Kill Shot

by Vince Flynn

  Of all the possible assets, Rob Ridley was probably the one who had the most practical knowledge of how Rapp operated. Kennedy and Hurley knew his movements well enough, but neither of them would be pulling surveillance duty. Hurley was too impatient. He needed to be moving, or at least have the option to move, especially after his abduction in Beirut. The man would never admit it, but there were some psychological scars that he still hadn’t dealt with. The most likely option would be Ridley, who specialized in surveillance and advance work. He and his people had done the advance work on the Tarek hit and then vacated the city the day before Rapp had killed the oil minister. Rapp didn’t know where they were headed, but Hurley would have had a day and a half to turn them around and get them back into position. It was possible, but Rapp had a feeling it was someone else.

  It would all come down to the call he’d made to Kennedy and whether she was able to convince Stansfield that he’d been set up. If she had failed, Rapp had little doubt who was in the van. Hurley would be calling the shots and he would have his pet dog, that asshole Victor, on duty. Rapp had spent very little time at the farm over the past year, and the year before that they had gone to great lengths to keep his identity a secret from the other visitors. Over that time he’d seen a little over a dozen faces. Men who had returned from operations overseas and guys who were trying to make the team. One of those faces was already gone, killed in Beirut. Rapp didn’t like to think about that day. It was too stark a reminder that his life could go the same way in the blink of an eye.

  Kennedy had said she was coming to Paris. How that would play out was obvious. Hurley would be pissed, and he’d tell her to go back to Langley and sit behind her desk and do it in very insensitive, colorful language. The only way she could make any headway was with Stansfield calling the shots. That’s what it came down to. He was the only man who could rein in Hurley.

  Rapp stood behind Greta’s shoulder and watched Luke inch closer to the front steps of the apartment. He took a step back and moved to the other side of the window. The van was easy to spot. It was a black Mercedes-Benz Sprinter van. Boxy and tall, it offered the men inside room to move around and they were fairly common in most big cities, as workers used them to navigate the narrow, congested streets. What made this one stand out was the roof rack. The rack had a ladder and several tubes that looked like they could contain anything from rolled-up wallpaper to flooring. In truth they were part of a customized surveillance system that concealed cameras, antennas, and directional microphones.

  His money was on Victor, but beyond that he had no idea who would be on duty. More than likely they had pulled assets from stations across Europe, although most of those men would be attached to embassies with official covers, and exposing them to someone like Victor would be a big gamble. Rapp put himself in Hurley’s shoes and decided he’d never do it. Hurley would grab some of his ex–Special Forces assets, guys who didn’t have squeamish stomachs and knew how to keep their mouths shut.

  “Greta,” Rapp asked as he kept his eyes on the van, “what do you see?”

  “The man in the hat. Nothing else.”

  Rapp stepped back two steps and crossed over to Greta’s side of the window. Luke was roughly thirty feet from the front door. Rapp scanned the area beyond to see if there was any movement. There was none, so he went back to the other side of the window to keep an eye on the van. He thought he saw the van rock slightly but it was hard to tell from this distance.

  “He’s going up the steps,” Greta announced.

  Rapp didn’t bother looking. He was too focused on the van.

  “He’s inside.”

  In that moment, it occurred to Rapp that they might be waiting in the apartment. His eyes darted from the van to the second floor across the street. He counted three windows in from the corner. The shades were drawn on both the third and fourth windows. There was no way of telling if anyone was in there. Rapp grew a little tense. If they grabbed him, and interrogated him, they might come to the conclusion that Rapp was nearby watching them. “Greta, remember what I said to you. If I tell you I want you to head to your car, I don’t want you to argue with me.”

  She took her eyes off the building. “But I don’t understand why you wouldn’t come with me.”

  “We’re not going to argue about this,” Rapp said in a firm tone. “I need to know you’re going to do exactly what I want you to do when I ask you. Your safety is my first priority. If you’re not willing to do what I ask you to do, then you might as well leave right now.”

