Order to Kill

by Vince Flynn

  “The weapons reached al-Hofuf and are in the process of being distributed,” Mihran said, switching to Arabic in an unsuccessful effort to isolate Rapp. “The operation has begun.”

  Excited conversation erupted in the backseat but Mihran quickly put a stop to it. “We will continue for another half hour and then hold and wait to see if we’re needed. Pray to Allah that we are not.”

  “What’s happening?” Rapp asked, as would be expected.

  “Drive the car. Don’t speak again unless I address you directly.”

  Rapp nodded submissively. It looked like Irene and her people had guessed right. If he had to put money down, he’d bet that they smuggled the weapons up the Gulf in a dhow. After landing it on an uninhabited beach, they’d transport them by truck to al-Hofuf, which would put them within striking distance of the Saudi’s most productive oil fields.

  Rapp glanced over at the computer on Mihran’s lap and saw their position marked in red on an empty section of map. More interesting was a similar dot moving southwest from al-Hofuf. He assumed that it depicted the position of one of the primary teams.

  It was something he hadn’t considered and he mentally kicked himself for the lapse. His initial reaction had been to try to convince the Iraqi general to put him on one of the attack teams, but now he realized that would have been a fatal mistake. If Krupin was behind this, he’d keep everyone on a need-to-know basis. No individual team would be aware of the status or destination of the other teams. That kind of secrecy wasn’t possible for the backup, though. They would need a view of the entire game board.

  “Go left here,” Mihran said, pointing through the windshield at a barely visible fork in the dirt road. Rapp did as he was told and they soon arrived at a cliff band tall enough that the top disappeared into the dusty air.

  “Pull in.”

  Rapp gunned the vehicle into a hollowed-out section of rock probably thirty feet deep and the sound of sand blasting the paint off the vehicle’s exterior subsided.

  They all piled out, Mihran immediately taking his laptop to the mouth of the shallow cave in order to maintain satellite reception. The others went around to the rear gate to get water. Three grabbed bottles and went for the cliff wall to maximize shelter from the wind. The fourth grabbed the last water jug and put it to his lips, taking a long pull before replacing the cap. Rapp pointed, but the young man just pulled back with a cruel smile.

  He was probably no more than eighteen, with a scrawny body and scraggly beard. He’d obviously picked up on Mihran’s dislike for their American comrade and was going to take a run at asserting a little authority of his own.

  Rapp pretended to search the back of the vehicle for more water, but was really taking stock of what was there: primarily a zipped bag of weapons and a well-thought-out assortment of replacement engine parts. Food was minimal, suggesting that the operation wasn’t expected to go on for long. Other than that, there was little more than a couple of five-gallon gas cans and some wooden stakes in case they needed to use the winch to pull themselves out of the sand.

  The kid behind him took the top off the water container and started drinking again, glugging loudly in an effort to regain his attention. Teenagers. They were the same the world over.

  Rapp glanced through the windshield, confirming that he couldn’t be seen by the men who had taken shelter at the back of the cave. Behind him, Mihran was in clear view but completely consumed by his computer screen, waiting for a signal that one of the primary teams was in trouble.

  The boy tapped him on the shoulder, holding up the water and making a show of putting the lid back on. In response, Rapp grabbed the handle of a jack and swung it full force into the side of his head. His lifeless body hit the sand with a muffled thud and Rapp stuffed it under the vehicle before picking up the fallen container and draining a third of it.

  A quick search of the weapons bag turned up several handguns and a collection of spare magazines. Rapp passed over a Kel-Tec P11 and a Ruger SR9—neither was a weapon he favored, particularly in these conditions. The Sig Sauer P226 he found at the bottom, though, was another matter.

  He started around the front of the vehicle and after a few moments spotted the three men huddled at the back of the cave. He would have preferred to get in close, but without a silencer, there was no way to make this stealthy. Mihran would hear it and Rapp wasn’t sure how he’d react. Better to not be too far away.

