by Vince Flynn
As if on cue the phone bleeped and the screen lit up. The assassin flinched slightly and was embarrassed. Control of his nerves would be the difference between life and death. The screen told him his target was less than a minute away. It also gave him the make and model of the vehicle. As if by reflex, he picked up the M-4 and snapped the suppressor onto the end of the barrel. His eyes looked over the case, taking a quick inventory. The magazine in the rifle was the only one provided. No spares in the event of a shootout. He let out a deep sigh and the thought occurred to him that the room itself could be wired for sound and image, or worse yet, booby-trapped to explode after he’d completed his mission. That idea more than anything caused him to go through the motions. He placed the tactical sling over his head and stepped a few feet back so that no one on the street could see him. He brought the rifle up and tested the sling as if he was trying to find the right amount of tension. He eased his eye in behind the viewfinder and placed the red dot on the front door of the clinic. His mind was already counting down the seconds to Rapp’s arrival. Everything at this point was natural, pounded into his brain through repetition. Physically he was doing everything that he would normally do, and if he was being watched there would be no reason for his employer to think he was onto him. He lowered the rifle and kept his breathing easy. The shot would happen during a brief window—maybe five seconds as Rapp left the vehicle and made his way to the door.
While all looked normal physically, his mind was behaving quite differently. It was churning through every available option over and over, trying to calculate which avenue would lead to his best chance for survival. Suddenly the money didn’t mean very much. Oh, he’d keep the $1.5 million, and if he made it out of this hellhole alive, he’d do his best to track down this asshole who was setting him up. He wondered if Yuri was in on it. His agent, a former Russian SVR intelligence officer, was more than capable of doing what was best for himself. That was why the assassin had never met him face-to-face and communicated with him almost entirely through email. All of this would have to be dealt with later. For now, he needed to stay focused on saving his own hide.
The Toyota SUV rolled into sight beneath him and stopped at the curb directly in front of the clinic. The assassin brought the rifle up and thanks to the modern technology of his EOTech sight was able to keep both eyes open. He timed his next move perfectly. All four doors of the SUV opened and men piled out, all of them wearing baseball hats. Even though he couldn’t see Rapp’s face, he knew which one he was within a split second. He slid the red dot in the center of the viewfinder onto the middle of Rapp’s back and moved his finger from the trigger guard to the trigger. He watched Rapp cover the ground between the car and the front door, smoothly following him with the weapon.
Suddenly, the assassin’s head jerked toward the door as if he’d heard a noise in the hallway. His finger slid off the trigger and straightened. He moved quickly to the door and listened for any other sound. After a few seconds he returned to the window only to see that Rapp was already in the building. Two of his men were standing on the sidewalk, keeping an eye on the car. He did his best to look disappointed. The assassin picked up the camera, popped out the memory card, and slid it in his pocket. He didn’t want to lug the camera around.
Not knowing what he would find in the hallway, he unslung the M-4 and then pulled the cord on the backpack that converted it into a tactical vest. He wanted quick access to one of his stun grenades if anyone was waiting for him in the hall. After grabbing the M-4, he moved to the door and did not hesitate. He yanked it open and took a quick look. The hallway was empty, so he moved with speed to the stairs and down one flight. As he pushed through the main door onto the sidewalk he was fully committed. The M-4 was slung with the butt just under his right armpit and the suppressor down by his left thigh. His right hand gripped the handle but his finger was clearly visible and off the trigger. As he moved onto the street he looked to his left and then his right and all his fears were validated. Parked at the end of each block were police trucks filled with officers in full combat gear. When he looked across the street at Rapp’s men he saw that they had also noticed the men. The one with the beard noticed him first. He casually changed his stance and brought his rifle into a position where he could quickly dispatch this potential threat.
