by Vince Flynn
And then that was it. In less time than it took him to drive to his place in Hilton Head, all this would be over.
A quiet ping sounded, and Rapp dug a phone from his pocket. At first it seemed surprising that it would be powered up, but upon further consideration it was to be expected. Rapp believed he was soon to be face-to-face with Irene Kennedy and he’d want to have the latest information for that meeting. Nash concentrated on his peripheral vision, but Rapp held the phone in a way that he couldn’t see the screen.
“Anything interesting?” he finally felt compelled to ask as Rapp returned the text.
“No,” was the simple answer.
Undoubtedly one of the many lies people in their business told every day. This wasn’t a situation where you sent texts back and forth about the weather. And this particular exchange went on for almost five minutes before Rapp tossed the phone on the floorboard and demolished it with the heel of his boot.
Less than six hours, Nash reminded himself as his old friend went back to staring blankly through the windshield. Less than six more hours and this would all be behind him.
* * *
A brightly painted railway container with windows cut in it appeared at the edge of the road. When Rapp saw the gas pump out front, he broke from his trance.
“Why don’t we stop and fill up. I need to take a piss anyway.”
Nash pulled over and Rapp got out, disappearing into the shadows at the edge of the dirt parking area for a moment before entering the improvised building. When he reappeared, he was holding a couple of cans of Coke and a bag of chips. Nash finished filling the tank and slid back into the driver’s seat. “Mine?” he said, pointing to the can on his side of the console.
Rapp nodded and then spoke through a mouthful of chips. “We’re going to have to take a right up here in about a mile.”
“A right?” Nash made sure his voice didn’t betray his confusion. The map that had been included with Kennedy’s deep fake didn’t say anything about getting off the main road yet.
“The guy at the gas station says a bridge got washed out up ahead. We have to go around. Should only be a couple hours out of our way.”
“Out of our way to where?”
Rapp didn’t answer, instead holding out the bag so Nash could dig in. He did so, keeping his body language relaxed. Inside, though, he was feeling very differently. The six hours he’d steeled himself for had just become eight. Not that it mattered to the operation—he’d given his ETA as a forty-eight-hour window rather than a precise time. He just wanted this done.
The turn appeared in the headlights and Nash exited the tarmac in favor of a dirt road not quite wide enough for two cars to comfortably pass. Based on the emptiness of the landscape at that time of morning, though, it likely wouldn’t be an issue.
* * *
Two hours turned into five—including three river crossings and a couple of opportunities to test the SUV’s winch. Finally, they dead-ended into a paved two-lane road.
“Which way?” Nash said.
“Right. We’re back on track. This is the same road we turned off of after the gas station.”
By the time they passed through a small village that was their last landmark, it was late morning. Rapp reached over and reset the vehicle’s odometer. “In twenty-seven point three kilometers there’ll be a dirt road on the right. Easy to miss in the dark, but we should be okay now that the sun’s up.”
Nash nodded, feeling a surge of adrenaline drive back his exhaustion. That dirt track would take them to a forested area that was too steep and rocky to be useful to the surrounding farms. A clearing near the middle was where Rapp believed he would be meeting Irene Kennedy.
Nash rolled down his window, breathing in the morning air. Hopefully, it would be enough to quiet the nausea building in his gut. But probably not.
As predicted, the turn was easy to spot and they began climbing a rough track that headed into the trees. After another few miles, Rapp pointed to a small break in the foliage. “There.”
Nash pulled in and stopped. “This is it?”
Rapp responded by throwing his door open and stepping from the vehicle. Nash did the same, using a hand to shield his eyes from the sun’s glare. The clearing was roughly a hundred yards in diameter and ringed by densely packed trees. The ground rolled a bit, broken by a few rocky outcroppings but otherwise empty.
Rapp stayed near the vehicle, but Nash walked away from it, wanting to put some distance between them. Finally, when he was about twenty yards out, he turned.
“Care to tell me what we’re doing here, Mitch?”
“We’re supposed to meet Irene.”
“Irene? What the hell are you talking about?”
Rapp broke free from the cover of the vehicle, starting to move in Nash’s direction. “The message on that tablet was to meet her here.”
Nash conjured a skeptical expression with just a hint of caution. Ironic in an agonizing kind of way. “I left her looking pretty comfortable in her office, Mitch. And why would she send me if she was planning on coming herself? Is there something you’re not telling me?”
Rapp didn’t look suspicious yet and hadn’t made a move for the weapon that would be hanging beneath his right arm. His good humor wouldn’t last, though.
The men appeared from the forest before Rapp had even made it fifteen feet from the vehicle. Three of them, covered head to toe in camo, eyes invisible behind goggles, and assault weapons in hand. Their positions were perfect, allowing them to keep their weapons trained on Rapp while avoiding any potential for crossfire.
Not surprisingly, Rapp didn’t even bother reaching for his gun. He would have registered how these men moved, read his tactical position, and concluded that any action on his part would be suicide. Still, Nash felt the need to drive the point home.
