by Vince Flynn
Checkmate. After two decades in the business, it looked like he may have finally run out of road.
• • •
The wall was nearly cut through, but it had taken more than double Azarov’s four-hour estimate. One of the patients was a former construction worker and had come up with a credible theory for the delay—the angle grinder being used was battery powered and constantly in need of recharging.
With only a few minutes left, the wind was starting to push at the loose steel flap, creating a rhythmic clanging. Behind Rapp, the people who didn’t have guns had gathered up anything they could find that could be used as a weapon. The medical personnel still looked hesitant, but everyone else seemed ready—maybe even anxious—to face the men who had helped imprison them there.
The sparks reached the ground and, a moment later, the section of wall fell inward. Everyone tensed, but to their credit, no one fired. Rapp made his way to the hole and peered out, scrutinizing the visual chaos of the munitions dump. No evidence at all of the force he assumed had surrounded them, though there was now a personnel transport vehicle parked about twenty-five yards away.
Azarov moved alongside and scanned the scene with similar intensity, but after a few seconds, just shrugged.
“Open a dialogue,” Rapp said and Azarov shouted out a few of their bullshit demands in Russian. Hopefully, a few steaks and a case of beer.
No answer.
• • •
Rapp could understand Krupin’s men wanting to play this cool, but after an hour of silence it was starting to feel a little too cool. After about thirty minutes Azarov had started making a series of increasingly graphic threats. At forty-five Rapp had thrown out one of Krupin’s fingers, still wearing a ring with the insignia of the Russian Federation on it. Still no reaction.
Two hours in, he’d had enough.
“I’m going out. You want to hang back?”
Azarov shook his head. “Waiting for death makes me nervous.”
They motioned for the others to stay and stepped through the door, Rapp holding an AN-94 and Azarov clutching the custom pistol he’d taken from Nikita Pushkin.
They moved slowly, sweeping their weapons smoothly as they searched for signs of Krupin’s men. But there was nothing. Just the sound of the wind whistling through the debris around them.
“Grisha!” Rapp called out, finally.
“I don’t see anyone,” the Russian reported.
Rapp eased toward the transport vehicle, jumping onto the running board and looking through the window. Empty with the keys hanging in the ignition. Was it a trick? Only one way to find out. He waved Azarov off before opening the door and twisting the key. If the engine bay was packed with C4, his problem of being identified would definitely be solved.
Instead of the expected pillar of fire, the engine started and began idling smoothly. He slid out of the cab and motioned for Azarov to cover him as he yanked open the canvas flap covering the back.
It was dark, but he could see well enough to know there were no soldiers there. Climbing in, he rummaged around for a few seconds before dropping back to the ground.
“What is it?” Azarov said.
“Blankets, medical supplies, food, and water.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Irene pulled another rabbit out of her hat.”
Azarov looked a little disoriented at the news. He’d expected to die and was now having trouble adjusting to the idea that his life was stretching out in front of him again.
Rapp started jogging back toward the warehouse. “Let’s move! We need to load these people up and get the hell of here before someone in Moscow changes their mind.”
EPILOGUE
EAST OF MANASSAS
VIRGINIA
USA
“YOU sure you got that?” Rapp said.
“Sure,” came Anna’s disembodied voice from the other side of the cardboard box. “It’s super light. I’ll bet it’s full of pillows. Those ones that have all feathers inside.”
He admired the bravado, but backed down the moving van’s ramp at a careful crawl.
“You know what would make this way easier?” she said.
“A horse,” he muttered.
“A horse. You know, before cars that’s how they moved stuff. In carts that they pulled.”
“I don’t think Scott would like it much if you let a horse loose in his new house.”
“I’d stop at the door!” she said, her tone suggesting he was a complete idiot. “But we wouldn’t have to carry stuff so far.”
Anna continued to extoll the virtues of pack animals as they passed through the flagstone entry and into a living room with a north-facing wall made entirely of ballistic glass. Security seemed a little lax in the design, but Coleman joked that his main strategy had been choosing a lot outside of the blast radius around Rapp’s house.
Claudia was on a ladder above the fireplace hanging a painting that had been her outrageously expensive housewarming gift to Coleman. As near as Rapp could tell, it was a bison painted by a nine-year-old with access only to primary colors. Everyone else seemed enthusiastic about it, though.
“Where’s it say this goes?” Rapp said.
Anna struggled a bit with the word scrawled on the side. “Lan . . . ding.”
“That means right here,” Rapp lied, and helped her put it on a coffee table. He’d carry it up the stairs when she inevitably fell asleep on the sofa.
Coleman appeared from the kitchen. “You get that truck emptied out?”
Despite his time living in a Latvian cave and some pretty ugly exchanges with the Russians, he didn’t have a mark on him. The only thing out of the ordinary was the fact that his blond hair was even more closely cropped than normal. Apparently, he’d gotten a little too close to a missile strike and the flash had singed the right side of his head.
“Almost!” Anna said. “But Mitch isn’t working very hard.”
“He’s not? Then why don’t we give him a break. I’ll bet you and I can finish up faster without him dragging us down.”
She seemed to agree and charged off with the former SEAL right behind.
