Order to Kill

by Vince Flynn

  Rapp studied the terrain between him and the sniper, deciding to continue south and then angle down toward him. The sun had disappeared behind the peaks to the west, but there was still enough of a glow that it was wise to keep it at his back. Combined with the foliage clinging to the sheer walls, the glare would be enough to obscure his approach. The problem was sound.

  He moved slowly, lowering himself down the steep sections with his arms in order to avoid kicking off a rock, and crawling on the flatter terrain. Despite the short distance, it took him just over eighteen minutes to close to within ten feet of the shooter. A dense bush bordered his position and Rapp stopped behind it for one last recon.

  The sniper’s position didn’t seem to have changed at all. He was statue-still, confirming his experience and discipline. Rapp slid the Glock from his jacket and inched forward. The man stayed focused on his scope, unaware that he was being hunted until the barrel of Rapp’s gun pressed against his ear.

  He jerked a bit and then went completely still again.

  “Get up. And unless you want to take the fast route down to the valley, be careful how you do it.”

  CHAPTER 3

  ILYA Gusev lit another cigarette and stubbed the old one out in an overflowing ashtray. The shades were drawn, leaving the room in darkness broken only by the glow of the computer monitor he’d paid cash for earlier that week.

  He scanned an image transmitted from a camera mounted to the back of a truck, but little had changed. The same empty dirt road cast into shadow by the setting sun. Most of the other video feeds set up in a grid across the screen were still blank. They were reserved for the men carrying out the operation and wouldn’t be turned on until it started in earnest.

  The only other feed had a space blocked out in the bottom of the monitor. He expanded it and studied the view of the operation’s entire theater being transmitted through the riflescope of a man perched high on a cliff face.

  While it had been a great honor to be chosen to lead this operation, Gusev’s initial nervousness was quickly turning to fear. The men he’d been forced to use—with the exception of the mercenary on the cliff—were completely unreliable. No, not unreliable. That implied someone who might or might not do his duty in a workmanlike manner. These men were insane. Uncontrollable and utterly incompetent.

  His own men, while not exactly army special forces, were at least known quantities. At a minimum, they could be counted on to react to a given situation like human beings. Albeit a brutal and remorseless branch of the species.

  These ISIS crazies were another matter entirely. While he understood the necessity of having a few of them involved, one or two would have been more than sufficient. Unfortunately, his pleas had fallen on deaf ears. At least he’d been able to convince his masters to give him the mercenary. If things went wrong, he would act rationally and professionally. The question was whether it would be enough.

  Gusev squinted at an empty road near the center of the scope image and poured himself a glass of vodka to calm his nerves. Who was this woman? Based on the information he’d been given, Claudia Dufort was a thirty-six-year-old French national who had been provided a generous trust fund by her grandparents. Other than that he knew little. Based on his surveillance, he could only say that she was strikingly beautiful, did not hold a regular job, and had a young daughter.

  She seemed to have no ties to crime or politics. No history that would generate powerful enemies. This begged the question: What was it about the woman that he didn’t know? It seemed certain that she was not the simple wealthy single mother she presented. Who was she really? Who had she harmed?

  Gusev took an unusually small sip of his vodka, cognizant that he needed to keep his wits about him. In the end, the woman’s identity was irrelevant and he was undoubtedly better off not knowing. All he needed to do was succeed at the task given to him. If everything went as planned, the rewards would be limitless. Unfortunately, failure would be punished just as lavishly.

  The scope image shook and the Russian focused on it again. The mercenary behind it, a young American, was one of a new generation of assassins. Not terribly experienced, but well trained and possessing the technological skills necessary to operate in a world that transformed itself almost hourly.

  What had drawn Gusev’s attention was less the image itself and more the sudden violent shake of it. Kent Black was nothing if not disciplined. His uncanny ability to lie completely motionless for hours on end was one of the reasons he’d been selected for this mission.

