Order to Kill

by Vince Flynn

  “Shut up,” Rapp said without looking back. “You signed on for this.”

  Fucking politicians. They were all the same. Tough as nails when they were barking orders from a distance. But if there was any danger of blood splashing on their five-thousand-dollar suits, they shrank away.

  “How many?” Rapp said, pulling the sleeve from the man’s mouth.

  “What? I don’t know what you’re—”

  The sleeve went back in and Rapp reached for the man’s ring finger, snapping it at the middle joint. The sound of shattering bone was surprisingly loud in the concrete cube of a room. Shirani screamed through his gag, but Rapp didn’t immediately remove it. Better to let the pain work on him for a while.

  Kennedy was increasingly convinced that fissile material had been taken from more than just the warhead Craig Bailer had examined. And Rapp found it hard to swallow that Shirani would be completely in the dark about terrorist groups tinkering with his nukes. The man was a scumbag and a thug but not a complete idiot. If he’d gotten even an inkling that his arsenal might be compromised, he’d order a comprehensive assessment.

  “How many of your warheads are missing their fissile material?” Rapp repeated, pulling the sleeve out again.

  “I don’t—”

  He replaced the gag and this time targeted Shirani’s index finger. He needed to get this moving. The Pakistani had more fingers than Rapp did time.

  “Mitch . . .” Chutani said. “He may not know. We—”

  “I said, shut up!”

  Rapp pulled the gag out again and the man coughed violently, apparently on the verge of vomiting. He’d undoubtedly done much worse to people who had opposed him over the years. Based on the look in his eyes, though, he didn’t much like being on the receiving end.

  “You can make this stop, General. How many?”

  “Six!” he managed to get out. “There are six including the one you have.”

  “Who’s responsible?”

  “We don’t know. I didn’t bring in the ISI, so we’re doing the investigation internally. Not Taliban. We know that. My people suspect ISIS. We don’t have much penetration into their network.”

  “Where are they? Where are the nukes that have been compromised?”

  “We’ve moved them to a nearby missile facility in order to examine them.”

  Rapp pressed the barrel of the gun harder against Shirani’s forehead.

  “No! I told you what you wanted to know. If you kill me, you and Chutani will never get past my men alive.”

  “You should have never agreed to let Chutani’s people take the east side of the runway, General. I’ve got five drones circling overhead and they’re going to rain hell down on your forces while the president’s men take cover behind the buildings. Then it’ll just be a matter of cleaning up the mess.”

  The story was only partially true. The drones were there, but Rapp had no idea if the wrecked buildings would hold up to the firestorm they were capable of unleashing.

  “There is an alternative,” Rapp said.

  “What?”

  “You take me to those nukes and resign.”

  “I won’t.”

  “Don’t be stupid, General. You have what? A hundred and twenty million dollars squirreled away in accounts all over the world? Take your family and your mistresses to London. Buy a mansion and live the good life. Or die here. Now. In this shithole.”

  Shirani looked at the president. “Are you sure about this? Are you sure that your position is strong enough to survive the retaliation of the army?”

  Chutani shook his head. “I’m not sure, Umar. But you’ve lost control of our nuclear arsenal and put weapons-grade plutonium in the hands of fanatics. One way or another, this must end. Our country and our arsenal must come under responsible civilian control. If we both die here in an effort to achieve that, so be it.”

  CHAPTER 28

  PRESIDENT Chutani had returned to Islamabad, leaving Rapp with a contingent of his top men. The string of armored vehicles containing them stretched out in front of and behind the one he was sharing with General Shirani. The road was well maintained but the sand from the empty plain had blown across it in places, occasionally bogging down the convoy.

  Now, though, their destination was finally in view. A half mile away, Rapp saw a massive building shimmering in the heat. It was unremarkable in every way—a squat rectangle built from local materials and ringed by a generic chain-link fence. According to Irene Kennedy, the American intelligence community had no knowledge of the facility’s clandestine purpose and identified it as a legitimate textile manufacturing plant.