The assassin let his weapon hang from his neck, raising both hands to shoulder height, his palms out. When he was twenty feet away, he kept moving and said, “I need to speak to Mitch.” The familiarity in his voice seemed to relax the two watchdogs a bit. The assassin closed the distance to within six feet and then stopped. He looked to his right and then to his left. One of the men whom he had seen earlier was talking on a cell phone and began yelling and motioning at the police officers to get out of the truck. A second truck with six more men raced to a stop behind the first. The assassin resisted the urge to raise his rifle and shoot the spotter with the cell phone.
Instead, he turned to the two big Americans and in near flawless English said, “I think you guys better call for some backup.”
CHAPTER 16
THE sparse waiting area held four people, a dog, three cats, and a bird. The bird was in a cage behind the receptionist’s counter as well as the two cats that were sleeping in wicker baskets. A little boy not more than eight held the leash of a small pooch while his mother sat protectively next to him. An elderly man with a cigarette dangling from his mouth cradled a sickly-looking black cat that was missing large clumps of hair. The old man looked depressed. Neither adult made eye contact, but the little boy gave Rapp a friendly smile. Rapp returned the gesture with a nod of thanks. Most of the people in Kabul tried to ignore foreigners, and Rapp didn’t blame them one bit. Their country had been at near constant war for thirty years. There were others who stared you down as if they wanted to kill you, and a small minority who would smile and maybe even say hello.
Rapp approached the blue Formica reception desk. A nice young woman in a black hijab looked up at him and asked in English, “How may I help you?”
“Do I look that American?” Rapp asked, trying to seem offended.
“No, but he does.” She pointed over Rapp’s shoulder at Coleman.
Rapp turned around and looked at his friend’s blond hair and blue eyes. Coleman’s Northern European ethnicity made it nearly impossible for him to blend in on ops like this. “Yeah,” Rapp said, “he works for the United Nations. I think he’s Swedish or something like that. I can’t understand a thing he says. At any rate, we were hoping to speak with Dr. Amin.”
“I’m sorry, but he’s at the university right now.”
“Do you expect him back this afternoon?”
“Normally not, but if we’re busy he stops by on his way home. May I ask what you need to discuss with him?”
Rapp hesitated. He was not used to sharing information, but this woman seemed nice enough, and she might be able to save him a step. “It’s a rather important matter.” Rapp retrieved his Joe Cox credentials emblazoned in gold with the seal of the United States and the all-important, somewhat vague words Federal Officer, raised and embossed. “We’re trying to track down a missing person. We were told that he brought his dog to your clinic about a month ago. He was an American and his dog was a Rottweiler. Do you remember anyone like that?”
She shook her head. “No, but I’m only here part-time. Do you have a name?”
Rickman had more than a few aliases as well. Rapp had no idea if he had used one, so he started with Rickman’s real name. The receptionist spun her chair around and crab-walked the chair over to a row of file cabinets. Rapp looked over his shoulder to find Coleman with his arms folded across his chest and shaking his head.
“Swedish? What in the hell is wrong with you?”
Rapp started to laugh, and then his eyes caught something beyond the glass doors. His left hand slid between the folds of his jacket and around the grip of his 9mm Glock. The change in Rapp’s demeanor didn’t go unnoticed by Coleman, who did a c
asual 180-degree turn to see what was going on. Rapp could scarcely believe his eyes. It was as if a ghost had walked out of his not-so-distant past. Nearly four years ago, to be exact. He watched the man walk past Reavers and Maslick, stopping briefly to point at something down the street. In Rapp’s mind it was a move to distract them, but Rapp could not be distracted. Not by this man. He drew his gun and lined the sights up on the head of the man who had killed his wife.
The receptionist said something, but Rapp didn’t hear her. He was too intent on the man coming through the door. The only thing that prevented Rapp from shooting him on the spot was that he had his hands in the air in what seemed to be a genuine posture of surrender.
Coleman said, “Is that who I think it is?”
“Yes.”
One of the glass doors opened and the assassin stepped slowly into the lobby. He glanced at Coleman and then focused on Rapp. “We need to talk and we must do it quickly.”
“Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t shoot you.”