  Greta shook her head and frowned. Taking orders was not her strong suit.

  Rapp turned his eyes back to the van. Kennedy had told him they had the safe house under surveillance. The guys were either asleep in the van or they had men inside the apartment. If that was the case, Rapp expected to see some lights come on any second. Luke would be in for one hell of a surprise and likely a two- or three-day debriefing where he would literally have the shit scared out of him. Rapp didn’t feel good about it, but Luke would survive. His story would check out because Rapp planned on calling Kennedy and telling her what he’d done. They would be pissed that he had exposed a safe house by giving the keys and codes to a drug dealer. Rapp’s defense would remain consistent. Someone on their end had betrayed him. He’d been set up, and until he knew who he could trust they would have to excuse his paranoia.

  Rapp checked his watch. Luke had gone through the front door nearly forty seconds ago. He looked down the length of the street at the Mercedes van and he finally saw some movement. The van rocked and then a moment later someone was moving up the sidewalk in a hurry. He was crouched down and running. Rapp caught glimpses of the man as he passed in between cars, and then as he drew closer he got a more consistent view.

  It was Victor. Even in the poor light of the hazy street lamps he was easy to make out. He was half man, half gorilla, lumbering down the street as if he might run through a brick wall if he needed to. Rapp didn’t like Hurley, but he respected the salty bastard. Victor was another matter. Rapp loathed him, couldn’t understand why he hadn’t been drummed out, and spent a fair amount of time analyzing all the different ways he’d kill him if he was ever given the chance.

  Rapp watched him hug the building as he got closer to the front door. The building across the street was a near mirror image of this one. There was a garden level on the main floor and each unit had its own entrance and a small patio that was four feet beneath the sidewalk and fenced off by a black wrought-iron fence and gate. The first floor was elevated above the sidewalk by eight feet, so the front steps were fairly steep and led to a pair of double doors. Victor positioned himself exactly where Rapp expected. He sank into the shadows beside the front stoop. Rapp squinted but it did no good. Victor was dressed in black. He was a shadow among shadows.

  Rapp checked the lights in the apartment. They were still off. He looked at his watch. Luke had been in the apartment for close to two minutes. Rapp had timed it in his head. If he did exactly as Rapp ordered, he could be in and out in less than five minutes. Something told Rapp, though, that Luke might take a little extra time to see what else he could take.

  “Who is that man?” Greta asked.

  “The one I warned you about . . . Victor.”

  Things settled into a slow pattern as Rapp continued to check the van, Victor’s position, and the apartment windows. For four minutes and twenty-seven seconds nothing happened, and then suddenly the moment was upon them. The front door of the apartment building opened and Luke stepped into the night air. He hustled down the steps and turned to the right just as Rapp had instructed. Victor suddenly materialized from the shadows and fell in behind Luke, just four steps behind him. His right hand came up and Rapp immediately recognized the length of black steel in his hand as a pistol with a suppressor attached to the end.

  Rapp shook his head and under his breath mumbled, “What a prick.”

  What happened next was completely unexpected. There was a muzzle flash followe
d by Luke’s entire body being propelled forward for one more step. Then he crashed to the sidewalk face-first.

  Greta gasped and covered her mouth.

  Rapp blinked just once and reached for his gun. In that split second he realized he had just witnessed what was supposed to be his own murder, and a second after that he realized he had caused the death of a completely innocent man. The realization filled him with embarrassment and rage and the absolute conviction that he would kill Victor.

  CHAPTER 34

  BRAMBLE had already scoped out the spot. That was the way his brain worked. He was a hunter, a natural-born killer, and a badass to boot, which was why Rapp didn’t stand a chance. Rapp was a college puke who hesitated. A pussy who’d been indoctrinated into the world of political correctness. His brain was filled with too much crap. Stuff that got in the way of millions of years of predatory evolution. It was his loss and Bramble’s gain. Rapp was probably the kind of guy who puked after he killed someone. Bramble had once watched a fellow Ranger do that after a mission. He’d never lost so much respect for someone so quickly.

