by Vince Flynn
“Twoish . . .”
“Two hundred thousand?” Rapp said, deciding to fall off the wagon and pour himself a glass of what was apparently extremely expensive wine. Still, it could have been worse. He could reimburse her for that without too much juggling.
“Million.”
The glass stopped a few inches from his mouth but then he decided to just go with it. That number was so big, it didn’t bear worrying about.
“Now go away,” she said. “I need to concentrate. Go see Scott and Anna.”
“Scott?”
“Well, I couldn’t leave him in that horrible hospital and he didn’t have anyone else to take care of him. They’re in the guest bedroom playing LEGOs.”
Rapp started for the hallway but then stopped after a few steps. “Where is that?”
“Directly opposite of where we are now. You can’t miss it.”
• • •
Anna had been coached, too, but it didn’t help. She let out a high-pitched shriek when he walked through the open door.
“It’s okay! It’s me. Mitch.”
The young girl slid off the bed where she and Scott Coleman were attempting to build something that may have been the Eiffel Tower. “Mom said you were in a car accident. Were you wearing your seat belt?”
“I wasn’t.”
“You know that’s illegal. You have to!”
“You’re right. I’m sorry.”
“Anna,” Coleman said, “your mom probably could use some help. Why don’t you go see.”
“When are we going to finish?” She pointed to the LEGOs. “Maybe Mitch wants to play.”
“I’m sure he does, but we should save the rest for tomorrow.”
She nodded and went for the door, giving Rapp’s leg a quick hug before starting down the hallway.
“Anna?” Mitch called after her.
She stopped and turned.
“Maybe you could ask your mom to put my food through the blender.”
The request obviously confused her but she gave a quick nod before tearing down the hallway.
Coleman waited until she was out of earshot before he spoke. “Jeez . . . Mas said he worked you over, but I had no idea.”
“You don’t look so great yourself.”
Rapp was happy to note that his retort wasn’t entirely accurate. While Coleman had lost a lot of weight and his skin was pasty white, his eyes were clear and his voice had regained its strength. Most of all, though, he was aboveground.
“I hear you’re going to make a full recovery,” Rapp continued.
“Yeah. But at the end of a long road.”
“No problem. Take a couple of weeks.”
Coleman managed to produce the Boy Scout grin his friends had become so familiar with. “The docs say that I should be dead. That if it weren’t for you, the infection I got would’ve been fatal.”
“Me? What do I have to do with that?”
“Turns out you dragging me through every third-world shithole on the planet has given me a pretty good immune system.”
They fell silent for a few moments and Rapp ran through the Pakistan op in his head—the trashed motorcycle, going for position instead of entering the warehouse . . .
“I’m sorry, Scott. That should have been me in there.”
“Fortunes of war, man. What’ll you do?”
Rapp nodded. “When you’re done with your rehab are you coming back?”
“Hell yeah,” Coleman said, pointing a shaky finger at Rapp’s damaged face. “You obviously don’t do too well without me there to watch out for you.”
Claudia’s voice floated down the hall toward them. Dinner was ready.
Rapp noticed a walker in the corner. “You need some help?”
“No. I think I’m going to sit this one out. Maybe get some sleep.”
Rapp turned toward the door but stopped when Coleman spoke again.
“Can you do me a favor, Mitch?”
“Sure.”
“If Azarov is still alive, don’t go after him. It won’t change what happened.”
Rapp ran his hand along the rim of a Chinese vase that he hoped was a reproduction. “Sure, Scott. Whatever you want.”
EPILOGUE
NEAR DOMINICAL
COSTA RICA
“ARE you making those fried plantains with it?”
“Do you want them?”
Cara popped the top off her third beer and frowned theatrically. “Come on, Grisha. You have to ask?”
He selected a ripe one from a bowl on the counter. “You chop.”
The evening was unusually warm and she was still in a bikini top and surf shorts, padding around his tile floors in the thrift-store flip-flops she favored.
“Be careful,” he said when she reached toward the knife block. “Those are sharp.”
“You and your knives. I swear you stay up all night grinding them on a big rock in your basement.”
“Not all night.”
She was the most vibrant person he’d ever met. A blinding light in the darkness that had swallowed him so many years ago. Having said that, he had to acknowledge that in the kitchen, she was a danger to herself and everyone around her.
