Order to Kill

by Vince Flynn

  Blood.

  • • •

  Azarov kept moving through the pipe, not stopping until it took a hard bend to the right. Only then did he pull up his soaked sleeve to look at the neat hole in his biceps. It was bleeding badly but the ricochet had passed through without hitting bone. He pulled off his shirt and tied it around the wound, sitting against the curved wall to catch his breath.

  How had Rapp survived the fall from that tank? And more important, how had he crossed the fire barrier without using the high catwalk? The only answer was that somehow the CIA man understood this complex better than he himself did. If that was the case, then he knew where this pipe let out and that there was only one vantage point that would allow him to see both ends simultaneously. Was he currently making the difficult climb to get there, or would he risk chasing his injured quarry?

  Speculation was pointless. Azarov had failed to predict the man’s actions at every turn. The question that had existed for so long in the recesses of his mind was now answered. Rapp was the better man. The weaker, older American was going to kill him.

  No.

  Not now. Not when he was on the verge of escaping Maxim Krupin’s orbit and pursuing a life of his own. An identity of his own.

  Azarov unwrapped his wound and used the back of the shirt to sop up the blood flowing from his arm. When the cloth was well impregnated, he tore off part of the left sleeve and used it to rebandage his arm. Finally, he put the shirt back on. The blood on the back would make him appear more badly injured than he really was. Hopefully it would be enough to lull Rapp into a moment of carelessness.

  Azarov started moving along the interior of the pipe again, forced into a slight crouch by the confined space. Even if Rapp did know the facility better than he did, it would be difficult for the man to reach the far end of the pipe in time to line up a reliable shot.

  Azarov told himself that if he remained focused, if he timed everything to perfection, there was still a chance that he would be the one who survived.

  • • •

  Rapp stayed high, moving from catwalk to catwalk as he tried to figure out where the pipe Azarov was hiding in led. After a few minutes it became clear that he wasn’t going to be able to keep the entrance in view if he went much farther. For all he knew, the pipe didn’t go anywhere and the Russian was sitting a few feet inside, waiting to attempt an escape. Or he could be dead. Or—as likely as the first two scenarios—he could be running along it looking for a way out.

  Rapp stopped, suffering a rare moment of indecision. The only thing he was sure of was that he didn’t want to go in after the man—it was too confined a space. So forward or back? His gut said forward and he decided to listen. While his battlefield intuition had failed him more than a few times, it was right more often than it was wrong.

  He dropped onto a tightly packed series of pipes before crossing to an adjacent catwalk. When he lost sight of the pipe entrance, he increased his pace to a point that it would be impossible for Azarov to come up behind him. Even at that speed, it took him almost five minutes to reach the place where the pipe disappeared into a large storage tank. A hatch on top was open and Rapp slowed, aiming his Glock upward when he spotted movement.

  Azarov had cleared the tank and was lurching along a catwalk more than fifty yards away. Based on his awkward gait and the amount of blood that had soaked through his shirt, he looked to be in pretty bad shape.

  Rapp moved into a position behind the man, initially hanging back to reduce the chance of being spotted. Eventually, he started to close the gap, lifting his pace only when he had a clear understanding of his surroundings and a solid view of his still-dangerous opponent.

  Azarov was bleeding enough to leave a visible trail and his movements were becoming increasingly labored. Further, he was heading into territory that would put him at a significant tactical disadvantage. The terrain got physically more demanding and he was going to hit the edge of the facility in a position that would make it easy for Rapp to get above him. Pain, blood loss, and desperation could do terrible things to a man’s judgment—particularly one so talented that he might never have been faced with those challenges. He was checkmating himself.

  Or was he? Rapp stopped at the bottom of a set of steps.

  While it looked like Azarov was barely putting one foot in front of the other now, he’d made pretty good time in that pipe. And the blood trail was heavy enough to follow but not heavy enough to suggest the man was bleeding out.