  The dark feed from the body cam the American was lying on began to move as he slowly rolled over. Gusev felt a surge of adrenaline when a pair of boots came into focus. Black wasn’t alone on the ledge. Someone had managed to climb to his position unnoticed and come up behind him. The camera swept upward, displaying the shadowed outline of a Glock and then a face that was lit just well enough to be recognizable.

  Mitch Rapp.

  Gusev stumbled backward, nearly pitching over his chair. He knew the face from years ago. It had been burned into his mind from a hazy black-and-white photo taken just after Rapp had executed seven Russians involved in selling arms to Hamas. What the fuck was the CIA man doing here? What connection could he possibly have to a young French woman living in South Africa? Gusev tried to calm himself but found it impossible. What should he do? Was it possible to call off the operation? Would the ISIS people that had been forced on him even follow that order? What if Rapp simply took Black’s weapon and position? He could take out the entire team with no difficulty at all.

  Fear quickly turned to panic. Gusev wondered frantically if Rapp knew of his involvement. Or the identity of his employer. Was the CIA man alone or did he have a team?

  The Russian spun toward the door, his instinct for self-preservation overwhelming him. After a few jerky steps, though, he stopped. It was impossible. Where would he go? It wouldn’t matter. He would be a hunted man. Better to fall into the hands of the Americans—even Rapp—than into the hands of the man who would come for him if he ran.

  Gusev went for the secure phone next to the monitor and began to dial, a sense of dread descending on him. He couldn’t be blamed for this, he told himself. He hadn’t been involved in any of the planning. In fact, he knew very little about the operation and its goals beyond the specific set of tasks he’d been charged with. His responsibilities were a relatively simple matter. No one had even hinted at the possibility that there would be resistance that amounted to anything more serious than the child throwing a tantrum.

  He was nearly finished dialing when the on-screen image shook again—this time even more violently. His thumb stopped, hovering over the last digit. The video feed had turned cloudy in a way that couldn’t be explained by the encroaching darkness, and Gusev leaned in a little closer. After a few moments, the haze that appeared to be dust began to clear. What was revealed caused his breath to catch in his chest.

  Mitch Rapp was lying motionless in the dirt with Black’s knee in his back and a pistol pressed to his head.

  The radio on Gusev’s desk crackled to life and he heard the mercenary’s voice come over it.

  “Eagle to base.”

  The Russian didn’t respond. He found it impossible to process what was happening. Mitch Rapp, feared by even the most powerful men in the world, had been taken by a thirty-year-old contract killer.

  “Eagle to base,” Black repeated.

  “This is base,” Gusev responded with a shaking voice. “What is your situation?”

  “An armed man came up on my position. I’ve subdued him.”

  Gusev watched as Black grabbed the CIA man by the hair and twisted his head so that it would display on the monitor. “Can you identify him?

  Gusev fell into a chair, his legs suddenly too weak to support his considerable weight. The young American didn’t know who he was dealing with. That he had unwittingly done what so many men before him had died trying to accomplish.

  “What happened?” Gusev aske
d numbly.

  “Whoever he is, he’s quiet as hell and can obviously climb. The cliff face behind my position is loose and I put a remote charge in it for just this kind of situation. He was standing right in front of it when I triggered it.”

  “Is he . . .” Gusev’s mouth went dry for a moment and he wet it with a quick swig of vodka. “Is he dead?”

  “Nah. Just unconscious. You want me to finish him?”

  The Russian considered the question for a moment. “Would it be possible to get him down alive?”

  “This wasn’t part of our deal.”

  “I’ll provide compensation that you’ll find more than generous.”

  “In that case, yes. If he wakes up and can walk. There’s no way to carry him, though. Are we continuing with the op? Seems like we’ve been compromised.”

  “We’re moving forward,” Gusev said, trying to contain his excitement. Rapp dead would be an enormous prize. But alive? The man’s knowledge of CIA operations was second only to that of Irene Kennedy. There was no way to overestimate his value to Gusev’s employer. What rewards would he reap for succeeding beyond anyone’s wildest imagination? For capturing the man that everyone considered invincible?