  By the time he’d closed to within fifteen yards, all eyes were on him. Over the endless hours in the car, he’d become reasonably satisfied that Mihran wasn’t armed but had no idea whether these men were. Now he was going to get a chance to find out.

  Rapp slid the P226 from his waistband and extended it, watching the men’s reactions carefully. The one on the far left dove to the ground while the one next to him crouched and began sprinting along the back of the cave. The remaining one stood his ground and reached behind him with his right hand. Rapp put him down first, hitting him in the side of the head and sending him toppling backward into the rock face. Next was the running man. His head was hidden by the angle so Rapp went for his lower back, severing his spine and dropping him into the sand. He wasn’t dead, instead screaming in pain while trying to drag himself away, paralyzed below the waist.

  The last man was still just lying on the ground, frozen by a combination of terror and confusion. He was staring up with wide eyes and Rapp put a bullet between them before running toward the mouth of the cave.

  As he’d expected, Mihran was in a full sprint, angling toward the truck and the weapons it contained. When he saw Rapp on an intercept path, he reversed course, scooping up his laptop and heading out into the desert.

  The Arab wasn’t particularly fast and Rapp was content to give chase, closing from behind. When Mihran tried to open the laptop, though, Rapp stopped and lined up the P226’s sights. He squeezed off a round, hitting the man in the ass and sending him rolling down a short slope to his right. The Toughbook flew from his grip and landed a few yards away. Hopefully, it would live up to its branding.

  “What are you doing?” he yelled as Rapp approached. “You swore your allegiance to God!”

  “Changed my mind,” Rapp said, crouching next to the laptop and opening it. Still running and still logged in.

  He stood and walked over to the man, aiming the pistol at his terrified face.

  “Stop! What do you want? Information? I can give it to you.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “If I do, will you let me go?”

  “No.”

  These ISIS pricks were fundamentally different than the al Qaeda operatives he’d spent much of his life fighting. Beyond having somewhat hazy goals, they lacked a consistent level of personal commitment. They fed off each other, working themselves into a frenzy using the energy of the mob. Cut off from that, many seemed small and weak.

  “I want—” he started but then went silent when Rapp slammed a foot into his side.

  A number of the man’s ribs collapsed and Rapp just stood there watching him writhe in pain. What he really saw, though, was Laleh. The expression of terror when Mustafa’s man began dragging her out of Jesem’s apartment. And the relief when Rapp leveled his weapon at her.

  He was only vaguely aware of the man’s screams and couldn’t be certain when they finally stopped. Eventually, Rapp took a step back, breathing hard and looking down at Mihran’s broken neck, shattered skull, and open eyes caked with sand.

  Finally, Rapp returned to the laptop, kneeling next to it and starting the process of linking to the CIA’s mainframe. The security was extensive and the connection was spotty—probably due to dust interfering with the satellite connection. After a solid ten minutes, he managed to initiate a software download and route a call to Kennedy’s office.

  “Hello?”

  “Jamie!” Rapp shouted. “Can you hear me?”

  There was a long delay before she came back on. “Mitch? Is that you?”

  “Connect me to I
rene.”

  “Trans”—she dropped out for a moment—“now.”

  Kennedy’s voice came on a moment later. “Mitch! Are you all right? Where are you?”

  “Fine. About a hundred miles east of Riyadh.”

  “That puts you right in the middle of the Saudi’s main oil-producing region,” she said, though her words were difficult to decipher. “We were right.”

  “Yeah. Look, I’m downloading software that will allow Marcus to take control of this computer. At a minimum, it’s tracking one of the teams that ISIS has in Saudi Arabia. I’m guessing it will have the capability of tracking all six once they go active.”

  “Marcus is on his way to my office now.”

  “What do the Saudis know, Irene?”

  “I told them I had a man inside ISIS and that there was a potential nuclear threat, but I didn’t give them any more details than that. Their special operations group is on alert and waiting for a target.”

  “Do they have anyone who can get to me?”

