by Vince Flynn
“With taking the prince? No.”
“Then what?”
“I’m concerned, Mitch. This isn’t a black op. You’ve got no official standing. Have you considered the possibility that you might spend the rest of your life on the run from your former friends and colleagues?”
“They wouldn’t find me. Most of them wouldn’t want to.”
“Even if that’s true, your life would never be the same. I lived that way for years—the constant moves, the aliases, the lack of anything lasting. And for you, the loss of your country.”
“I can handle it.”
“I wonder.”
“Is that all?”
“No.”
“How did I know that?”
“I’m worried about your team. They’re all very talented—particularly Grisha—but they’re not reliable or loyal. They’re not Scott.”
“They’ll hold together.”
“Are you sure? You have a Russian assassin who cares only about one thing: the woman he left behind in Costa Rica. If he sees any risk of not being able to return to her, he’ll abandon us. Then you have a sociopathic woman who is doing this for the new life you’ve offered her, but also because she wants you back. And, finally, you have a boy who doesn’t want to work with you—he wants to be you. How long until he decides he’s ready to test the great Mitch Rapp?”
“When you put it that way, it does sound pretty bad.”
“I’m being serious.”
“I know. It’s your job to think about this stuff and I agree with everything you said. But it’s the only hand we’ve got to play.”
She looked up at him, clearly wanting him to say more.
“Look, Claudia. I haven’t seen Donatella in more than ten years. We had a short relationship that we both knew wasn’t going anywhere. Don’t let her get to you. She just likes to make trouble.”
Claudia examined his face for a few more seconds and then took his hand. “Let’s go to bed. We can take our minds off our problems for a little while.”
CHAPTER 28
DONATELLA Rahn walked up the steps to the yacht’s upper deck, sipping a sparkling water. She had a light wrap over her dress but didn’t need more. Despite the fact that it was almost 10 p.m., temperatures were still in the low seventies.
The rest of their haphazard team was already there but, somewhat tellingly, all were occupying their own space. She did the same, settling into an empty lounge chair and taking an opportunity to study the people around her.
Kent Black was near the railing doing another endless set of push-ups. He was purported to be an excellent sniper but seemed impossibly young and desperate to impress. It was clear that he idolized Mitch almost to the point of deification. Saint Rapp. The Great and Terrible Oz. She’d known him when he was just another boy getting into the business. Talented, to be sure, but who could have guessed what he would become?
Grisha Azarov had his back to her, talking quietly into a satellite phone, as he did often. He was quite an intriguing figure, exuding calm confidence and that hint of clinical depression that she’d come to associate with Russian operatives. Claudia did a mediocre job of hiding her fear of him, while Rapp made no attempt to hide his respect. Donatella’s eavesdropping suggested that Azarov always talked to the same person but a name had proved difficult to make out. Probably Cara, but the fact that he never gave Donatella so much as a glance suggested that it could also be Carl.
She turned her attention to a table where Rapp and the little French girl were discussing something in hushed tones. What on earth did he see in her?
Unfortunately, the answer was obvious. There was the youth, of course—she was certainly no more than midthirties. And then there was the beautiful face and flawless body. Moreover, she appeared to be irritatingly competent. The name Dufort was complete nonsense, of course. There was little question that this was the woman who had played a significant role in the success of the late Louis Gould. While pulling a trigger could be quite difficult, equally difficult was making sure you were standing in the right place when you did it. Gould was always standing in the right place, and it was common knowledge that he had his wife to thank.
Finally, Donatella focused on Rapp, the man responsible for bringing them together. He’d never understood that they were made for each another. Instead, he’d left and taken up with that idealistic little reporter Anna Reilly. While she could understand what attracted him to Claudia Gould, what he’d seen in that Goody Two-shoes was a mystery.
Donatella turned to gaze out over the city lights but kept Rapp in her peripheral vision. What if something were to happen to the little French girl? Would getting rid of the competition create an opportunity for them to rekindle the romance that had been so powerful in their youth?
She took a sip of her water and finally looked fully away from her former lover. No. He’d find out and then she’d experience what so many had experienced before—the very brief and very final view down the barrel of his Glock.
The chime of a phone sounded and Claudia picked up, speaking a few unintelligible words into it before disconnecting.
“The prince has left his brother’s compound and is driving in the direction of Terry’s.”
* * *
Azarov looked between the front seats as Rapp eased into the crowded parking lot of Monaco’s most exclusive club. The former CIA man was wearing an inexpensive suit and had pulled his hair back into a neat ponytail. Combined with his general build and constantly sweeping eyes, he looked much like all the other bodyguards shuttling their employers to Terry’s. Of course, those similarities were an illusion. He was unique. And, as such, utterly fascinating.
Azarov had done very little in his life beyond training. His athletic talent had been identified at a young age and he’d been taken from his home in favor of a Soviet biathlon camp. Later he’d joined the Russian special forces, where he’d learned and applied an entirely new skill set. Finally, he’d gone to work directly for President Krupin, continuing to hone his abilities with some of the most accomplished coaches in the world.