  “He is extraordinarily dangerous,” Gusev said into the radio. “If you can get him down without taking any risks, do so. If there is any sign of a problem, kill him immediately.”

  “Understood.”

  “Dufort and her daughter should be only a few minutes out. Can you subdue him and still carry out your part of the mission?”

  “Not a problem,” Black said with confidence that would undoubtedly disappear if he knew who was lying at his feet. “I’m out.”

  CHAPTER 4

  CLAUDIA repeated her new last name to herself, trying to get it to sink in. She spoke quietly, keeping the volume of her voice lower than that of the breeze blowing through the vehicle’s open windows.

  “Dufort, Dufort, Dufort . . .”

  It wasn’t as though this was her first alias—she’d had plenty of occasions to use them in the years she’d handled logistics for the professional assassin she’d been married to. This felt very different, though. Those had been nothing more than a stack of IDs and credit cards to be used for a few days and then carefully destroyed. Claudia Dufort wasn’t a convenient fiction to be used while Louis completed a contract. It was who she was now. Claudia Gould was gone forever.

  She spoke a little louder, glancing over at her daughter in the passenger seat to make sure she didn’t wake her. On the other hand, maybe she should. Anna had taken to sleeping too much in recent weeks. At seven years old, she was struggling to fully grasp the ramifications of her father’s death. The permanence of it.

  And then there was the new home, the new school, and the new friends. In the end, though, she was young and adaptable. In fact, Claudia had noticed that Anna’s French accent was already taking on a few South African nuances.

  So, sleeping too much or not, Anna would ultimately be fine. But what about her mother? Would she learn to inhabit her new life as comfortably?

  It was an open question at this point. Over the past few months, Claudia had been able to immerse herself in the details of her new identity, country, and lifestyle. But now things were settling down and that left her with too much free time.

  She had more money than she could spend in two lifetimes, so a job wasn’t necessary. But what else would she do? She needed time to spend with Anna and had planned a series of adventures for them that included everything from classical music concerts to sandboarding the dunes of Namibia. It wouldn’t be enough, though. After years of working with one of the most successful contract killers in the world, baking cookies and setting up playdates seemed too radical a change.

  She needed something challenging but not all-consuming. Something exciting but that left her hands free of blood. Or maybe even something that helped clean them a bit. With the poverty that plagued Africa, perhaps going to work for one of the many NGOs in the area would be an option. Her talents would be a good fit, and her money would make her appealing to any charity she approached. Better yet, she could involve Anna. A reminder that not all little girls lived in historic homes surrounded by vineyards.

  Claudia tapped the brake when she saw the glow of taillights through the dusty air. As she got closer, she started to make out the back of one of the lumbering cargo trucks that supplied the local winemakers. Passing was impossible on the winding dirt road. The massive armored SUV that Mitch had left in her garage was nowhere near nimble enough.

  He was paranoid like everyone else involved in his business. Having said that, while she doubted any of her husband’s enemies would bother to come looking, carjacking was rampant in South Africa. News reports and casual warnings from locals had been enough for her to put off trading in the thinly disguised tank for one of the Audi crossovers she’d been coveting.

  Claudia closed to within five meters of the truck and then held that distance. The turn into her property wasn’t far, and, there was no reason to hurry. No operations to check up on. No money to launder or bank accounts to conceal. And no one waiting other than two guard dogs that had yet to warm up to her but couldn’t get enough of Anna. Another gift from Mitch.

  Ahead, the rear doors of the truck suddenly flew open and Claudia slammed her foot down on the brake pedal before instinctively throwing a protective arm in front of her daughter.

  “Mom?” Anna said groggily. “What’s going on?”

  “It’s fine,” Claudia responded, letting the distance between her and the truck lengthen. “Go back to sleep, honey.”

