Kill Shot

by Vince Flynn

  CHAPTER 35

  THEY stood in silence for what seemed like an eternity, but was in reality only a prolonged moment. The van pulled around and Rapp saw a man get out. He was one of Hurley’s ex–Special Forces guys, and by the look on his face he was none too happy about what had just transpired. It looked as if he was yelling at Victor, and Rapp could tell by his body language that he was on high alert. Victor said something that appeared to calm the man down, and then the two of them grabbed Luke’s body and carried it to the van. They both disappeared for a moment, and then Victor stepped back into sight. Rapp saw him raise his right arm, smile, and then there was a quick flash followed a few seconds later by another.

  Greta asked, “What just happened?”

  Rapp shook his head. “I think he just shot the two men.”

  “Who?”

  “The two men he was with.”

  “Why?”

  “That’s a good question. I think I’m going to go find out.” Rapp already had his gun in his right hand. “Greta, remember the plan. Go out the back door, get in your car, but don’t start it. Wait for five minutes and not a second longer. If I’m not there, leave. I will either call you at the hotel, or meet up with you by tomorrow morning.”

  “But—”

  Rapp cut her off. “Don’t! You promised me. No more questions. I can take care of myself.”

  Greta bit her lower lip and nodded. She looked out the window, and Rapp could tell by the expression on her face that something was going on.

  Rapp turned to see what she was looking at. Two men were coming up the sidewalk with their pistols drawn. Rapp knew what would happen next. Victor was not the kind of guy who would surrender. “Come on.” He grabbed Greta by the arm and pulled her toward the door. “Go straight to the car. Don’t stop for anything, and if you don’t hear from me by tomorrow morning, I want you to tell your grandfather what you saw. Tell him it was Victor.” He got the sense she was in a bit of shock so he added, “Now tell me what you’re supposed to tell your grandfather.”

  “It was Victor. Victor killed everyone.”

  “Good.” Rapp opened the door and they stepped into the hallway. She had tears in her eyes. “There’s no time for that, honey. Don’t worry, I can kill that fucker and still get to the car in five minutes and I don’t even need my good hand.” Rapp kissed her on the forehead. “I’ll see you in five minutes.” Rapp pushed her on her way. “Get going.”

  He then turned and raced down the stairs. There were ten steps and then a landing and then ten more steps. Rapp burst through the first set of doors, and beyond the glass of the second doors he saw Victor with his damn gun pointed at what he assumed was a man on the ground. And he had that stupid grin on his face again. Rapp wondered what kind of nut job took such perverse joy in killing another person. Rapp knew he didn’t have time to strategize or get cute with this, so he burst through the second set of doors, raised his pistol, and fired. The silenced round whistled through the air and Rapp heard it slam into the building across the street.

  “Victor, you asshole,” Rapp yelled as he bounded down the steps and squeezed off another round. This one hit the side window of the car in front of Victor. “You killed the wrong guy, you stupid prick.” Rapp hit the sidewalk and cut to his right. He had surprise on his side, but he needed to get Victor away from the men or man whom he was about to execute. Victor had dashed out of sight but even so Rapp squeezed off two more rounds. One of them hit the building and the other skipped off the trunk of the car Victor was hiding behind. Rapp moved down the sidewalk, putting more distance between himself and Victor and keeping his mouth shut. It worked. A gun popped up above the trunk and Victor fired three shots in the direction of the front door of the apartment building. Rapp swung around the back end of a big four-door Mercedes sedan and lay down under the trunk.

  With his gun stretched out in front of him, he searched for movement under the cars across the street and to his left. Rapp saw part of a leg next to a rear wheel. He sighted in on it, fired two shots, and was rewarded with a howl and a string of expletives. Rapp rolled out from under the trunk, ignored the pain in his shoulder, and sprang to his feet. He looked over the trunk of the Mercedes and then darted across the street, moving one more car to his right. It was the basic rule of a gunfight: Fire and move.