  The alcove next to the front steps was the perfect spot. Bramble’s heart was racing and he knew it wasn’t from the short run up the block. It was the anticipation of the kill. The adrenaline that was coursing through his veins. It was an amateur reaction and he chided himself for it. He forced himself to take deep, steady breaths. There was nothing to be tense about. His position was ideal. He was completely concealed by darkness and he was in a textbook spot to ambush Rapp when he came back out. His heart began to slow and then he realized he had a problem.

  Two actually. What would he do with McGuirk and Borneman? They were about to watch him kill Rapp, and while he could easily explain to them that Hurley had given him the kill order, the problems would pop up later, when they got back to the States. They would all be debriefed and Kennedy would lose her mind when she found out that he’d killed her baby. Even Hurley might take it badly. He despised Rapp, but he wouldn’t take kindly to one of his men initiating a kill order on his own, especially after having been told to stand down. Bramble was scrambling to come up with an out when McGuirk’s voice came over his earpiece.

  “He’s going for the safe.”

  Of course he is, Bramble thought, and then he remembered an order Hurley had given him. He panicked and asked, “Did you guys empty the safe?”

  “Why would we do that?” McGuirk replied.

  “Because I told you to,” Bramble snapped.

  “The hell you did. Todd, did Victor tell us to clean out the safe?”

  Bramble listened to the one-sided conversation and then McGuirk told him he must be sniffing glue. “You never told us to empty the safe.”

  Bramble swore to himself, looked back down the street at the van, and asked, “What’s he doing?”

  “He’s got the safe open, and it looks like he’s emptying it.”

  Hurley was going to freak. It was the first thing he’d told him to do. “Clean out the safe and don’t get any stupid ideas. Kennedy and I have an exact accounting of what’s inside,” he’d said.

  “He’s closing the safe,” McGuirk announced. “It looks like he’s stuffing a bag down the front of his pants.”

  “Shit,” Bramble mumbled. “What else?”

  “Looks like he’s headed for the door. Yep, he’s in the front hallway and headed straight for the door. What do you want us to do?”

  “Sit tight.” He was too focused on solving his problem. This was an opportunity he couldn’t pass up, and if he did he’d kick himself in the ass for the rest of his life.

  “Repeat that last order.”

  Bramble recognized Borneman’s voice. He was going to be the problem. McGuirk he could deal with. “I said sit still. We don’t want to spook him. Just be ready to pull the van up and keep giving me updates.”

  Bramble listened to McGuirk give him the play-by-play of Rapp’s exit. His chief tactical concern at this point was whether he was going to come out the same way he went in. A few seconds later Bramble got the confirmation he was looking for. He stood in the shadows, a huge smile spreading across his face. “You’re all mine, asshole.”

  He heard the door open and he began to edge forward, his right arm extended, ready to fire. McGuirk kept giving him updates and Bramble could see Rapp coming down the steps in his mind’s eye. As soon as he heard that Rapp had taken a right turn, Bramble left his spot. He knew the monitors in the van didn’t exactly offer a crystal-clear picture of what was happening on the street and he was going to use that to his advantage. He stepped into the hazy glow of the streetlights and fell in behind his prey.

  Rapp was standing right in front of him, only a few yards away and moving quickly. Bramble matched his pace, extended his gun, sighted in on the back of Rapp’s head, said, “Gun,” and squeezed the trigger. It was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. The bullet entered the back of his head and exited his face with a spray of red mist. Rapp took one more step and then collapsed face-first on the pavement.

  “Get that van up here. Chop, chop!” Gloating, Bramble stood over the body and said, “Ding dong, the witch is dead.” Behind him he heard the engine rev and the van race up the street. A second later it skidded to a stop on the other side of several parked cars and the side door sprang open.

  Borneman jumped out, and the first thing Bramble noticed was that he had a gun in his hand. He ignored the gun and pointed at the corpse. “Grab his feet. We need to pack him up and get out of here before the cops show up.”

