted the side of Attia’s face around the front bumper of his vehicle. It was all Rapp needed.

  A gentle squeeze of the trigger jerked the terrorist’s head back and dropped him to the asphalt. He still had hold of the assault rifle and Rapp sprinted toward him, getting a foot on the weapon before he could lift it again. The bullet had grazed his cheekbone, leaving a deep wound that was bleeding profusely but not serious enough to rob him of consciousness. A sound that came out somewhere between a shout and a scream erupted from his throat when he recognized Rapp.

  The CIA man pointed his pistol toward Attia’s forehead, but then readjusted his aim to the man’s chest before firing a single round. He’d already made too much of a mess as it was.

  Rapp glanced down the slope and saw Mason trying to control his descent with mixed results. Wicker and Maslick were approaching from the east but Rapp waved them back. Attia was dead but maybe more dangerous now than he had been when he was alive. Despite the fact that his heart was no longer pumping, the wound in his face continued to pour blood—likely infected with YARS—onto the asphalt.

  He leaned over the body, hesitating for a moment before grabbing it under the arms and dragging it back to the cab of the truck. By the time he got it inside, he was so covered in blood that he looked like an extra in a low-budget zombie flick.

  “Wick!” Rapp said into his throat mike. “There’s a shitload of blood on the road. You need to clean it up.”

  “Clean it up? With what?”

  “How the fuck would I know? Maybe punch a hole in your fuel tank and use that. Call Gary and ask him what’ll work.”

  “Roger that,” came the unenthusiastic reply.

  “Bruno,” Rapp said, starting Attia’s truck and putting it in gear. “Did you find me a turnaround?”

  “About two hundred yards over the top of the hill. It’s going to be about a ten-point turn, but we’ll get it done.”

  “All right. Once I turn around, we’re heading full-gas for the border. Bruno and Mas, you’re blocking for me. Try not to kill any civilians or cops, but if you don’t have any choice, do it. I’ll take the heat for any casualties. Wick. Once you’re done with that blood, head out into the desert and lay low until someone from Statham’s team can pick you up.”

  He crested the hill and saw McGraw’s truck parked sideways across the road, blocking oncoming traffic. Someone got out and motioned angrily at him but then thought better of it when McGraw pulled an HK416 assault rifle from the backseat and fired into the air.

  “Scott!” Rapp said into his radio. “You dead?”

  “Not yet, asshole. But we’re down. Fred swears he can fix it. He says thirty minutes.”

  “You have fifteen. I want that fucking chopper in the air, do you understand me?”

  “Roger that, Mitch.”

  The music that had been playing over the truck’s radio suddenly went silent and a panicked Arabic voice came on.

  “Muhammad? What’s happening? Did we hit something? Was that shooting we heard?”

  Rapp reached into his shirt pocket and retrieved a few antibiotic pills from a box soaked through with Attia’s blood. He tossed them in his mouth, breaking them apart with his teeth and savoring the bitterness.

  “Muhammad! Answer! Was that shooting?”

  Of course that asshole Gary Statham would lecture him on how antibiotics didn’t work against viruses, but screw it. The taste made him feel better. It was like soft body armor when the rifles came out. Sure, it wouldn’t save you, but there was something strangely comforting about the weight.

  CHAPTER 51

  NORTHERN MEXICO

  “WE’RE looking good,” Joe Maslick said over Rapp’s earpiece. “Road’s pretty open and still no cops. ETA to the border at our current speed is approximately one hour, three minutes.”

  “Roger that,” Rapp said, leaning forward over the truck’s steering wheel and scanning the terrain surrounding the highway. Empty.

  His speedometer was reading one kilometer an hour under the speed limit and he was keeping the vehicle steady despite increasingly powerful gusts coming from the south. Maslick was a couple of miles in front of him, completely out of sight. Bruno McGraw was visible in his side-view mirror.

  The CIA had dedicated no fewer than three dozen native-level Spanish speakers to interfering with the police in the region. They were calling in false reports, scrambling communications, and impersonating officers in an effort to create confusion. It was a house of cards for sure, but one that only had to last for a little longer.