“There are four more in the trees, Mitch—all aiming at your head. Every one of them is a top operator and they know who you are. Even with superior numbers and position, I guarantee they’re scared. One twitch from you and everybody’s going to start shooting.”
Rapp nodded with the dead expression that Nash had seen before during combat. This time, though, it wasn’t aimed at a bunch of terrorists. It was aimed at him.
“Just keep your hands at your sides and everything will be okay.”
“Why do I doubt that, Mike?”
Nash pulled his Colt and backed away, putting another ten or so feet between them. Not doing so would be arrogance. There was a long list of people who at one time or another thought they held all the cards against Mitch Rapp. Talented people. Dead people.
“This isn’t personal, Mitch.”
“How the fuck is this not personal? We’ve been friends for years. We’ve fought together. We’ve bled together. And now I’m standing here in the woods waiting for you and your friends to execute me. For what? A bunch of Saudi money? Your wife makes more than you can spend.”
“Not money, Mitch. And not the Saudis. The president of the United States. It’s probably hard for you to wrap your mind around this, but I don’t work for you. I don’t really even work for Irene. I work for the man elected to the White House.”
“So, you sided with a politician? That doesn’t make me feel any better.”
Nash stiffened. “You think this is what I wanted? Are you fucking kidding me? You can’t imagine what I’ve gone through to try to keep us from ending up here. David Chism should have died in that first attack. Then it would have been over.”
“What’s he to you?”
“To me? Nothing. But to the Saudis a lot. After you saved Chism, Cook asked me to get him information on Nicholas Ward. He said he didn’t want Irene to know but I didn’t think that much of it. I just figured he was fishing for dirt on Ward so he could blackmail him into supporting him or something. But then Ward’s compound gets taken out and he gets snatched at his hangar. It didn’t take long for me to figure out what I’d gotten myself into.”
“But you didn�
��t go to Irene.”
“For what? To tell her that I’d just gotten my best friends killed? That with my help, the president of the United States had colluded with a foreign government to get rid of the richest man in the world? What would be the point? Chism was dead. Ward was in the hands of Gideon Auma. And you and the guys were gone.” He started pacing. “The world we’ve been fighting for is gone, Mitch. We collapsed the Soviet Union and killed damn near every Islamic terrorist who’s ever even looked at us sideways. The era of wars between superpowers is over—it has to be or none of us survive. Your friend Nicholas Ward thinks that’s going to bring in a golden age. But you know that’s bullshit even better than I do. People need hardship. They need something to struggle against. Someone to hate and feel superior to. Without those things they lose their identity and sense of purpose. And they can’t handle it. Without a real enemy, they start turning on each other. That video of Irene you just watched? One of the president’s people made it in less than a day with software you can get for free online. In another few years, half the videos people see on the Internet will be fake. Served up by right-wing nuts, left-wing nuts, foreign powers, and anyone else with a laptop and a sixth-grade education. If we don’t take control of that, we’ll end up in a civil war. But instead of the North against the South, it’ll be four hundred different factions all swinging in the dark. Flat-earthers. Anti-vaxxers. Nazis. Communists. Antifa. The gluten intolerant—”
“And the Cooks are going to fix all that.”
“I think they have a better shot than most,” Nash responded. “They don’t have any illusions about humanity. They know that ninety-five percent of people are going to fight tooth and nail against the utopia that Nicholas Ward wants to force on them. And more important, they understand that they’ll drag the other five percent down with them. The Cooks just want to give people the leadership they need. They want to make their lives simple. Focus their energy. Give them something to belong to.”
“And that other five percent? I assume they get what they want too, too?”
“Yeah. Wealth, power, and a nice tall wall between us and them.”
“What a beautiful vision.”
Nash let out a bitter laugh. “My entire career has been about fighting for America and the American dream, Mitch. But at some point, it’s time to wake up. At some point, you’ve got to admit that the monkeys are going to figure out a reason to throw feces at each other. The question is how much of it are you willing to let stick to you. I’ve spent my entire life trying save people who don’t want to be saved. Now it’s time for me to save myself and my family. Twenty years from now, I want my kids to be kicking back in penthouses, not scrounging for scraps and killing each other over every conspiracy theory that comes across Facebook. The job’s not stopping al-Qaeda from taking out a few people here and there. Not anymore. Now it’s about stopping the mob from destroying themselves and everything people like us have built.”
Rapp nodded and looked around at the men holding their weapons on him. “So, what’s the plan, Mike? I don’t have all day.”
“The plan…” Nash looked down at the pistol in his hand. “The plan is to clean up as much of your mess as I can.”
“My mess?”
“Yeah. Your mess. You made Ward and Chism dead and they need to stay that way. If they get resurrected, it’s going to be inconvenient to a lot of people who don’t like being inconvenienced. I assume you’ve got them stashed somewhere around here with Scott? Tell me where. I’ll drive over, have a couple of beers with the guys, and then tonight I’ll kill both of them and drive out before anyone knows what happened. After that, if everyone agrees to keep their mouths shut, they can just walk away.”
“And Irene?”