  The Russian had wanted to force this confrontation when he believed he had the tactical advantage. Now, though, that advantage had been lost. He was smart enough to know that. And if that was the case, he was probably also smart enough to be looking for a way out.

  Rapp spun and started sprinting in the opposite direction, dropping his weapon and launching across a ten-foot gap to a ladder. He gripped the sides with his hands and feet, dropping down it in a near free fall before hitting the catwalk below. The east edge of the facility was visible ahead and he ran toward it, taking every opportunity to drop down to lower levels. He was only a few yards away when the blast hit him.

  The force of it threw him over the guardrail and he didn’t bother fighting it. The sand and sky looked pretty much identical as he went end over end through the air, making it necessary for him to use the rising flames to orient himself. He cleared the concrete slab and landed feetfirst in the sand, immediately pitching forward and trying to roll with the impact.

  Dazed, it took him a few seconds to realize that his hair was on fire. Once he’d patted it out, he just lay there staring up at the debris arcing through the sky. Azarov would have dropped off the north side before triggering the explosion and would now be following the wind into a radioactive no-man’s-land intended to discourage a chase.

  Rapp considered defying the man’s expectations and going after him, but the idea faded quickly. He’d had enough of Grisha Azarov for one day.

  CHAPTER 57

  “JUST keep holding the ice bag to it,” the camouflage-clad nurse said.

  “That’s it?” Rapp responded. “That’s your expert advice?”

  His nose had started bleeding again after the explosion and despite every effort by him and the army’s medical team, it wouldn’t stop.

  “I’ve seen a lot of stuff, sir. But that nose . . . how did it happen?”

  “Angry woman.”

  She let out a hesitant laugh but then fell silent when he didn’t smile. “Sir, I’d suggest you get stateside as soon as possible and find the best plastic surgeon you can.”

  Since no one in the medical tent seemed to be in danger of telling him anything he didn’t know, Rapp wandered out into the night.

  Lights had been set up to illuminate the temporary American base, their powerful beams extending into the desert well past the two-hundred-yard perimeter. He stopped to let a truck carrying hazmat suits roll by and then crossed a section of compacted sand that functioned as road.

  Two choppers passed overhead, angling north toward the radiation zone Grisha Azarov had created. Surprisingly, it was the only one. Bazzi and his men had managed to take out all the ISIS teams without giving any of them time to detonate. That left Rapp owning the only failure.

  When he got home, Kennedy would casually mention—repeatedly—that backing Azarov into a corner had been a mistake. Of course, Rapp would passionately defend his actions and there would be no clear winner. There never was. In this case, though, she was more right than wrong. In the heat of the moment he hadn’t been able to see that it was a contest that could only have losers. Chalk it up to too many years of examining problems through a set of gun sights.

  “Mitch!”

  Rapp turned and saw Mike Nash jogging toward him. When he pulled alongside, he was a noticeably out of breath. The muscle weight he’d added apparently helped his back but wasn’t doing much for his stamina.

  “I know I’ve already told you this today but I want to make sure I drive home the point. You r
eally look like shit.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Can’t they get that thing to stop bleeding?”

  “They tell me I should see a doctor.”

  “Your tax dollars at work.”

  “Where do we stand?”

  Nash shoved his hands in his pockets against the cool desert evening. “So far the Saudis are letting us take the lead. The royals are still cowering in Europe and it’s thrown a wrench into their chain of command.”

  “Probably better for us.”

  “No doubt. And I have even more good news. We found Colonel Wasem’s body and Bazzi’s backing up our story that it was an accident. Apparently, he couldn’t stand that asshole.”

  “And the bad news?”

  “That’s a longer list. One of the fissile material containers was breached by a door gun. Not ideal, but nothing that can’t be taken care of by removing and disposing of a few thousand tons of sand. The main site is a whole other story. We’re still trying to figure out how far the radioactivity has spread, but because of the wind it’s going to be pretty bad. Best-case scenario, the cleanup is going to cost three quarters of a billion dollars and reduce the area’s oil production by ten percent for the better part of five years.”

