Mitch Rapp 13 - The Last Man

by Vince Flynn

  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 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?”

  Rapp holstered his gun, stepped behind the reception desk, and began yanking up on the heavy Formica countertop.

  “He just told me. I have no.”

  “Shut up and listen to me.” Rapp gave the top one more shove and it broke free. “This is your fault. You recruited these scumbags, and you were dumb enough to think you could trust them.” Rapp grabbed the top and lugged it back into the hallway. “You are going to get on the fucking phone, and you are going to call every last one of them, and you are going to tell them that I’m going to place a million-dollar bounty on every one of their fucking heads, and I’m going to be the one collecting it.”

  Rapp tossed the heavy top up against the doorframe and leaned against it. He drew his weapon again, feeling a lot better about his position, but not so good about Sickles, who was yammering about how he didn’t understand any of this. That it simply didn’t make sense. With more important things to do than listen to Sickles’s senseless speculation, Rapp yelled, “Darren, I don’t give a shit what you think! Just get on the damn phone and make it clear to these assholes that I’m going to hunt them down and kill them.” Rapp was tempted to tell Sickles that he was going to kill him as well, but it was likely to be an extremely counterproductive threat, so he bit his tongue and hung up.

  Rapp knew what their next move would be, and it likely wouldn’t take long. The U.S. had outfitted the Afghan Police with takedown gear that included battering rams, breaching shotguns, ribbon charges, and bulletproof riot shields. It was the bulletproof riot shields that worried Rapp the most. All a thoughtful commander needed to do was grab a couple of shields and do the old Roman tortoise. The first man in the line would hold the shield directly in front of him and the second man would hold the shield above them, protecting them from the men on the roof. They’d rush the front door with one or two lines of men. If that happened, Rapp knew they would overpower him and his little 9 mm pistol in a matter of seconds. The thought of dying like that got Rapp thinking, and he yelled down the hall, “Scott?”

  Coleman shoved a big metal exam table against his pile and turned to look at Rapp. “What?”

  “You come across any oxygen tanks?”

  “Yeah.” Coleman didn’t have to be told what to do. He ducked into one of the rooms and came out with two green tanks. He dragged them down the hall by the necks and dropped them at Rapp’s feet.

  Rapp kept his eyes and his pistol on the door and asked, “Anymore?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Put ’em in front of your pile down there and get your ass up on the roof.”

  Coleman shook his head. “You get up on the roof. I’ve got this handled.”

  “Stop wasting time. Drop the tanks down there and get moving. They’re probably running low on ammunition.”

  Coleman reluctantly dropped two more tanks by the side door and then stopped to offer Rapp Reavers’s M-4 rifle.

  “Nope . . . no need for that down here. This is all close quarters. Get your ass up on the roof and buy us some time.” Coleman started to leave, but Rapp grabbed him by the arm. “What did Mike say?”

  “He said he’ll get some shooters here as soon as is humanly possible.”

  “Call him back and tell him we’ll take anything. Get a Little Bird to give us an ammo drop and maybe a SAW or two.” Rapp glanced back at the front door. “Maybe some grenades, too.”

  “I’m on it.” Coleman had his phone out and was calling Nash again. “Call if you need help.”

  Rapp knew he’d be making no such call. He’d hold them off as long as he could and then, if he was still alive, he’d limp his way up to the roof. What a shitty way to die, Rapp thought to himself. All of the close calls he’d had and it was going to come down to being killed by men who were supposed to be his allies. He heard Stan Hurley’s gruff voice telling him to suck it up. Now was not the time to think about death unless it was the other guy’s mortality that you were focused on. Hurley was fond of saying that no matter how bad things got there was always a way out. Rapp clung to that idea, as there was an ebb in the volume of shots being fired—just a pop here and there instead of the sustained blister of rounds smacking into the building.

  Unfortunately, Rapp knew what that meant. It was too soon for Nash or Sickles to have been able to call off the dogs, so it was more likely that someone in a command position with half a brain had showed up and was now getting the men ready for an organized assault. Rapp holstered his gun and dragged the two oxygen tanks into the lobby. He stopped about six feet short of the front door, laid the tanks on their sides, and then drew his gun. Lest they think no one was guarding the front door, he slid along the wall until he had an angle to shoot from. He squeezed off two shots and then two more and ducked back into the lobby. He was pretty certain the first two shots had hit one man, but the second two had bounced harmlessly off a clear Plexiglas riot shield. Rapp went back to his position in the hallway with the foreboding feeling that this might be one situation he wasn’t going to be able to get out of.