  No answer.

  “Irene!”

  “I can do you one better,” she said, coming back on. “I sent Fred Mason to Riyadh in case you needed an extraction. He and his copilot have been sleeping in their helicopter since they got there. Give me your coordinates. The weather looks bad, but I’ll see if I can get him in the air.”

  CHAPTER 50

  RIYADH

  SAUDI ARABIA

  A VIOLENT gust slammed into the chopper when it was only ten feet off the ground, sending it toward a series of aircraft lined up on the tarmac. Rapp braced himself as the pilot barely missed some Saudi asshole’s Learjet and set the bird down with a surprising lack of drama.

  “Thanks for the ride, Fred,” Rapp said before removing his helmet and going for the open door.

  “No problem,” Mason shouted over the sound of the rotors. “Between this and Pakistan, Irene’s gonna send my daughter to grad school.”

  Rapp jumped out, clutching the Toughbook he’d taken from Mihran. Ahead, a white SUV was barreling toward him on the runway.

  It lurched to a stop a few yards away and a young man in the uniform of a spec ops officer exited. He took a few steps but then stopped short. The abruptness of it seemed odd, but then Rapp remembered what he must look like. The battered face had been bad enough, but now the bottom of Eric Jesem’s pants were splattered with the story of Mihran’s last moments on earth. In fact, there was still a dried piece of his scalp, complete with hair, stuck to the top of Rapp’s boot. In retrospect, he probably should have scraped that off.

  “Mr. Rapp?” the man said, sounding a bit uncertain. Undoubtedly, he’d heard endless stories about the CIA operative and what he saw before him didn’t match the image he’d built up in his mind.

  “Take me to King Faisal,” Rapp said in Arabic, passing by the young officer and climbing into the back of the SUV.

  “I’m afraid he’s not available,” the man said, taking a seat next to Rapp and slamming the door closed behind him. “I’m Captain Bazzi. I’ve been instructed to take you to your hotel, where you’ll be met by the government’s representative in this matter.”

  “Prince Abdullah?” Rapp said. He despised the Saudi security chief with an intensity that he reserved for only world-class scumbags. Every time he got close to the man, he could barely keep himself from snapping his neck.

  “No, sir. But one of his most trusted men. My commander, Colonel Wasem.”

  Rapp examined the young man through swollen eyes. “The royals have all skipped the country, haven’t they, Captain?”

  “They’re busy men, sir. A number of them had important matters to attend to in Europe.”

  Rapp nodded and looked out the window as the SUV accelerated. No big surprise. They’d be lying around their yachts waiting for him to make the place safe for their pampered asses again. And if he failed, they’d probably never return. Instead, they’d live out their lives in Monaco, Beverly Hills, and London, while their country was overrun.

  • • •

  His hotel suite was predictably gaudy—the product of a Middle Eastern decorator with too much money to spend. Rapp strode across it, his impatience turning to anger when he realized no one was there to meet him.

  “We’ve set up a secure computer and satellite phone on the desk for your use,” Bazzi said. “Clean clothing is on the bed.”

  “Where’s Colonel Wasem?”

  “My understanding is that he’s on his way. He thought that you’d want to contact your people for an update before he arrived.”

  Rapp didn’t bother to hide his contempt. There was little doubt that Wasem was somewhere in the hotel waiting for Rapp to use one of the communication devices he’d been provided. All of which were guaranteed to be compromised.

  “There’s food on the table. Do you need medical assistance? I can have a doctor—”

  “What I need is Wasem. And for you to have five spec ops teams in choppers ready to fly.”

  “Yes, sir. We have people standing by, waiting for the colonel’s orders.”

  Rapp pointed to the door and Bazzi took the hint, moving quickly toward it. When he was gone, Rapp lifted the sterling silver cover off a plate set up on a rolling cart. Underneath, he found a bacon-wrapped filet with all the trimmings. Not something you saw every day in a Muslim country. He grabbed it in one hand and carefully gnawed an end off with his undamaged teeth, chewing painfully as he used the Saudi computer to start a download from an innocuous commercial website Marcus Dumond had set up.