Rapp had enjoyed few of those advantages—lacrosse and track in his early years, then a relatively short involvement in triathlon. No, he was a far rarer animal. A pure talent. How Azarov had been bested twice by the American despite his haphazard training history, age, and almost comically thick medical file was difficult to fully understand. What he did understand, though, was that Rapp could be as good a friend as he was deadly an enemy.
It was this realization that had torn him from Cara and the life they had made together. An opportunity to observe Rapp up close and the excitement that he missed more than expected were just ancillary benefits. The American was someone who could be trusted to stand with those who showed him loyalty, and there could be no better ally than the one man better at this game than himself.
“Can you see, Grisha?” Rapp said, veering away from the valets and finding a space that allowed a view of the people entering Terry’s.
“Yes, but I don’t know any of those men.”
Rapp spoke into a phone patched through the BMW M5’s audio system. “Claudia, do you have an ETA on the prince?”
“A little less than two minutes if he makes the lights.”
“Kent. Give me a sitrep.”
“I’m setting up now. Thirty seconds and I’ll be ready to rock.”
“For God’s sake,” Donatella said in a typically exasperated tone. “None of this is necessary. I can just walk in there right now and in a few minutes bin Musaid and I will be on our way to my hotel suite. Instead, we’re sitting here waiting for someone who can get Grisha in. I’ve done this a thousand times, Mitch. And guess what? I somehow managed without you.”
Azarov glanced over at the woman in the backseat with him. She was unquestionably one of the most alluring creatures he’d ever seen. But that came a
t a price. Her magnetism wasn’t produced just by her beauty—there were many equally stunning women. It was the sense of danger she exuded. The sharp edge that became a bit more ragged with every passing day. There was little doubt that at one time she and Rapp had been involved, and it was even more obvious that she would like to see that relationship rekindled.
The fact that Rapp was so tightly tied to Claudia was unnerving the woman more than she was willing to admit. Donatella was at an age where her irresistible power over men would soon begin to fade—a painful realization that would be magnified by the way Rapp looked at the younger Claudia Gould.
Would those issues translate into recklessness? Could she be trusted in a fight? Interesting questions, but not ones worth asking at this point. While he wasn’t in the habit of relying on other men’s judgment, he made an exception for Rapp. If the American felt she deserved a place on this team, it was likely that she did.
Kent Black’s voice came over the phone again. “I’m set up and have eyes on the prince’s vehicle. Give me a second and I should be able to get a head count.”
* * *
Donatella Rahn only half listened to the ensuing discussion, instead watching two girls walk across the parking lot toward the door. Both were in their early twenties, thin, tall, and expensively dressed. The one on the left, while wearing this year’s Chanel, didn’t seem comfortable in it. The other was even worse, looking dangerously unsteady in ancient Jimmy Choos.
Fresh off an Eastern European farm, she suspected. Looking to use the gifts nature had provided to build a better life. They entered without challenge but ultimately would be of little interest to anyone outside of the bedroom. And even then, she suspected their talents leaned more toward slopping pigs.
“Okay,” Black said over the speakers. “We’ve got two men in front and one in the back. They’re about to take the left into the club’s entrance.”
“Roger that,” Rapp said.
They watched bin Musaid’s car pull in front of the club as a valet rushed to open the back door. The prince stepped out, not exactly keeping a low profile in his red-checked headdress. The attendants were obviously familiar with his habits and none made a move to park the car. Instead, the bodyguards pulled into a space close to the door.
“Did you get a good look at him, Donatella?”
“He’s hard to miss.”
They waited another five minutes before Azarov tapped the back of Rapp’s seat. “There. That’s Klaus Alscher. I’ve known him for years.”
He got out and crossed the lot, feigning surprise at running into Alscher. After a warm handshake and a few introductions, he disappeared inside.
“You’re up, Donatella,” Rapp said. “Be careful.”
“This isn’t the Gaza Strip,” she said, opening the door and stepping out.
Unlike the girls who had entered earlier, Donatella neither teetered nor looked uncomfortable. She moved gracefully across the lot, aware of how the light played across her silk dress and of the men watching her approach. She gave one of the bouncers a seductive smile and he stepped aside to open the door.
The interior was what she expected—marginally stylish and wildly expensive. Girls like the ones she’d seen in the lot were everywhere, on the prowl for a wealthy man who might be interested in lavishing them with gifts. Or perhaps even setting them up in an apartment for a secret long-term relationship. She understood these women better than Claudia ever could because, for a time, she’d been one of them.
Azarov had managed to maneuver his companions into a tactically viable position and was getting a fair amount of attention from the young women around him. They’d be probing, trying to determine his wealth and station in life. If they succeeded, he would quickly become the most sought-after man in the bar. Not only rich but a marked improvement over the potbellied Arabs who made up the majority of the clientele.
Laughter burst out from the east corner of the room when a young man jumped onto his chair and began gyrating wildly to the sedate music. Donatella allowed herself a bemused smile and moved toward the bar. Bin Musaid was standing at one end, surrounded by friends and the requisite contingent of women. He glanced in her direction, and she met his eye for a moment before turning her attention to the bartender. He brought her a martini that she sipped while intermittently engaging and dismissing the men who approached her. Whenever she sent one away, she would steal a glance in bin Musaid’s direction. And every time she did, he paid increasing attention.