  “We’re back in the air,” Scott Coleman said over a spotty connection. “Sorry it’s a little late. The damage was worse than it looked. If Fred’s jury-rigging holds together, we should be able to get to you in thirty. If not, it’s going to be another exciting landing.”

  “Copy,” Rapp said.

  A shrill ring filled the cab and Rapp glanced at the bloody sat phone lying next to Muhammad Attia’s body. He leaned down to reject the call like he had four times before but then Claudia’s voice came on the comm.

  “Mitch. The NSA says Attia’s phone’s ringing again. They think they can trace the call. You need to pick up.”

  He rolled the window down a couple of inches before complying.

  “Muhammad! Are you there?”

  Even on speakerphone and mixed with the wind, Sayid Halabi’s voice was unmistakable. Rapp had only heard it a few times, but the sound of it was indelibly burned into his mind.

  He downshifted, increasing the engine noise and then shouting over it. “I’m here!”

  “I can barely hear you. What’s your status?”

  It was exactly the question he wanted to hear—one that proved Halabi didn’t know what was happening. Attia hadn’t had time to get a call out and if the ISIS leader was tracking the truck via GPS, the slight detour toward Monterrey had been chalked up to a signal anomaly.

  The Agency had been concerned that the people trapped in the trailer might be able to communicate out, but the risk turned out to be low. A couple of the CIA’s tech geeks had physically closed themselves up in the back of a truck full of frozen food and confirmed that getting cell or satellite signal was virtually impossible.

  “All is well,” Rapp said in Arabic. “I’m about an hour from the border crossing.”

  “Why haven’t you been answering my calls?”

  Rapp found himself mesmerized by the man’s voice—as though it were emanating from beyond the grave. He’d dropped an entire cave system on the ISIS leader and still he’d managed to survive. Would the NSA be able to locate him? And would Rapp live long enough to look into his eyes before putting a bullet between them?

  “This is the first call I’ve received. It’s pos
sible that the cell coverage isn’t as good as we anticipated.”

  There was a brief silence as Halabi processed what he’d heard.

  “Very well. God be with you. Contact me when you’re across.”

  It was incredible how much you could get away with in the modern world by using bad cell coverage as an excuse.

  “God be with you,” Rapp responded, though it seemed that Halabi had already disconnected. A moment later Claudia came back on.

  “Mitch, do you copy?”

  “Yeah. Was that long enough? Did they get him?”

  “I’ll try to find out, but in the meantime I have Gary Statham on the line. Can you talk to him?”

  “Yeah, put him on,” he said, rolling the window back up.

  “Mitch? How’re you holding up?”

  “I’m covered in blood, I’ve got a corpse jammed under the dash, and I forgot my driver’s license. Other than that, fine.”

  “Understood. We’re at the border quietly setting up. We don’t want to tip off the Mexicans that it’s not business as usual. The border’s still open and operating normally. Still not too much activity and the Mexicans aren’t stopping anyone leaving their side. When you get here, you’ll just be waved through. Once you’re on the U.S. side, stop. And whatever you do, don’t get out of the truck.”

  “Roger that.”

  “Then we’ll see you in about fifty-three minutes. Good luck.”

  • • •

  “Mitch,” Coleman said over the comm. “You’ve got a cop coming at you on the opposite side of the highway. ETA is about two minutes, but he doesn’t look like he’s in a hurry. Likely he’ll just pass on by.”

  “Good to have you back. How’s the chopper? Is it going to hold together?”

  “Fred says fifty-fifty. But we’re due a little luck, right.”

  Just over a half an hour to the border and everything was going as smoothly as could be hoped for. Gauges all looked good and the only vehicle visible was Bruno McGraw in his mirror.

  “Cop just went by me,” Joe Maslick said. “Still normal speeds.”

  The police cruiser appeared in the distance and Rapp followed it with his eyes as it passed and began to recede in his mirror. Then, after about a hundred yards, taillights flashed.