  Rapp found refuge between a small two-door Peugeot and an even smaller Ford Fiesta. This next part was the biggest gamble. He was about to place himself in a shooting alley with Victor, and he had no idea what kind of weapon the guy was carrying. Waiting was not to his benefit, though, so he shaded his right eye around the rear bumper of the Peugeot. Victor was moving as fast as his crippled leg would carry him toward the van. He was already two-thirds of the way there and a good eighty feet from Rapp.

  Rapp broke from his cover and gave chase. After about ten steps he passed the two men on the ground, and he could see Victor was going to beat him to the van by a good distance, so he raised his gun and started firing one steady round after another. Victor’s running crouch made him a poor target. Rapp expended his last round and was in the midst of changing magazines when Victor dove into the open side door of the van.

  Rapp swore to himself as he seated a fresh magazine and released the slide. He pressed forward and then skidded to a stop when the black barrel of a submachine gun popped out of the side door of the van. The night erupted with the loud blasts of over twenty bullets fired on full automatic. Rapp dove for cover behind a parked car and made himself as small as possible. Several more bursts were fired and then Rapp heard the sound of an engine revving and wheels squealing on the pavement. Rapp reacted quickly and moved into the street. He sighted in on the back left door of the van and started unloading rounds as fast as he could fire them. A body fell from the side door of the van and a second after that he was empty. The van turned right and disappeared. Rapp eyed the body, but didn’t bother to investigate. It was one of Hurley’s SF guys.

  Rapp turned and ran back to the two men on the sidewalk. They were both in suits. The one on the right was shot in the face and obviously dead, but the one on the left was alive and gasping for air. A few feet away his FN pistol lay on the ground. Rapp grabbed it and stuffed it in his pocket. Then he knelt next to the man and started searching for his wound. He heard it before he saw it. A chest wound makes a strange sucking noise that once heard, is never forgotten. The man was wearing a black dress shirt and a dark gray suit. Rapp grabbed his shirt and ripped it open. The wound was right there on his right side of his chest. He might live, but not without some immediate medical attention.

  Rapp remembered the small medical kit that he carried. The pull to flee was strong, but he knew if he didn’t help this guy, there was a good chance he’d die. Grumbling and fighting the urge to run, he pulled the pack from the small of his back, set it on the ground next to the man, and went to work. He had only one packet of Quickclot. He ripped open the top and held the open packet right above the entry wound. He sprinkled half the powder around and down the hole and used his fingers to push as much of it into the wound as possible. Rapp then rolled him onto his stomach and yanked his jacket and shirt up around his shoulders. He put the rest of the powder in the exit wound and grabbed a square adhesive bandage with a plastic backing. He placed it over the hole, flipped him onto his back, and bandaged the entry wound. Rapp listened for a moment and was relieved when the sucking noise subsided.

  Sirens were suddenly wailing in the distance. Rapp got close to the man’s face and looked into his eyes. He saw genuine fear. In French, Rapp told the man, “You’re going to be all right. Do you understand me?”

  The man looked into Rapp’s eyes and gave him an anemic nod while weakly trying to grab his arm.

  “Don’t give up. They’re going to be here any minute.” Rapp looked at the ground and saw his bloody fingerprints on the remnants of the medical supplies. He frantically collected the backings and spent packages and stuffed them into his pack. A leather ID case that had fal
len from the man’s jacket caught Rapp’s eye. He grabbed it and flipped it open. He didn’t recognize the seal but he sure as hell had heard of the Direction Générale de la Securité Exterieure. The DGSE was France’s version of the CIA. “Victor,” Rapp muttered, “what in the hell have you done?”

  The agent clutched at Rapp’s arm and said, “Don’t leave.”

  Rapp stuffed the ID case in his jacket. The sirens were growing louder. “You’re going to be fine,” Rapp said, even though he wasn’t sure he believed it. “Don’t give up. They’ll be here any minute, and remember . . . the asshole who did this to you . . . his name is Victor.”