  Next up was Mihran’s Toughbook. It came to life when he opened it, but now there was just a black screen requesting a password. Dumond had already gotten control and locked it out.

  Rapp sat on the desk with his back to the wall in order to thwart the cameras that were undoubtedly watching. His main Agency password was rejected, as were a number of secondary passwords he used for access to CIA front companies. It took almost ten tries, but he finally made it past the security screen. Dumond had used the password to Rapp’s personal bank account. Little hacker punk.

  The screen refreshed and Rapp looked down at four dots floating across a map of Saudi Arabia. All were west of Al Hofuf, spreading out through the country’s main oil-producing region. The ISIS teams were staying off main thoroughfares and even appeared to be avoiding secondary unpaved roads used by Aramco, sacrificing speed for the anonymity of the open desert.

  Rapp locked down the Toughbook again and checked the progress of his download on the Saudi laptop. Six minutes left to finish. Just enough time.

  He grabbed a few potatoes and headed for the bathroom. Before stripping, he turned on the shower and piled the food in the empty soapdish. His face was obviously on the mend, because the hot water hitting it produced little more than an intense sting. He lathered up his sweat-matted hair, occasionally retrieving food from the soap dish and cramming it in his mouth. As near as he could tell, the teeth he was going to lose were already gone. A few borderline ones had tightened up enough to make the potatoes no problem. The steak was going down in partially chewed chunks.

  Rapp allowed himself four minutes before stepping out and going for the suite’s main bedroom. A meticulously pressed desert camo uniform had been laid out for him along with a Glock 19, shoulder holster, and a few extra mags. No silencer, but still, the young captain was starting to grow on him.

  The download was complete when he came back out, and he rebooted the Saudi computer. Dumond’s program would disable the operating system and replace it with one he’d designed for one purpose only: security.

  Rapp slid up on the desk again, pulling a wired headset over his ear and connecting the computer to the hotel’s Wi-Fi. Everything coming in and out of it was now heavily encrypted and bouncing all over the world. Further, Dumond’s operating system had no ability to save anything. If you received an email and needed information from it, the only recourse was to take a picture of the screen or copy it down on a piece of paper.

  Rapp la
unched a phone app and dialed Kennedy’s private number. Not surprisingly, she picked up on the first ring.

  “Hello?”

  “It’s Mitch.”

  “My understanding is that you’ve arrived in Riyadh.”

  “Yeah. What’s Marcus been able to find on the Toughbook?”

  “Not much more than you did, I’m afraid. Its only real capability appears to be to track the ISIS teams—three more of which have come online since you’ve been out of contact.”

  “So no information on the teams’ final destinations?” Rapp asked.

  “None. We do have projections from our people, though, and I think they’re going to be fairly close. Krupin would be working off the same weather and geological data we have. Marcus is almost done integrating all that information into the map on the Toughbook. In the meantime, I’m sending overhead photos of the areas we think they’ll target. We can’t reliably narrow it down to anything much less than a one-mile radius, but we’re fairly confident at that resolution.”

  A moment later one of the photos she’d promised flashed onscreen. It depicted a nondescript area of desert with a longitude and latitude printed at the bottom. He scrolled through four similar pictures before landing on one depicting a massive tangle of gleaming pipes and tanks.

  “Is this an oil refinery?”

  “Abandoned production facility. It’s right in the middle of those targets.”

  Rapp nodded silently. “Have you found the man who attacked Scott?”

  “We know he’s a former Russian soldier who goes by the name Grisha Azarov. Have you heard of him?”

  The name rang a bell, but he couldn’t put his finger on why. After a few seconds it came to him. “That Russian mobster in Africa. Before he died he said something. That Grisha was going to come for me.”

  “I don’t know if that’s true, but what I can tell you is that we don’t have a current location on him.”