It had been six months since he’d escaped Saudi Arabia. ISIS had taken full credit for the attack and there was no reason for the world to look any further. The cleanup was already well under way and the effect on oil prices had been relatively minor. Maxim Krupin was still in control, but of an increasingly angry populace and dissatisfied oligarchy.
For a time, Azarov had run. He’d used his network of clandestine bank accounts and underworld contacts to disappear into the empty corners of the earth. It was a strategy designed to produce a long existence but not a long life. One morning he’d woken up in an anonymous hotel room in Namibia, packed his bag, and returned home. It was here he would stay. In peace, if possible. In a bloody last stand if necessary.
To his surprise, the former scenario seemed to be the one playing out. Krupin had been completely silent. No messages, no texts, and most important, no Russian spec ops team at his front door. Similarly, the Americans had been quite conspicuous in their absence from his life. With the political uproar caused by a jihadist detonation of a radioactive weapon, he suspected that they had more important things to deal with than a retired Russian assassin.
After his return, Azarov had resisted the temptation that Cara presented for a time, but his discipline had finally faltered. They’d had dinner at a hotel restaurant on the beach and been together ever since. Each day, she pushed the darkness a little further back.
He picked up the platter with their steaks on it and nodded toward the open doors leading to the patio. “Could you help me with the grill?”
The sky was overcast but, between the pool and the glow from the house, there was plenty of light to work by. Cara held out a hand to test the temperature of the coals. Satisfied that they were ready, she reached for the platter but then paused.
“Is that a spot on your shirt?”
He glanced down just as her hand passed in front of his chest. The red dot jumped from white linen to tanned skin.
Azarov dropped the plate and slammed into her, driving her to the deck and shielding her with his body. She was still lucid enough to scream, so he rolled right, throwing her through the air and into the pool.
By the time the sound of the splash reached him, he had taken cover behind the grill and was reaching for the pistol hidden beneath it. He’d barely wrapped his hand around the grip when the cold metal of a silencer touched the back of his ear.
“Grisha!” He heard Cara cough as she surfaced. “What—”
“Be silent and stay still!”
He had never spoken to her in that tone and it seemed to work. All sound coming from her direction faded. Azarov wanted to turn his head to look at her but decided it would be unwise until he determined who he was dealing with. If it was one of Krupin’s men, they would undoubtedly delay killing him until the Russian
president could phone him and gloat about the limitlessness of his power. It would inevitably be a long and grandiose speech that would give Azarov time to gain the upper hand. And then he would go to Russia and kill Krupin, his political allies, his family, and everyone he’d ever known.
“Nice and easy, Grisha.”
The breath went out of him at the sound of the American accent. He rose with comic slowness, finally turning to face the man aiming a Glock 19 between his eyes.
“You look better than the last time I saw you, Mr. Rapp.”
“Three different plastic surgeries and I didn’t even bother to keep track of the time in the dentist’s chair. How about you? Were you actually hit or was the blood just for show?”
“Biceps. In and out.”
“Grisha!” Cara said, unable to contain herself any longer. “Who is he? Do you know him? What does he want?”
Azarov eased his face left until he could see her out of the corner of his eye. The hair had matted across her face but it wasn’t enough to obscure the terror etched there. It was unfair. A woman like her should never have to feel fear.
“Please, Cara. It’s going to be fine. Just stay in the pool.”
Rapp motioned with his gun. “Let’s take a walk.”
The Russian did as he was told, crossing his large patio and starting up the trail that led to his training facility. In doing so, the tactical advantage swung in his direction. The unseen shooter was undoubtedly Charles Wicker, one of the finest combat snipers alive. The jungle at the edges of the trail was extremely dense, though, making it virtually impossible to maintain an unbroken line of sight. Further, Azarov was intimately familiar with the terrain from years of training there.
It was an advantage similar to the one he’d counted on in Saudi Arabia, the Russian reminded himself. And this wasn’t a lone, injured Mitch Rapp fresh off a run through the sweltering desert. The CIA man was healthy, rested, and had backup.
The only relevant question Azarov needed to ask himself was how he wanted to die. On his knees or fighting? Oddly, he found that he didn’t care. Instead, his mind wandered to the past few months of his life. The time had been agonizingly short, but a gift nonetheless.