Louie Gould kept his hands in the air and gave a slight shrug. “I can give you several, but since time is of the essence, let’s start with the fact that I didn’t shoot you in the head when you got out of your truck a minute ago. Even more important, I think you’re going to need my help in the very near future. Possibly the next thirty seconds.”
Despite the anger that was coursing through his veins, Rapp’s pistol was extremely steady. “What in the hell are you talking about?”
Gould took a quick look around the waiting room. He would have preferred to have this discussion in a more intimate setting, but there was no time for that, so before he got into the details he looked at Rapp’s blond-haired friend and said, “I told your guys outside that they should call for backup but I don’t think they took my advice. Trust me, you are going to want to make that call and do it quickly.” The assassin then said to Rapp, “I still take the occasional contract.”
Rapp shook his head. “That wasn’t part of the deal.”
“I know,” he said sheepishly, “but we needed money and I have been very selective.” He shook his head, showing the first sign of frustration. “We can discuss this all later. The important thing is that I took a contract from an anonymous employer. My instructions were to fly into Kabul yesterday. About ninety minutes ago I received instructions to come to an office building on this street. When I arrived, this rifle was waiting for me along with a photograph of my target.” Gould pointed at Rapp. “You.”
“You’re full of shit.”
“I wish I was, but that’s not the real problem.” Gould kept his hands up while he took a step back to see if he could see what was going on at the one end of the block. As he did so, one of Rapp’s men came through the door.
It was Maslick. “There’s something going on out here. Both ends of the street are blocked by the police and they’ve got about ten guys at each end that look like they’re planning some kind of an assault.”
Gould confirmed with his own eyes what the man had said. “They’re here to kill you. And me, too, I suppose.”
A single rifle shot cracked the relative calm of the afternoon. The four men in the lobby were all combat veterans and none of them flinched. They all looked at Reavers, who was standing on the sidewalk. Before any of them could react, a fusillade of bullets rang out. The glass doors shattered and when they looked up, Reavers was falling to the ground.
Coleman shouted above the roar of the rifle shots, “Suppressive fire? I’ll grab him.”
Rapp moved to his left and pushed his back against the wall while Maslick moved to his right and did the same. Both men began squeezing off well-aimed shots at the officers at the opposite end of the street. Coleman holstered his gun, yanked open the door, and grabbed Reavers by the tactical vest. The big man didn’t budge on the first try so Coleman put all of his muscle into it. Bullets were zipping past his head in both directions. He backpedaled into the reception area and immediately noticed the streak of red blood on the white tile floor. Out of the line of direct fire he knelt and tried to find where he’d been shot. His hands slid over Reavers’s body, checking for blood. Within seconds he found two fatal wounds. The first was in his hairline on the top right side of his head and the second was in the groin. Reavers’s brain was gone, but his heart was still pumping, and from the looks of the pool of blood on the floor, his femoral artery had been hit.
In battle, the passage of time slowed for Coleman. In a brief instant he acknowledged that his friend was gone and that now was not the time to deal with it. That would come later—anger, frustration, genuine sadness, and some laughs, to be sure, but right now was about survival.
“Reavers is dead,” Coleman announced above the roar of fire. He grabbed his friend’s M-4 rifle and started stuffing the extra magazines into his vest and cargo pockets.
Rapp stole a quick glance at Reavers’s lifeless body, and then he noticed the frightened look on the little boy’s face. He yelled to Coleman. “Get these people back into one of the exam rooms!”
Gould showed up at Rapp’s side and dropped to one knee. He began firing well-aimed single shots. In less than five seconds he counted three kills with as many shots. “We need to put someone on the roof.” After a couple more shots he yelled, “And you might want to see if you can get someone to come help us!”
“Scott,” Rapp barked without taking his eyes off the street, “call Mike and tell him what we’re up against. Tell him we need a Quick Reaction Force ASAP or we’re all dead.” Rapp stepped back, ejected an empty magazine, and popped in a fresh one. Yelling back to Coleman he added, “A gunship would be nice!” Rapp popped off a couple of rounds and saw a man go down. Then, looking down at Gould, he said, “Get up on the roof and see what you can do. I’ll join you as soon as I can. How much ammo do you have?”