  The motorcade eased to a stop and Rapp watched through the windshield as Shirani’s chief of staff leaned out of the lead car to bark orders at a guard in civilian clothing. A moment later, the convoy was progressing into the courtyard.

  Shirani was sweating profusely next to him, causing stains to spread down the sides of his uniform. Rapp had straightened the soldier’s broken fingers, but he was still in a fair amount of pain.

  Or was it more than that? The motorcade consisted of thirty of Saad Chutani’s elite guard, but Shirani would have at least that many loyal army regulars inside. Was he thinking about abandoning his promise to quietly resign in favor of taking his chances in an all-out firefight?

  They pulled up in front of a peeling door and stepped out into the heat. Along the line of vehicles, Chutani’s men did the same, keeping their weapons out of sight. Rapp followed Shirani into a tiny office that stank of the chemicals used on the factory floor. The man standing behind the only desk was wearing the collared shirt and bland tie of a factory manager, but neither was effective in disguising his military background. He gave a crisp salute and pressed a button beneath the desk, unlocking a door at the back.

  The shop floor probably would have looked pretty authentic if it weren’t for the warheads lying in various states of disassembly. Further, Rapp’s eye immediately picked out a series of seams in the concrete floor that undoubtedly hid operational nukes. If he had to guess, probably installed on Shaheen 1A ballistic missiles.

  The engineers working on the warheads stopped and turned, a few attempting awkward salutes. A man whose uniform designated him an army major hurried toward them, stopping short a few feet away and firing off a somewhat crisper salute than the academics under his command.

  “Welcome to Bhakkar, sir.”

  “Where do we stand with the investigation into the missing fissile material, Major?”

  “We have confirmation that these are the only five,” he said, glancing at Rapp but not daring to ask questions. “The remainder of the arsenal has been examined, with the exception of the one in the Americans’ possession.”

  Shirani nodded. “It’s in a vehicle outside. Send a detail to retrieve it.”

  “Right away, sir. What else can I do for you? We weren’t given your agenda. Are you here to see the American prisoner?”

  Rapp’s eyebrows rose slightly, while the general’s expression darkened. He hadn’t mentioned anything about a prisoner and apparently hadn’t expected his subordinate to bring up the subject. It was one of the problems that accompanied a reputation for volatility and brutality. Having everyone falling over themselves to anticipate your next demand could backfire.

  “Of course we’re here to see the prisoner, you idiot!” Shirani said, trying to cover. “Now, where is he?”

  The major hurried toward the back of the building with Rapp and the general following. They stopped in front of a steel door and Rapp stood quietly as the increasingly anxious soldier tried to get the latch unstuck.

  “We’re in the process of interrogating him,” he said, finally freeing the rusted handle. “But so far he’s said very little. We know he’s American from his accent and he’s identified himself as a member of ISIS.

  “That will be all, Major.”

  “Yes, sir. Let me know if I or any of my men can be of assistance.”

  Rapp watched him g
o before turning his gaze on Shirani.

  “I forgot to mention him,” the general blurted, anxious to avert further wrath from the CIA man. “Under the circumstances, I think—”

  “Shut up,” Rapp said. “All I want to hear from you is where you captured this man.”

  “An ISIS group tried to hijack a truck containing one of our warheads on the road between Naal and Khuzdar. We had an army unit training nearby and they managed to capture this man as he was trying to escape.”

  “The others got away?”

  “Two were killed, but otherwise, yes.”

  Out of the corner of his eye, Rapp saw Joe Maslick come around the corner and head their way.

  “Get back to your engineers and tell them we’re going to be expecting a full report on their findings. And this time I suggest you don’t leave anything out.”

  “It was a mistake!” Shirani insisted.

  “Get out of my sight.”

  Maslick skirted the wall as the general hurried past him.

  “Give me a sitrep,” Rapp said when his man was within earshot.