They reached the gym and Azarov stopped in front of the glass doors.
“Inside,” Rapp said.
He obeyed and Rapp indicated toward a chair next to the squat rack. Azarov sat while the American slid onto a table just over a meter away.
“I’m surprised you made it so easy, Grisha. You’re too comfortable here.”
“Isn’t that the way you’re supposed to feel in your home? Comfortable?”
“Not us.”
Azarov nodded. “And so you’ve come to kill me.”
“That was the plan. But now I’m not sure.”
“What’s changed?”
“You jumped on the surfer girl. The smart money would have been to keep her in front of you when you went for cover. Or at least to just leave her standing there as a distraction. It makes me wonder if Irene Kennedy’s right and you’re not a complete waste of skin.”
“She thinks that?”
Rapp put his gun on table next to him and Azarov focused on it in his peripheral vision. The short distance between them could be easily covered if it had been anyone else. With Rapp, though, it would be suicide.
“We can’t find a record of you contacting anyone in Russia since you got back. Even your company doesn’t know where you are. They figure you’re dead.”
“Not dead. Just retired.”
“Is that what you told Krupin?”
“Maxim Krupin?” Azarov said, feigning ignorance. “The Russian president?”
“It’s a little late to try to play that hand, don’t you think, Grisha?”
Azarov leaned back in his chair and stared up at the American for a few seconds. “We have ended our association. Permanently.”
“What if he feels differently?”
“Then I’ll kill him.”
“That’s a problem for me.”
“I don’t understand. Maxim Krupin is a sociopath who causes your country and the world nothing but problems.”
“That’s true. But now we have him by the balls. That bullshit in Saudi Arabia was all in for him and it didn’t work. If his involvement were made public, the rest of the world would come down on him like the wrath of God.”
“And you can use this,” Azarov said, “to exert control over Russia without creating a power vacuum.”
“That’s what Director Kennedy and the president think. Personally, I’d rather just fly over to Moscow and put a bullet in his head.”
“So you want me to tell you everything I know about his involvement in what happened in Saudi Arabia.”
“It’s one option.”
“If I agree, are you offering me protection from him?”
“Not my job.”
Azarov adjusted his gaze to the glass that looked out into the night. “I was young when I first met President Krupin. A simple soldier from a poor background. His offer to me was . . . everything. Money, beautiful women, power. All things I no longer value.”
“What do you value, Grisha?”
He was surprised by the question and even more surprised that he wasn’t sure how to answer it.
“Not patriotism,” Rapp prompted. “I assume not God. The surfer girl?”
Azarov tensed before he could stop himself. The hope that it hadn’t been noticed was dashed when a nearly imperceptible smile crossed the CIA man’s lips.
“She doesn’t know anything about me. There’s no reason to hurt her.”
“Who the fuck do you think you’re talking to?”
Azarov considered the question for a moment before responding. “My apologies. You understand that I’m accustomed to dealing with a different class of opponent.”
“So we understand each other?” Rapp said, standing.
“Yes.”
“And the business between us is finished?”
“Any questions I might have had about our relative abilities were answered in Saudi Arabia.”
The American picked up his Glock and started for the door. “Then enjoy the steaks.”
VINCE FLYNN, the author of fourteen New York Times bestsellers, passed away in 2013. He was a graduate of the University of St. Thomas in St. Paul, Minnesota, and lived in the Twin Cities. Visit his website at VinceFlynn.com.
KYLE MILLS is the #1 New York Times bestselling author of fifteen political thrillers, including The Survivor for Vince Flynn and The Patriot Attack for Robert Ludlum. He initially found inspiration from his father, the former director of Interpol, and still draws on his contacts in the intelligence community to give his books such realism. Avid outdoor athletes, he and his wife have lived in Jackson Hole, Wyoming, for more than twenty years. Visit his website at KyleMills.com.
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Novels by Vince Flynn
The Last Man
Kill Shot
American Assassin
Pursuit of Honor
Extreme Measures
Protect and Defend
Act of Treason
Consent to Kill
Memorial Day
Executive Power
Separation of Power
The Third Option
Transfer of Power
Term Limits
And with Kyle Mills
The Survivor
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