  “Tell the Saudis to write a check. What about—”

  “Hold on. I’m not done. The Team Four chopper that went down had no survivors and the Pakistanis are already up our asses to get what’s left of their fissile material back.”

  “Now are you done?”

  “Yes.”

  “What about Azarov?”

  “Nothing yet. We’re only using choppers if we have to because of the weather and we’re only using ground patrols if we have to because of the radiation. You said the guy looked like he was bleeding pretty badly and that’s a whole lot of desert out there. My guess is that he’s dead and buried in the sand by now.”

  Rapp didn’t respond other than to adjust the ice pack on what had once been the bridge of his nose.

  “But, if I’m wrong, don’t worry. We’ve got other lines on the guy and after this clusterfuck we’re pretty confident he’s not going back to Russia. We’ll find him.”

  Rapp turned and started toward a line of military vehicles near the west end of the compound.

  “Where are you going?” Nash said. “We’ve got a meeting with the Saudis in five minutes.”

  “Handle it.”

  “They’re expecting you. What do you want me to tell them?”

  “Tell them to go fuck themselves. I’m heading home.”

  CHAPTER 58

  FAIRFAX, VIRGINIA

  U.S.A.

  RAPP gunned the Charger, barely making it through the dark intersection before the light turned red. He’d hopped a military transport out of Riyadh and spent the last fifteen hours lying on top of a bunch of flak jackets in the back. Now that he was finally in the last five minutes of his trip home, those minutes seemed to be stretching out forever.

  His phone rang and he patched it through the car’s anemic sound system.

  “Hello, Irene.”

  “I hear you’re back in the States.”

  “Yeah. About a mile from my apartment.”

  “Oh,” she said. “That’s gone, Mitch.”

  “What’s gone?”

  “The apartment. We emptied it and it’s been rented. You need to turn around and go home.”

  The inflection was impossible to miss. “My house is done?”

  “I think Claudia’s still working on the punch list, but yes. It’s done.”

  For some reason the news hit him with a force that he wasn’t prepared for. He glanced at the clock in his dashboard. A little after nineteen thirty.

  “Maybe we should get together and debrief,” he heard himself say. “Are you at the office?”

  “I am, but it’s completely out of the question. Claudia’s holding dinner for you.”

  That hit even harder. Why? Why did he suddenly want to put the Dodge on a random highway and floor it? Was this fear? After everything he’d just been through, was this what scared him?

  “First thing tomorrow morning, then?” Rapp said before he could stop himself.

  “No. Tomorrow morning you’re going to sleep in and have a nice breakfast. Then, at eleven, you have an appointment with a plastic surgeon. Claudia has the details.”

  “Fine. I’ll swing by after—”

  “Actually, you won’t. Because you’ll be on your way to your appointment with a reconstructive dentist. Claudia has—”

  “The details,” he finished.

  “Exactly. The Middle East and Russia will still be there day after tomorrow, Mitch. Now go have a nice, quiet evening.”

  The line went dead and Rapp kept driving straight for another mile before finally summoning the courage to make a U-turn.

  • • •

  The narrow road wound through dense trees and intermittent farmland before climbing to a flat summit overlooking all of it. Rapp’s twenty-acre lot was along the south edge of what was supposed to be an airy subdivision with ten home sites. That is, until his brother, an obscenely wealthy money manager, purchased the other nine. In case he ever needed a vacation home, he’d explained.

  Rapp pulled up to the empty neighborhood’s gate and found that the keypad had been replaced by a thumbprint reader. Not sure what else to do, he pressed his left one against the screen. The steel barrier obediently swung back.