Gould shook his head. “Just this one thirty-round magazine, and then I’m down to my pistol.”
Rapp noted the make and model of the pistol in Gould’s vest. “At these distances I bet you’re pretty good with that thing.”
Gould nodded. “The best.”
“We’ll see about that. Grab one extra magazine for the M-4 from the blond guy, and then get your ass up on the roof before we’re all dead.”
CHAPTER 17
COLEMAN had stashed the old man, the mother and son, their animals, and the receptionist in one of the exam rooms down the hall. Rapp assumed there were some nurses and at least one vet somewhere in the building, but there wasn’t a lot he could do about their safety other than keep the local police at bay until the cavalry arrived. As best he could tell, three more pickups filled with combat-clad cops had arrived. It begged the question, could that many Kabul police officers be corrupt?
The front entrance to the clinic was a tangled mess of broken glass and chipped stone. The door, and the two side windows, were completely blown out, and the metal frame was twisted and punctured from bullet strikes. Rapp was about five feet from the edge with his back pressed against the wall. Maslick was standing directly across from him. They were alternating darting out and taking a few shots to keep the cops from rushing the door. So far they were succeeding, but just barely. Rapp watched Maslick eject a spent magazine and insert a fresh one. Their advantage in this fight was their ability to hit targets with consistent, frightening accuracy. Coleman, Maslick, and Rapp had all fired thousands of practice rounds a month with pistols, carbines, and long rifles. Rapp had no idea how much Gould practiced, but his fee was likely a good predictor of his ability. Even though they were outgunned, this was all going to come down to ammunition.
Rapp knew a little about how these men were selected and trained. Most of them were simply trying to make a living and were extremely brave, as the Taliban often targeted them and their families. He found the idea that they were all corrupt to be a bit of a stretch. It was more plausible that it was someone in their chain of command who was corrupt. Rapp thought of Commander Zahir down in Jalalabad. Until recently the m
an had been a terrorist and had a bounty on his head, courtesy of the U.S. government. Not only was the bounty gone, but the man was now on our payroll. How many assholes like Zahir were now wearing the uniform of the Afghan Police? Innocent or not, these cops were trying to kill Rapp and his men, so he was left with no alternative if he wanted to survive.
A fresh barrage of bullets slammed into the front wall of the building, peppering Rapp with tiny pebbles. He darted out, fired two well-aimed shots, and ducked back into the lobby as a dozen-plus bullets raked the spot where he’d been standing less than a second ago. Rapp shook his head with anger. That had been closer than he would have liked. He looked across at Maslick again and noticed a splotch of blood on his right shoulder. This position was quickly becoming too hot to defend. Sooner or later one of them was going to pop out and take a bullet in the head. Rapp made a snap decision and ordered Maslick to the roof.
Maslick tried to argue, but Rapp made it clear there was no time for debate. As Rapp began his retreat from the lobby he passed Reavers’s body. He noted the Sig P226 pistol still in the man’s thigh holster. Kneeling, Rapp grabbed the gun and the three spare magazines. The anger came boiling to the surface and Rapp said to himself, “I swear to God I’m going to kill these idiots who came up with this reintegration crap.” The image of Sickles popped into Rapp’s mind and it suddenly occurred to Rapp that Sickles had probably recruited the man who was now trying to kill him. Rapp popped in his earpiece and looked up Sickles’s mobile number. He tapped the number and listened as it began to ring. Rapp left the lobby and entered the hallway that bisected the building. Down at the far end Coleman was stacking and shoving equipment against a side exit.
Taking up position against the doorframe so he could cover the front entrance, Rapp began to wonder if the wall he was behind was thick enough to stop a .223 round. The answer was likely no, so as Darren Sickles’ voice came on the line, Rapp walked back into the lobby. “Hey, dickhead,” Rapp barked above the roar of gunfire, “did Mike tell you the shitstorm we’re in?”