  “We’re solid. Everyone working in this place is regular army but their security procedures are shit. They’ve got four armed guys patrolling the fence line but everyone else is working under their cover as factory workers. Their weapons are all secured in an armory under the building. I’ve spread Chutani’s men around the facility and on the perimeter. Sidearms only but that’ll be plenty to take the place. If it has to go down, it’ll probably take less than two minutes and we could conceivably get out of it with no casualties.”

  “Good,” Rapp said and then pointed through the partially open door. “Now there’s someone I think we need to meet.”

  They went inside and Maslick shut the door behind them before taking a position behind a lone man shackled to a chair.

  “Looks like you’ve had better days,” Rapp said.

  The man raised his head, revealing a pulverized face partially hidden by a beard similar to the one Rapp wore.

  “You’re . . . You’re American?” he said, saliva and blood rolling from his swollen lips as he spoke.

  “Yeah.”

  “Are you from the embassy?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “You’re here to take me home?”

  “I don’t know. Who are you?”

  He didn’t answer, but Rapp had a pretty good idea. The accent was middle-America but he had black hair and a dark complexion. A second-generation immigrant from somewhere in the Middle East.

  Rapp would never understand how foreign parents—largely grateful for everything America had given them—could raise children like the man sitting in front of him. How someone brought up in a good neighborhood by moderate Muslims turned to radicalism. What was it about living in a free, prosperous, safe society that chapped their asses so bad?

  “Look, you sound like you want to go home, but I don’t know where that is. American accents are easy to fake. I’m not sure you’re really my problem.”

  He stared at Rapp through blackened eyes for a good thirty seconds, but finally spoke. “I’m from Durango. In Colorado.”

  “You got a name?”

  “Eric Jesem. You can look it up. Now take me home.”

  “Home? You joined ISIS. This is your home.”

  “I’m an American citizen!” he shouted, but the effort caused him to cough uncontrollably. His evident agony suggested he had a few broken ribs to go with the bruises on his face. “I . . . I have rights!”

  “What about the rights of the women and children you and your friends have raped and killed?”

  “They live in the new caliphate. Under God’s law.”

  “But you don’t,” Rapp said. “Is that what you’re telling me? They live under God’s law but you get yours from Thomas Jefferson?”

  “Take me back to the States! I know my rights. I get my day in court.”

  “Why don’t we try it this way. You tell me everything you know and if it’s useful, we’ll get you to an American hospital.”

  “Bullshit. I don’t have to talk to you. I don’t have to incriminate myself. It’s in our fucking Christian constitution.”

  “Look around you, Eric. Where do you think you are? Does this look like a Colorado police station?”

  “I serve the one true God.”

  Rapp switched to Arabic. “You butcher your way through civilian populations.”

  Jesem just stared blankly at him.

  “Are you kidding me?” Rapp said, switching back to English. “You’re sitting there lecturing me about Islam and your parents didn’t even teach you to speak its language?”

  “You have to take me home! I’m an American citizen.”

  “Sure. I’ll just run you back to Denver so you can get some great medical care and do a little skiing before you get back to your genocide.”

  “No,” he said, starting to sound a little less certain of his position.

  “No what? You don’t ski?”

  “I just . . .” Tears started to flow, mixing with the dried blood on his cheeks. “I just want to go home.”

  “Don’t you dare start crying about missing America. I will fucking yank your dick off and feed it to you.”

  Jesem managed to stifle his sobs just as the satphone in Rapp’s pocket started to vibrate. The number on the screen was immediately recognizable. Irene Kennedy.

  “Go ahead,” he said, picking up.

  “I just got a call from Umar Shirani. It seems your plan worked.”

  “He’s even more of a coward than I gave him credit for.”

  “He says there are five more canisters missing and that his people are going to send a full report within the hour.”

  “Give it to Craig. He’s in the process of analyzing samples from the warhead I brought him.”

  “Mitch, I don’t have to tell you that this situation has just gone from dire to potentially catastrophic. Even if the people who took the fissile material don’t have a way to detonate it, they have enough to build a dirty bomb that could make Washington or New York uninhabitable.”