  Nothing seemed to be falling out of the vehicle but even the upgraded headlights of her SUV couldn’t penetrate very far into the trailer. She honked a few times but the driver didn’t seem to notice. A moment later, the loading ramp rolled out and slammed into the ground.

  This time Anna came fully awake.

  “Mom?” she said, rubbing her eyes. “What’s wrong with that truck?”

  “I don’t know, honey. I think the latch on the doors is broken.”

  The metal ramp continued to bump along the road, making enough noise to wake the dead. The night was starting to cool and the driver had his windows up. If she had to guess, he was probably also wearing headphones. It was a common practice and one of the many reasons that South African roads were some of the most dangerous in the world.

  A moment later the roar of an engine behind them drowned out the rattle of metal and Claudia’s eyes darted to the rearview mirror. There were no lights and she was confused until the front grille of some kind of military vehicle got close enough to be illuminated in her taillights.

  Anna screamed when it rammed them and Claudia jerked the wheel left, trying to steer the SUV into the vines that lined the road. Nothing happened. She shot a glance in the direction of her side-view mirror and saw that a steel rail similar to a forklift’s had embedded itself in her rear quarter panel. She hit the gas but the vehicle behind matched her speed, preventing her from breaking free.

  Claudia locked up the brakes and twisted the wheel until it stopped, but they kept moving inevitably forward. The front of her SUV dipped violently when the front tires were ripped from their rims and she finally released the wheel to reach for her panicked daughter.

  They hit the ramp and were forced into the truck’s trailer, traveling along it until they slammed into the back. The SUV’s air bags went off, shoving Claudia back into her seat and dazing her for a few seconds. By the time she managed to shake off the effect and make sure Anna was all right, footsteps were ringing against the steel floor of the trailer.

  She looked back and saw a Humvee with a massive grille that included not only the forklift structure that had sandwiched the rear of her SUV but also a number of barbed spikes that had penetrated her rear hatch. The Humvee had no doors, which allowed its two Middle Eastern occupants to easily escape it. One was moving toward her while the other went for the rear of the truck to retract t
he ramp and close the doors.

  The space was too narrow to allow her to open her door, but she wouldn’t have even if she could. The armor Mitch had built into the SUV was all that was between them and the men outside. Anna tried to grab hold of her, but Claudia pulled away, reaching for her cell phone. No signal. The metal box they were trapped in was blocking reception.

  The vehicle lurched and she looked up through the moonroof to see a man with a thick beard and wide grin. A moment later, he was in motion, swinging a sledgehammer down with a deafening crash that was immediately lost in Anna’s terrified scream.

  The reinforced glass held, but there was no way to know if it would continue to do so. Claudia unlatched her daughter’s seat belt and pulled her close, trying to quiet her sobbing as the man continued to attack the glass.

  After about a minute, the first crack formed. The man howled with glee but Claudia couldn’t bring herself to look up. Her terror turned to a sensation of paralyzing guilt deeper than anything she’d ever felt before. She deserved this for the things she’d done in her life. But not Anna. She was innocent.

  CHAPTER 5

  NEAR MASERU

  LESOTHO

  RAPP tried to wrench himself into a more comfortable position as he squinted into the light bleeding through the trunk lid. His hands were taped behind him, making it impossible to see his watch, but the fact that the sun was coming up suggested that he’d been crammed into the tiny space for a good ten hours. Karmic payback for all the people he’d stuffed into similar trunks over his career.

  The road had become noticeably worse over the last hour and the vehicle dropped into yet another rut, ramming his head into what was probably a lug wrench. By his count, it was the twelfth time that had happened, and with every repeat, his anger grew.

  Rapp knew pretty much everything there was to know about the shooter he’d found on that cliff face. His name was Steve Thompson, though these days he answered to Kent Black. Apparently he felt the new name gave him more gravitas. His father had been an abusive survivalist who years ago had taken his young son to a remote corner of Montana in preparation for the end of the world.