  “You killed him,” Borneman yelled.

  “That’s what this was all about. Sorry I couldn’t let you in on it, but Stan wanted it that way.” Bramble bent over and grabbed the back of the jacket with his left hand. “Come on, grab his feet. We need to get the hell out of here.”

  Borneman hesitated for a second and then slid his gun into the back of his waistband. He grabbed both ankles while Bramble picked up the front end with one arm, as if picking up a suitcase. The corpse sagged between them. Bramble led the way between two parked cars and heaved the head and torso into the van.

  Bramble looked at McGuirk, who was behind the wheel, and ordered, “Grab him by the hands and pull him all the way in.” While McGuirk jumped out of the driver’s seat and started tugging on the corpse, Borneman swung the legs into the back of the van. The motion left him leaning forward into the open cargo door. Bramble took advantage of the opportunity. He stepped back, swung his pistol up, placed it a few inches from the back of Borneman’s skull, and pulled the trigger.

  Borneman’s upper body fell into the van. Bramble looked at a wide-eyed McGuirk and said, “God, I’m good.” And then he shot him in the face. The velocity of the bullet caused McGuirk to stand up for a second, but it wasn’t enough to knock him over. He hung in the air motionless for a second and then he fell face-first on top of the first corpse.

  Bramble was grinning from ear to ear. He’d get a medal for this one. Rapp had gone haywire and killed both McGuirk and Borneman, but he’d stepped in and killed the little shit. And then to really show how big a superstar he was, he’d managed to contain the fallout by stuffing all three bodies into the van before the locals showed up. This was the CIA, not the FBI. His job was to destroy evidence, not to preserve it. There would be no crime scene investigators and detectives. Hurley would take him at his word and be grateful that he’d cleaned up the mess.

  Borneman’s legs were still hanging out of the van. Bramble was about to grab them when a voice called out to his left. He slowly turned his head and saw two men in suits coming toward him. They were fifty to fifty-five feet away and their guns were drawn. Bramble knew they were close to fifty feet away because he’d fired over twenty thousand pistol rounds at that distance. He was willing to bet these two hadn’t fired a fraction of that amount.

  Bramble’s French wasn’t great, but he got the sense they were asking him to put his hands up. He obliged by putting his left hand up a little ahead of his righ
t and then as he began to raise his right hand he casually swung his gun into position and fired two quick shots. The relative still of the night air was shattered by one of the men firing his gun. Since the weapon wasn’t suppressed, it cracked like a thunderbolt. Bramble heard the snap of the bullet as it whistled harmlessly past his head.

  Both men were down, and Bramble did what he often did in the aftermath of a near-death experience. He began to laugh. Not a giggle or a chuckle, but a belly-splitting roar of a release of tension and an absolute euphoric embrace of victory. He was the king of the hill, the last man standing, a man among children. Five bullets and five bodies. “Shit,” Bramble said, “they should write a song about me.”

  Bramble heard a moan and turned to see that one of the men fifty feet away was moving. “Damn it.” He liked the idea of five bullets for five men. It sounded like an Eastwood movie. Six bullets for five men had no ring to it. No flow. Bramble was pretty sure he’d hit the first guy in the face. He’d rushed the second shot a bit. It was always possible that the guy had a mortal wound and was simply in his final death throes. He started walking toward him and remembered that he had his knife on him. If he needed to he could save the bullet and slit the guy’s throat. It would still be five bullets for five men—kind of.

  Bramble was right about the first shot. He’d caught the guy square in the middle of the face, right between his nose and upper lip. “Now that’s a hell of a shot.”

  The second man was clutching at his chest. His pistol was five feet away, but it might as well have been a mile. There was a little blood at the corner of his mouth and he was looking up at Bramble with pleading eyes. Bramble smiled at the man, raised his gun, and was about to pull the trigger, when for the second time in as many minutes a bullet zipped past his head.