  “Who are you talking to?” Jesem said. “I want a lawyer. Tell them I want a lawyer!”

  “What was that?” Kennedy asked.

  “The television,” Rapp said, leaning against the wall and examining Jesem. His beard and hair were almost identical to Rapp’s, but the similarities didn’t end there. They had the same coloring and build. And, though it was hard to judge exactly with him seated, they even seemed to be about the same height. He was undoubtedly younger than Rapp, but with all the damage done by Shirani’s men, someone would have to be looking pretty closely to notice.

  “We’re out of time,” Kennedy continued. “Anyone with the ability to coordinate an operation this sophisticated has a plan that’s equally sophisticated. That fissile material could already be coupled with bombs small enough to smuggle across the U.S. border.”

  “Agreed. Any movement on finding the man who took out Scott?”

  “Yes, but it’s not an easy task. There are a lot of white spec ops men with athletic backgrounds in the world.”

  “Hello!” Jesem said, getting as much volume as he could out of his raw throat. “Who’s there? Who’s on the phone? Is that the embassy?”

  Rapp looked down at him. He stared back defiantly. Like Kennedy said, the clock was ticking. It was time to act. Rapp nodded toward Maslick and ran a finger silently across his throat.

  Jesem clearly understood the gesture and immediately started jerking back and forth, trying to free himself. “Stop!” he yelled as the two-hundred-twenty-pound Delta man walked up behind him. “I’m an American citizen, you can’t do this! You can’t—”

  Maslick grabbed his long hair with one hand and his chin with the other, twisting the young Coloradan’s head a full one hundred eighty degrees before kicking over the chair and spitting on his corpse. Normally, Rapp would have considered the last part a little unprofessional, but under the circumstances,
it was hard to criticize.

  “Mitch? Are you still there?”

  “I’m here.”

  “That wasn’t a television.”

  “I’ll explain later. Look, Irene. I’ve got an idea. Let me and Mas work on it. In the meantime, I need everything you can get on a man named Eric Jesem from Durango, Colorado.”

  “Eric Jesem,” she repeated. “I’ll get our people on it right away.”

  Rapp disconnected the call and looked down at what was left of the young American—his pulverized face, the severe contusions on arms still secured behind the toppled chair. Finally, he approached and yanked up the dead man’s shirt.

  “What are you looking for, Mitch?”

  “No tattoos,” Rapp commented.

  “So?”

  “So, does he remind you of anyone?”

  Maslick snorted. “You, kind of.”

  When Rapp started pulling off the man’s clothes, Maslick took a hesitant step back. “Now, hold on, Mitch . . .”

  “Shut up and get his pants.”

  Unwilling to defy Rapp’s orders, he knelt and started unbuckling Jesem’s belt. “I got a really bad feeling about this, man.”

  “It worked for Joe Rickman.”

  “What the hell are you talking about? You blew the back of his head off. How is that working out?”

  There was no key for the cuffs, so Rapp broke the bones in Jesem’s hands to get them off. When the battered body was completely stripped, Rapp changed into the dead man’s clothes. A little loose in the waistband but nothing the belt couldn’t handle.

  “Did you see the garbage chute in the corridor on the way in?” Rapp asked.

  “I saw a metal hatch in the wall. But I’m not sure it’s a garbage chute. It might lead to their fucking break room.”

  “Pick him up,” Rapp ordered and then went to the door, opening it far enough to allow him to peer outside. As expected, the passage was empty. Shirani was probably waiting in one of the air-conditioned vehicles. His men would be busy keeping an eye on the presidential guard that Maslick had stationed throughout the facility.

  Rapp motioned for Maslick to follow and then padded out into the hallway. He moved quickly to the hatch and pulled it open. The rotting stench suggested he’d guessed right about its purpose and he tossed his clothes into the hole. Jesem took a little more effort, but after thirty seconds or so of pushing he fell through the darkness to the burial he deserved.