  Rapp looked up, and there, standing thirty feet away, were two men. The one on the right was short and stocky with thick black hair and a beard. The man on the left was tall and skinny with sandy blond hair. They were staring right at him. Rapp could hardly shoot them, so he did the only thing that seemed normal. He yelled at them. “Get over here! Hurry up! I need your help.”

  The tall man hung back, but the stocky man rushed forward.

  “Get down here,” Rapp said, “and put pressure on this bandage. Hold his hand and keep talking to him.” The man knelt and did as Rapp instructed. The tall man was still standing a good five paces away. Rapp screamed this time. “Get over here! Take that scarf off and put it under his head. Lay your jacket over his stomach.” Rapp stood. “Hurry up! I’m going to run and get help.”

  And with that Rapp was sprinting down the street, hoping that the two men were not good at remembering faces. Just before the next intersection he crossed the street and kept moving at a full clip. The sirens were growing louder, but they were still far enough away, so he kept running full speed. He’d grabbed the gun because he could use the extra firepower, but he knew he might have to dump it sooner than he’d like. The same was true with the ID case, but he had to clean it first. He couldn’t leave his fingerprints on it.

  Greta’s car was three blocks away, and up ahead there looked to be a crowd of people gathering. They had probably come outside to see what the commotion was. Rapp stopped running. There was no quicker way to attract attention than running in street clothes at night when gunshots had been fired. The sirens were much closer now. At the next intersection a police car came skidding around the corner. Rapp’s training kicked in. He stopped and stared directly at the two policemen in the front seat. That’s what innocent people did. Guilty people looked away, hid their faces, and even ran.

  He spotted Greta’s Audi and had no idea if his five minutes were up or not. Some internal clock told him they were, but he also knew Greta would sit there for an hour. She’d disregard everything he’d told her and hold on to hope. He traveled the last block at a brisk pace and tried the passenger door, but it was locked. Greta practically jumped out of the front seat. She unlocked the door and Rapp climbed in.

  “Let’s go,” Rapp said, breathing heavily. “Drive the speed limit and act normal.”

  As they were pulling out, another police car and an ambulance raced past them, going in the other direction. Rapp thought of the DGSE agent and prayed that he would make it. Two more police cars raced past them.

  Greta kept her eyes on the road until they’d passed, and then she looked over at Rapp. “You’re bleeding.”

  Rapp looked down at his hands. They were covered in blood. Both literally and figuratively. “It’s not mine.”

  “Did you . . . did you kill someone?”

  He shook his head. “I don’t think so.”

  “Then where did the blood come from?”

  “A man I tried to save.” Rapp stared straight ahead. “We can talk about this later. Right now I need to think.”

  “Where should I drive?”

  “Just keep heading east. We’ll find a new hotel. Sit tight for the night and figure out what to do next.” He sank down in his seat. Kennedy had warned him to stay away from the apartment. She’d tried to save him, but someone else had ordered his death. What a bunch of ungrateful bastards, Rapp thought. They have no idea who they’re fucking with.

  CHAPTER 36

  THE eastern horizon was orange with the premorning light. Kennedy stood on the concrete tarmac and watched the private jet bank and settle in on its final approach, the sun glistening off its skin. She was in a dark brown pantsuit and cream-colored shirt. The morning air was a bit chilly, but it didn’t faze her. She was too preoccupied with what had transpired the previous evening. It had been an unmitigated disaster that could mushroom into something serious enough to set the CIA back decades. There would be hearings on Capitol Hill and then trials in federal courthouses. Good people would lose their jobs and more than likely a few more people would die.

  As Kennedy watched the plane touch down her mind was swimming with details, innuendos, and God only knew how many deceptions. Stansfield would want answers, and unfortunately she was running short on them. She had been in the country only a few hours when Hurley had called her with the news that the safe house had been compromised, and worse, that there had been casualties. He then said the words that she still found impossible to believe.

  “It was your boy. He ambushed them.”

  Kennedy replied by saying, “I thought your men had been pulled?”

  “They were, and that was when your broken toy struck. I warned you this would happen.” In typical Hurley fashion he hung up on her before she could ask more questions.