  Chapter 18

  Gould popped the hatch and had to will himself onto the flat roof. Somewhere out there, he feared, a sniper was still lurking. He rolled onto his side, the M-4 cradled protectively in both hands, and then crawled his way to the parapet of the roof. There was a two foot stone parapet that provided sufficient cover. He carefully brought his head above the lip and scanned the buildings across the street. With no shooters in sight, he got up on his right knee and brought the butt of the rifle up to his right shoulder. Gould swung the muzzle over the edge of the roof, sweeping it from left to right with both eyes open, the big square EOTech aperture bringing his targets clearly into view.

  The spotter in civilian clothes was standing behind one of the police trucks with his cell phone held to his left ear.

  “There you are, you little prick,” the assassin said with a smile creasing his lips. Gould placed the red dot right over the cell phone, let loose an even exhalation, and then casually squeezed the trigger. The rifle jumped a quarter inch, but Gould never lost sight of the target. The heavy bullet shattered the cell phone and then exploded through the man’s head, spraying blood, bone, and brain matter in a mini mushroom cloud onto the men and street just past him.

  Three police officers were left sta
nding in shock, gaping at the man who had just been urging them into action, and then three seconds after that they were all lying on the street dead. Gould worked his targets methodically, keeping the rifle in single-shot mode. It took the police approximately ten seconds to realize there was a new threat on the roof, but it had cost them dearly. Seven officers had been dispatched. Gould was about to swing his rifle around so he could go to work on the cops at the other end of the street when the air around him exploded with the sharp snaps of bullets. He dropped flat behind the lip as bullets began to thump into the stone like a jackhammer. It took a second to sink in, but Gould realized that his position had been discovered and that the men at the other end of street had something more to bring to the fight than the relatively light M-4 rifle. Since everything they had was provided by the Americans it was likely that it was the heavier-caliber M249 Squad Automatic Weapon or SAW. The machine gun fired the heavier 5.56 x 45 mm NATO round and was effective out to one thousand yards. Gould guessed that they were firing from no farther than one hundred yards.

  The machine gun continued to rake the edge of the roof, raining down shards of stone on Gould. For the moment all Gould could do was take cover beneath the edge of the roof and try to move to a different position. On his own, this was pure suicide. Gould began to wonder why he was sticking around. He had done his job and warned Rapp. True, the act had not been entirely selfless, as it had gotten him out his own hot corner, but now he was in an even less desirable situation.

  He glanced across the roof, wondering what lay on the other side. He couldn’t tell if there was a small gap between the two buildings or if they shared a wall. Worst case, he’d have to jump a gap. He could then scurry across that roof and find access to the street. The police would be so focused on this gunfight that he was sure to go unnoticed. Gould made up his mind. He’d done enough, and martyrdom really didn’t suit him, so it was time to bolt before another hundred cops showed up and brought this building down around them.

  It was time to save his own ass, so without further internal debate Gould rolled onto his stomach began to crawl toward the far side. Halfway across one of Rapp’s men popped out of the hatch and asked, “Where you going?”

  Gould ignored the question and said, “They’re raking the parapet with machine-gun fire.”

  The man nodded, looked over at the parapet and asked, “Which direction is it coming from?”

  Gould pointed to their left.

  “All right, you get back over there near the middle and when I give you the signal, stick your rifle over the parapet. Don’t bother firing any shots until I’ve taken care of the machine gun. Go.” Maslick watched the man crawl away and then scrambled over to the corner on all fours.

  Once in position, he checked his weapon and visualized what he was about to do. He then whistled and signaled for the man to make his move. Maslick watched as the black barrel went over the parapet. A split second later the position was hammered with incoming fire. Maslick shouldered his weapon and popped over the parapet. Below him, no more than fifty yards away, six green police pickups were blocking the intersection. Men were huddled behind each, but in the bed of one of the vehicles, a man was crouched down with an M249 in his hands and the bipod resting on the roof of the cab. Maslick brought the man into the center of his sights just as the machine gun ran out of ammunition. The police officer had turned to reach for another canvas ammunition drum, when Maslick shot him in the head.

  The fact that Maslick had just killed someone who was more than likely on his side was irrelevant to the former Delta Force operator. The only thing on his mind, as he began shooting one man after another, was his friend Mick Reavers.

  Chapter 19

  The ebb in the relative number of shots fired at the front entrance was bringing on a bit of an adrenaline hangover for Rapp. This wasn’t the first time he’d experienced the physiological problem. It had happened many times before. It started with a dry throat and sour stomach. For most people it eventually led to a headache, sometimes one that was debilitating, but Rapp got only the dryness and the upset stomach. His hands used to get a little shaky and his vision would blur at the far edges, but he’d mastered those two crucial problems. Either through willpower or through repetition, his body was no longer as shocked by these near-death experiences.