In the ensuing—and undoubtedly short-lived—calm, Rapp grabbed a beer and fell into a plastic-covered chair. The TV leaned against the wall seemed to be hooked up so he used the remote to turn it on.
It didn’t take much searching to find a news channel covering Russia. Krupin’s death had been blamed on his cancer and Andrei Sokolov was being set up as the villain. A trusted friend who had taken advantage of Krupin’s illness to follow his own traitorous agenda. Yadda, yadda.
Prime Minister Utkin was consolidating his power faster than anyone expected. He had the full support of the Russian military brass, most of whom had opposed Krupin’s Baltic adventure from the beginning. And, of course, a little under-the-table assistance from Irene Kennedy hadn’t hurt. Another one of her many deals with devils throughout the world. Hard to complain, though. It was Utkin who had called off the dogs at the ammo dump and let Rapp transport Krupin’s lab rats across the Finnish border.
He had to hand it to Russia’s prime minister. The guy was a complete asshole, but he wasn’t the second-rater he’d looked like when he was stuck in Krupin’s shadow. Russian troops were already pulling out of Latvia and, despite the devastation left behind, he’d actually managed to make the move seem magnanimous. In fact, he was already calling the sinking of Russian naval vessels an illegal act and demanding restitution.
Rapp took a pull from his beer bottle. Fucking Russians.
He heard familiar footsteps come up behind him and then Claudia dropped into his lap.
“Did you get your painting straight?” he said in French.
“It looks fantastic! We should get something from that artist. We could hang it in your gym.”
“I assume you’re joking?”
“You’ll never know, will you?” She wrapped her arms around him and settled against his chest. “Anna and I are happ
y to have you home. I wasn’t sure this time.”
“How’s Cara?” he said, intentionally changing the subject. The op was over and he’d survived. No point in revisiting it.
She paused long enough to let him know that she was consciously letting him get away with diverting their conversation. “Good. We’re going to use Irene’s plane to transport her to Maui. I found them a beautiful house overlooking the ocean. Grisha thought she’d be happier there during her recovery.”
Rapp nodded and turned his attention to a video depicting the annihilation of the Riga airport. Coleman’s handiwork was even more impressive on TV than it had been in person. Claudia watched silently with him for a few seconds before speaking again.
“Some people are saying that this was a good thing. That NATO is already committing to better financing, better training, and better coordination.”
He shook his head. “The politicians will get sidetracked. They’ll start complaining about the money and in a few years no one will remember the invasion of Latvia any better than they do the invasion of Georgia,” Rapp said. “The Russian situation has never been complicated. They can’t be reasoned with or helped or turned into an ally. All you can do is contain them.”
He pushed her off his lap and stood, draining the rest of his beer. “History’s a broken record, Claudia. The best we can hope for is that next time it’ll be someone else’s problem.”
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Book 1
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
#1 New York Times bestselling author VINCE FLYNN (1966–2013) created one of contemporary fiction’s most popular heroes: CIA counterterrorist agent Mitch Rapp, featured in thirteen of Flynn’s acclaimed political thrillers. All of his novels are New York Times bestsellers, including his stand-alone debut novel, Term Limits. American Assassin was released as a major film in 2017.
KYLE MILLS is the #1 New York Times bestselling author of eighteen political thrillers, including The Survivor for Vince Flynn and The Patriot Attack for Robert Ludlum. He initially found inspiration from his father, the former director of INTERPOL, and still draws on his contacts in the intelligence community to give his books such realism. Visit his website at KyleMills.com.
EMILYBESTLERBOOKS.COM
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SimonandSchuster.com
Authors.SimonandSchuster.com/Vince-Flynn
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Facebook.com/EmilyBestler @EmilyBestler
Novels by Vince Flynn
The Last Man
Kill Shot
American Assassin
Pursuit of Honor
Extreme Measures
Protect and Defend
Act of Treason
Consent to Kill
Memorial Day
Executive Power
Separation of Power
The Third Option
Transfer of Power
Term Limits
And by Kyle Mills
The Survivor
Order to Kill
Enemy of the State
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Mills, Kyle, 1966– author. | Flynn, Vince, 1966–2013.
Title: Red war : a Mitch Rapp novel / by Kyle Mills.
Other titles: At head of title: Vince Flynn
Description: First Emily Bestler Books/Atria Books hardcover edition. | New York : Emily Bestler Books/Atria, 2018. | Series: A Mitch Rapp novel ; 15 Identifiers: LCCN 2018025858 (print) | LCCN 2018027307 (ebook) | ISBN 9781501190612 (Ebook) | ISBN 9781501190599 (hardback) | ISBN 9781501190605 (mass market)
Subjects: LCSH: United States. Central Intelligence Agency–Fiction. | Rapp, Mitch (Fictitious character)—Fiction. | Intelligence officers—Fiction. | Political fiction. | BISAC: FICTION / Thrillers. | FICTION / Political. | FICTION / General. | GSAFD: Spy stories. | Adventure fiction.
Classification: LCC PS3563.I42322 (ebook) | LCC PS3563.I42322 R43 2018 (print) | DDC 813/.54—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2018025858
ISBN 978-1-5011-9059-9
ISBN 978-1-5011-9061-2 (ebook)