  Kennedy had no idea who was dead, or how many, and after an hour of trying to find answers, she gave up and drove to the safe house.

  The police had cordoned the entire block. At each end of the street curious neighbors and reporters pressed against the barricades. It was easy to tell the reporters from the locals as they carried Dictaphones or steno pads and some of them had cameramen attached at the hip. Unlike the locals, they were shouting questions at the police. Kennedy stayed away from the press and began canvassing the locals. Her French was flawless, so no one gave her a second glance. The stories varied from person to person, but a common theme emerged; at least two people were dead and another had been rushed to the hospital. The bombshell came later when she overheard two police officers talking. The man who had been taken to the hospital was DGSE. If this was true, Kennedy instantly understood the dire implications. It was highly unlikely that a Directorate agent had accidentally stumbled upon a gunfight in this little Parisian enclave. Kennedy could think of only two reasons for the DGSE to be on this block. They’d either discovered the safe house or followed Hurley’s men. Either road led back to the CIA.

  Kennedy returned to the Embassy, called Stansfield on a secure line, and told him everything she knew. He listened patiently, then told her he was moving up his travel plans. Stansfield immediately understood if he couldn’t put a lid on this, and do it quickly, it would irreparably damage U.S.-French relations. Kennedy then sought out Hurley and the sparks started to fly. Over the ensuing hours it seemed that he lost it every thirty minutes. Hurley was stuck at the Embassy, knowing if he left it was highly likely that his new friend Paul Fournier would snatch him off the street and conduct a thorough, not very gentle interrogation. After his sixth or seventh tirade, Kennedy had reached her limit. She told Hurley, “I’ve listened to you for the past two hours, and I haven’t said a thing. But let me give you a little advice. You’re putting a lot of faith in a man who has some serious flaws. Chet Bramble is no saint. He’s a narcissist and a proven liar, and I don’t believe anything he says, so here’s the deal. If you’re right . . . then I’m done. I’ll resign and you’ll never have to deal with me again. But if you’re wrong, you’re done. Your ranting and your raving and all your other bullshit, it’s over. You resign, you walk away from all of this, and you admit to me and everyone else who was involved in this that it was your fault for not supervising your stupid goon.” Kennedy didn’t stick around for his answer.

  She left the basement office of the Embassy and moved to the rooms that were reserved for CIA operatives in search of a bed. She fou
nd one, but she didn’t sleep. The best she could do was close her eyes and ask herself the same questions over and over. In the end she knew there was only one way she would get any answers that would satisfy her. She needed to sit down with Rapp and hear his side of the story.

  The next morning, after having slept only a few hours, she was standing on the flat tarmac hoping Stansfield would for once put Hurley in his place. Three black Range Rovers were idling bumper to bumper. The Gulfstream IV taxied to a stop 150 feet from the trucks. The stairs were lowered and a customs agent walked out to meet the plane. The head of Stansfield’s security detail presented him with the proper paperwork. The man looked at the forms and then the passports and applied the appropriate stamps. Two secured diplomatic pouches were presented and the man gave them a consenting nod. Kennedy kept looking over her shoulder to see if some of their friends from the DGSE had shown up.

  Stansfield finally appeared with another security officer behind him. He was in a suit and tie and a gray trench coat. The boot at the rear of the plane was opened and four small roller bags and some black cases were offloaded by the crewmember. A fourth man exited the plane and Kennedy tried to figure out why he looked familiar. Stansfield spoke to him briefly and then he walked over to Kennedy.

  Kennedy opened the rear door of the middle SUV. “Good morning, sir.”

  Stansfield nodded, climbed in, and closed the door. Kennedy climbed in the other side and the head of Stansfield’s detail got in the front seat. The other bodyguard got in the first vehicle and the fourth man got in the last vehicle with the luggage. The convoy started to roll toward the gate.

  The deputy director of Operations leaned over and peered through the front windshield. “Any new fallout?”

  “It’s hard to say. A lot of people have been asleep and are going to wake up to some rather ugly news. The Directorate will be understandably upset.”