  Rapp’s left ear was ringing from all of the shots that had been fired. Whenever possible, he operated with a suppressor. He did so for multiple reasons that included stealth, increased accuracy and the fact that he didn’t want to be deaf by the time he was fifty. Because of the loud reports from all of the gunshots, he almost missed the beeping tone in his right ear that was coming out of his Bose Bluetooth earpiece.

  Reaching into his pocket to look at the caller ID seemed like too much effort, so he tapped the button on top of the device and said, “Rapp.”

  “It’s Mike. I just spoke to Scott. We haven’t been able to get anyone at the Afghan Police to cooperate, but I’m on my way with some boys from JSOC.”

  “I hope by chopper.”

  “Yeah . . . We’ve got two Black Hawks and two Little Birds.” “ETA?”

  There was a long pause, and then, “They’re firing up the birds right now. We hope to be airborne in the next sixty seconds. Pilot told me we should be on station two minutes after that. You’re not far.”

  Rapp pushed back from the wall and took a deep breath. He didn’t like the silence and suddenly felt the need to see what was going on out on the street. As he moved slowly across the lobby he asked, “Have you guys discussed your ROEs?” Rapp knew this was going to catch Nash off guard. ROEs, or rules of engagement, within the military, and especially Special Operations, were very specific. They outlined who could be engaged and how, and Rapp very much doubted the brass was going to let their shooters come in and open fire on the Afghan Police no matter how fucked up the situation was.

  “No, we haven’t.”

  “Let me save you guys the headache of trying to sort this mess out. We have police at both ends of the street. My guess is when you guys show up they’re going to think you’re here to help them. Hopefully they’ll stop shooting. Put the Black Hawks over them and hit ’em with the rotor wash and then bring the Little Birds in to pick us up on the roof. I don’t think they’ll shoot at you, but I can’t make any promises.”

  “I’ll pass it along. Anything else?”

  “Yeah. If I don’t make it out of here, there’s something you need to know. Does the name Louie Gould ring a bell?”

  There was a moment of silence followed by, “The man who killed your wife?”

  “That’s him. Somebody hired him a few weeks ago to fulfill a contract in Kabul. He says he didn’t know it was me until this morning. He was set up in an office building across the street and was supposed to shoot me when I showed up to see the vet.”

  “How the hell . . .”

  “Exactly . . . do you want to tell me how the fuck somebody knew two weeks ago that I would be in Kabul talking to this vet when I didn’t even know I’d fucking be here?”

  “I have no idea, but no more of this bullshit about not making it. We’ll be there in minutes, and after I pull your ass out of the fire again, we’ll figure out what in the hell is going on.”

  “I’ll tell you what in the hell is going on. Somebody set my ass up. Rick was the first domino and they knew how we would react. We’re being played.” Rapp carefully moved along the wall until he was just a few feet from the blown-out entrance.

  “Is Gould still with you?”

  “Yeah, he’s on the roof.” The only police that Rapp could see were taking cover behind their vehicles. “Did Scott tell you we lost Reavers?”

  “Yeah. I’m sorry about that.”

  Rapp flexed his knees and then stuck his head out so he could see down the length of the front of the building. He ducked back just as a flurry of shots rang out. What he saw scared him more than the shots. “Mike,” Rapp yelled as he hustled across the lobby, “the
y’re getting ready to rush the building with riot shields. You guys better haul ass or there’s going to be no one left to save.”

  “We’re getting in the birds right now. Hold on for a few more minutes.”

  Rapp didn’t bother to answer. He moved in behind his piece of Formica and switched his pistol to his right hand. He counted the seconds in his head, figured it would take the cops another eight seconds to shuffle down the sidewalk in their tight formation. He extended his arm, sighted the Glock in on one of the tanks, and then decided it would be better to pull the gun in close and cradle the grip with his left hand. The first shield came into view, the man behind it clasping the shield with his left arm and holding a pistol in his right hand. Three men followed, all with shields, two protecting their flanks and the fourth holding his shield above their heads. When they reached the front door, Rapp slid his head back behind the Formica, closed his eyes and squeezed the trigger. The 9 mm round punctured the first tank and the explosion was instantaneous.

  Rapp attempted to pull the gun back behind his relative cover, but there wasn’t enough time. The energy from the shock wave hit him like a massive hammer. It slammed into the countertop and shot Rapp across the hall and into the far wall. Rapp bounced off the wall and slid to the floor with the countertop and a good portion of the wall falling on top of him. His hearing was completely gone. He tried to open his eyes but felt himself slipping away, falling into a deep hole and then everything went black.