“I can protect her. Cook will make me the new director and he doesn’t have any reason to pick a fight. All she has to do is fade into retirement.” He paused for a moment, finally pointing an accusatory finger at Rapp. “Like always, the problem is you. You’re the part of this shit sandwich everyone’s going to choke on.”
“And that’s why I’ll never leave here.”
“I don’t know. Maybe you do. How about I offer you the deal of the fucking century? You give me your word right now that you’ll just let this go. That you’ll forget about me, the Cooks, the Saudis, Ward, and all the rest. That you’ll go back to the Cape, race your bike, spend time with your new family, and never set foot back in the States. Do that and I’ll give you a ride to the airport.”
Rapp remained silent.
“Yeah. That’s what I thought,” Nash said, shaking his head slowly. “But I want to tell you something. I’m going to make you a hero. All the shit you’ve done that no one knows about? I’m going to tell them. You deserve that.”
Rapp walked to a rock outcropping, tracked by the men covering him. He sat and rested his elbows on his knees. “I got an interesting text on the way here.”
“I meant to ask you about that.”
“Like I said, Ward’s people are still a few weeks out from putting names to the network of burners you were using. But he has put together some of the towers they connected to.”
“So?” Nash said, starting to feel his anxiety notch upward despite the men covering his old friend.
“So, he noticed something interesting. That one of those phones connected twice to the same tower I do when I’m at home in Virginia.”
Nash’s brow furrowed as he tried to understand the ramifications of what he’d just heard. Rapp helped him out.
“Apparently, Nick Ward’s memory is better than mine. I don’t recall telling him that the man I was meeting today lived in my neighborhood. But he did.”
“I don’t understand,” Nash said, backing away a few more steps and making sure his people were still alert and in position.
“I didn’t, either. The video from Irene telling me to meet her in the middle of nowhere. The old password from Belarus that anyone high up enough in the Agency could get hold of. The mole who was too smart for anyone to identify. But then the cell tower put it all together for me.”
This time when Nash looked at the men covering Rapp, he took the time to scrutinize every detail—their physiques, the way they stood, how they held their rifles. And then he knew. He knew before Rapp could give the subtle nod that prompted them to remove their goggles and face coverings.
Nash looked away before he could meet Scott Coleman’s eye, returning his attention to Rapp. As terrifying as his dead stare was, it was better than the pain that would be etched so deeply in the former SEAL’s face. He assumed that the other two men were Joe Maslick and Bruno McGraw, but he refused to confirm it.
“What did you find in the forest?” Rapp asked Coleman.
“Seven mercs.”
“All dead?”
“All but the one we left alive to interrogate. They were solid operators. Too dangerous to play around with.”
Rapp nodded and the silence in the clearing began to stretch out. Nash focused on the warmth of the sun on his face. On the happy memories he had of his wife and children. Other than that, his mind was strangely blank. The things he’d done—both good and bad—didn’t come flooding back. On the contrary, they no longer seemed to matter. Just the sun and his family. Two things he’d never see again.
“I’m giving you a five-minute head start,” Rapp said finally. “For old times’ sake.”
49
RAPP took not so careful aim and fired a single round into the trees. The sound of the shot was deafening and the snap of the bullet as it cut through the foliage would be terrifying. Which was the goal.
Thirty minutes into the chase, the grade of the forested slope had increased to probably five percent. Barely noticeable to him, but a significant obstacle for Nash. Things would have been different during his time as a Marine, but those days were long past. He’d largely abandoned his cardio workouts for weight lifting and ballooned to a solid 210 pounds. Good for stabilizing the damage done to his spine back
when he’d still been a man of honor, but not so great for uphill running.
Rapp adjusted his aim a few degrees to the left and fired another round. He’d keep herding Nash up the incline as long as possible. Even after years of kissing political ass and polishing desk chairs, Michael Nash wasn’t a man to be underestimated.
Rapp started forward again, making some effort to be quiet but not going overboard. The same explosion that had damaged Nash’s back had also damaged his hearing. It was unlikely that he’d be able to separate the rhythm of human movement from the sound created by the intermittent breeze.
A historically satisfying end for the son of a bitch. Humans had evolved not that far from where they were now with very few physical advantages. They weren’t fast. Or strong. They lacked sharp claws or big teeth. Their only talent was an ability to keep going, wearing down prey until they finally stopped, stunned and unable to defend themselves.
Rapp wasn’t going to involve himself in hand-to-hand combat with a desperate former Marine who outweighed him by almost forty pounds. No, Nash would end up on his fucking knees—gasping for air and waiting for the bullet that would kill him. Or maybe that wasn’t entirely accurate. The truth was that the loyal soldier Rapp had known for so long was already dead. He had been for some time. The bullet would just make it official.
As he weaved through the trees, Rapp couldn’t help thinking about how it had happened. He remembered the battles they’d fought together, some against America’s enemies and others between them. He remembered shouting matches about strategy, tactics, and personnel. He remembered drinking on Nash’s deck with Maggie and the kids and teaching their oldest son lacrosse.