The truth was that the girls in this bar were sheep. And while hunting sheep could be mildly amusing, bin Musaid was a man who would find hunting a tigress far more diverting.
CHAPTER 29
I AM Prince Talal bin Musaid.”
Both Donatella and Azarov had microphones on them that fed through the BMW’s sound system. Rapp glanced at his watch when he heard bin Musaid introduce himself to Donatella. Eight minutes forty-two seconds since she’d walked into the place. She hadn’t lost her touch.
He cut back the volume on Azarov’s conversation about Venezuela’s economic meltdown and half listened to her coy banter. There was no reason to worry or second-guess. She’d play with him for a while, get him worked up, and then inside of forty-five minutes they’d be on their way to her hotel suite.
Rapp watched the flow of traffic in and out, memorizing the positions of drivers waiting for their clients. It was impossible to know how many were armed and how many just handled the wheel, but it paid to learn as much as possible about the operating environment. Even if his role turned out to be nothing more than watching Donatella sashay to bin Musaid’s car.
The conversation droning from the speakers was the most interesting thing on the menu until two Volvo S90 sedans cruised up to the entrance. The light from the building passed through them, illuminating an interior that caught Rapp’s attention. Each contained two men in front and three wedged into the back. All were bearded and appeared to be between twenty-five and forty. An advance security team for some heavy hitter? Rapp glanced back, hoping to see a limo hanging back. Nothing.
“Kent. Are you seeing these two Volvos?” he said into his radio.
“Yeah, I got ’em. What’s up?”
“Probably nothing. But stay sharp.”
The valets opened the doors and the men began stepping out, taking pains to stay facing the car. What were they hiding?
“Finger on the trigger, Kent.”
“Who are these assholes? A bunch of Arab soccer players?”
“I don’t think so,” Rapp said, opening his car door a couple inches.
Finally, one of the men was forced to move away from the vehicle in order to let the next one out. When he did, he opened his coat and swung an assault rifle into firing position.
“Take them!” Rapp shouted, throwing the door fully open and leaping out.
The bouncers went down with the first bursts of automatic fire, followed quickly by three men and a young woman congregated at the entrance. The terrorist who had pulled his gun first was slammed against the vehicle by what seemed to be an invisible force but was in fact a round from Black’s fifty-caliber sniper rifle. Another was spun around when Rapp hit him the right shoulder blade, spraying rounds across the parking lot before dropping behind the lead Volvo. Black took out another just as a group of the drivers Rapp had identified earlier—including the ones who had arrived with bin Musaid—started running toward the building with guns drawn.
“Too soon,” Rapp said under his breath.
Six of the surviving terrorists were going for the door, leaving one behind the vehicles in anticipation of the bodyguards coming up behind them. He fired on full automatic, mowing down all of them before they could get within fifteen yards. One of the drivers had hung back and was shooting over the hood of his car, but fear was getting the better of him. He ducked down to reload as Rapp took careful aim at the man
firing around one of the Volvo’s rear bumpers, but was forced to dive back into the car as three of the men about to enter the building concentrated fire on his position.
“Donatella, Grisha! You’ve got six men coming in on you,” Rapp said. “All armed with assault rifles.”
He slid back out of the car and aimed between the window and the pillar at the lead Volvo. The driver east of him had reloaded and was shooting again, but still not managing to hit anything. On the bright side, he was giving the terrorist remaining outside something to shoot at.
Finally, the tango went for better position and was forced to break cover for a moment. Rapp’s round hit him in the face while Black’s impacted his torso, dropping him on top of a dead parking attendant.
“Kent,” Rapp said. “See that bodyguard shooting from the cars east of my position? Pin him down. I don’t want him coming up behind me.”
By way of answer, Black rammed a fifty-caliber round into the edge of the door the man was hiding behind. A good third of it was ripped off, and shrapnel sprayed across the asphalt. Apparently that was enough. He ran for the trees at the edge of the lot while Rapp sprinted toward the building.
He kicked one of the doors and looked inside. Two bodies lay on the floor in the opulent entryway but it was otherwise empty. Gunfire echoed from deeper inside, with enough rounds expended to create a gunpowder haze in the air. He leapt over the bodies and passed two more corpses before coming out into the main bar area. Most people were on the ground or seeking cover behind overturned furniture. The scene seemed to slow as Rapp swept his Glock from right to left. One shooter was down, likely the work of either Azarov or Donatella, but he could spot neither of them.
A man appeared from around the corner and began sprinting across the room. His extraordinary speed made him easy to identify.
Rapp fired toward Azarov, missing his ear by only inches. The Russian didn’t flinch or bother to look behind him to see if Rapp had hit the terrorist who had been coming up behind him. Instead, he swung his gun awkwardly toward a man shooting at a group of young people huddled in a corner booth. The seemingly desperate shot fired from beneath his arm hit the man in the neck, spraying blood across a massive mirror and crumpling him.