  All markers and other clues that the unused lots existed were gone. There was nothing but natural landscaping, pristine asphalt, and dark sky. A traditional red barn appeared on his left, glowing dully in the moonlight. Originally intended to keep the residents’ horses, it now contained what was left of his contractor’s equipment.

  The white stucco wall surrounding his house appeared as he crested a small rise, glowing a little brighter with the help of a few hazy spotlights. The copper gate was already taking on a green patina, visible as he pulled up next to the call box. There was a padded envelope on top of it addressed in a childlike scrawl.

  4 Mich

  Tearing it open, he found a single remote. A push of the button caused the heavy gate to slide smoothly out of sight.

  The garage doors were closed, so he parked next to a modern sculpture that looked a little like debris from a plane crash painted with blue Rust-Oleum. It probably symbolized something deep and he made a mental note to tell Claudia how much he liked it.

  The house itself was admittedly a bit unusual. It consisted of a single floor with a half basement and had no exterior windows at all. His late wife and the architect had done everything they could with textures, shapes, and roofline to keep it from looking like a prison and they’d largely succeeded. It might have been the most aesthetic bunker ever built.

  There was no one to greet him when he came though the front door, so he took a moment to admire the warm lighting and sparsely arranged Asian furniture. A bold painting of a flower to his right looked almost as expensive as the downed Cessna out front.

  At the end of the entryway, the left wall transformed into floor-to-ceiling glass looking onto a beautifully landscaped interior courtyard. The house’s living space ringed the courtyard, with virtually every room having access to that central garden. Through the newly planted trees, he could just make out the elegant lines of an industrial kitchen and the raven-haired woman moving through it.

  He found a sliding door and stepped outside, crossing to the kitchen on a flagstone pathway. When he entered a similar door on the other side, Claudia yanked a spoon from the pot she was stirring and spun to face him. Clearly, she’d been coached and her reaction to his face consisted of nothing more than a brief flash in her dark eyes.

  “Mitch!” she said, tossing the spoon on the counter and throwing her arms around him. The hug was more than a little painful, but he found that he didn’t mind at all.

  “I’m sorry I didn’t meet you at the door, but I didn’t want anything to burn.”

  �
�No problem,” he said, immediately wishing he’d come up with something a little more suave.

  “Well?” she said, spreading her arms wide. “Do you like it?”

  “I do,” he said, feeling a little overwhelmed. “Great sculpture out front.”

  “Isn’t it fantastic? It’s an Aubarge.”

  He nodded as though that meant something to him. “Where’d all this furniture come from?”

  “Where didn’t it come from? Do you like it? It’s modern, but not sterile, don’t you think?”

  “That’s exactly what I was going to say.”

  “You were not,” she responded, picking up her spoon and going to work on one of the pots boiling on the stove. She indicated with an elbow toward an open bottle of wine sitting on the counter. “Have a glass. But be warned, it’s a bit cold. I just pulled it from your cellar.”

  “I have a wine cellar?”

  She switched to the French she was more comfortable with. “Of course! Fully stocked!”

  He found a glass and examined the label on the bottle. Not surprisingly, he’d never heard of it, but the fact that it had been produced before he’d learned to read worried him a bit. Through a few bizarre twists of fate and his brother’s financial genius, Rapp had amassed a fair amount of money. Not this much, though.

  “Claudia?”

  “Yes?”

  “First, let me say that the place is amazing.”

  “You love it, right?” she said, twisting around to look at him with a broad smile.

  “Absolutely. I do. But could I ask you how much it cost?”

  “Oh, not much. I was a little overbudget but I just paid for that myself.”

  “Paid for what?”

  “The overbudget part.”

  “How much are we talking about?”

  “Not much.”

  “Is there some reason I shouldn’t know the number?”

  “With the artwork?”

  “Yes. With the artwork.”

  “But not the wine.”

  “The artwork, the wine. Everything.”

  She shrugged at the sheer triviality of the amount, making a show of carrying out the necessary calculations in her head.