Vince Flynn: Pursuit of Honor

“What do you think Imam bin Abdullah would think of your merriment over the pain of others?”

With a dismissive grunt, Karim said, “He would thank me for killing another infidel.”

Too tired to get into another heated debate with perhaps the most obstinate person he knew, Hakim ignored his friend and headed down the short hall to a warm bed and what he hoped would be a long and undisturbed sleep.

LAKE ANNA, VIRGINIA

MITCH Rapp looked down at the calm, glassy lake as a bright orange sun began climbing over the trees on the eastern shore. Pockets of fog clung to the inlets, but the middle of the lake was clear. Somewhere around the bend he could make out the whine of an outboard engine, more than likely carrying a fisherman to his favorite early morning spot. Rapp had been to this place often since the murder of his wife. It was always a bit conflicting in the sense that it reminded him of the good times they had shared but also of the harsh reality that she was gone.

The setting reminded him of both his place on the Chesapeake, where they had fallen in love, and her family’s place back in northern Wisconsin. He’d only been there a few times while she was alive and would not go back now that she was gone. He’d made the one trip to Chicago to apologize in person to her parents and brothers. He’d dreaded every minute of that conversation, but knew he would never be able to live with himself if he didn’t face them. Rapp hadn’t been the one who killed her, but he was the selfish idiot who had pulled her into his shitty little world where, all too often, innocent people got caught in the crossfire. He’d been a fool to ever think he could have a normal life.

He remembered, as he looked down at the smooth morning water, how she and her brothers liked to ski first thing in the morning. He thought of all those family photos that hung on the knotty pine walls of the cozy family cabin. Shots of Anna as a little kid, all legs, like a fawn, skiing knock-kneed on two old boards-her golden brown skin and the freckles around her nose. Those amazing green eyes that still haunted him every night. He’d never known anyone as beautiful, and would have bet everything he had that he never would again. He had decided after several years of mourning that it was hopeless to think otherwise. There’d been a couple brief relationships, but he still wasn’t over her, so each woman was doomed from the start.

The squeak of a screen door caught his attention and Rapp looked over at the main house. It was a story and a half with three big dormers on the second floor and a wraparound porch that covered three sides. The four-inch siding was painted white, and the trim around the windows and the doors matched the green asphalt shingles on the roof. The owner stepped out onto the porch and struggled with the zipper on his khaki jacket. After a moment he got it started and then stepped forward with the help of a cane. His name was Stan Hurley, a seventy-eight-year-old veteran of the CIA. He’d been officially retired for nineteen years, but unofficially he was still very involved. The irascible Hurley had handled much of Rapp’s training those first few years after he graduated from Syracuse University. On more than one occasion Rapp had wondered if the bastard was trying to kill him. Most of that training had taken place right here on the banks of Lake Anna.

Rapp had been an experiment of sorts. The clandestine men and women at Langley all went through the CIA training facility near Williamsburg, Virginia, known as the Farm. A group of veterans at Langley, however, felt the changing political winds and decided they would have to begin hiding things from the opportunists on Capitol Hill. That was when Hurley left the Agency and set up shop an hour south of Washington, D.C. Rapp didn’t know how many others they had auditioned, but he gathered that Hurley had chewed up and spat out at least three guys before he arrived on that hot, humid summer day almost two decades ago. He knew because Hurley referred to them as Idiot One, Idiot Two, and Idiot Three. He’d say things like, “I spent two days trying to teach Idiot Three how to do this, and then the jackass nearly killed himself.”

Watching the old prick hobble across the asphalt driveway, Rapp had to admit that he was still a bit intimidated by the man. There weren’t many guys who could give him that kind of feeling. Rapp remembered showing up for training as if it were yesterday. He was in his early twenties, and he thought the best shape of his life after finishing a near-perfect season captaining the Orangemen lacrosse team. There was nothing as humbling as getting your ass kicked by a chain-smoking, bourbon-drinking, sixty-some-year-old man who was all cock and bones. It had happened only a few feet from where Rapp was standing. In the big barn, on the old stinky wrestling mat that Rapp had been forced to manhandle seven days a week for nearly four months.

Looking back on the situation now, Rapp could see Hurley had been in complete control, but back then, he seriously wondered if he was going to survive. Hurley woke him up at 4:00 A.M. with a cigarette dangling from his lips. When Rapp didn’t get out of bed fast enough, Hurley flipped his military-issue cot and dumped him onto the hard, dusty floor of the barn. He was told that the barn was where he’d be sleeping until he proved himself worthy to sleep in the house. The real trouble started when Rapp came up swinging. In hindsight it had been an extremely stupid move. The geezer was far more agile than he looked. Rapp threw the punch and then next thing he knew he was back on the floor, the wind knocked from his lungs, gasping for air like a fish flopping around on a dock.

Hurley had announced while standing over him, “A fighter! Idiot One was a fighter. He only lasted a week, but at least he was a fighter!”

Rapp made it through that first week despite being knocked to the ground on average probably eight times a day. He was also called every dirty name in the book and ordered at least once an hour to quit. Hurley would tell him over and over in the foulest possible language that Rapp was wasting his time. Rapp had seen enough movies to know what was going on. He’d also run enough captains’ practices to understand that Hurley was trying to figure out if he had what it took to make the cut. Knowing it, and experiencing it, however, are two very different things. Rapp had never quit anything in his life, and he sure as hell wasn’t going to start now, but Hurley and his sadomasochistic trials tested him.

As the tough old spy hobbled along the drive with the help of his cane, Rapp couldn’t help but smile over the fact that the guy used to kick his ass six ways from Sunday.

“What’s so funny, dickhead?” Hurley asked in his throaty three-pack-a-day voice.

“Nothing.” Rapp’s smile got bigger.

“Bullshit. You think this cane is funny?” He picked it up and shook it at Rapp. “I’d like to see how you get along when you’re my age. Doc says most guys are all whacked up on drugs for the first week after they get their hip replaced. I haven’t taken shit.”

“That’s if you don’t count the fifth of bourbon you drink every day.”

Hurley stopped, his dark eyes zeroing in on Rapp. “Are you trying to ruin my life?”

“No,” Rapp replied with a grin and threw one of Hurley’s favorite lines back at him, “just trying to keep it real, Stan.”

Hurley looked toward the barn with his baggy eyes and stuffed his right hand into his jacket pocket. After digging around for a moment he retrieved a soft pack of unfiltered Camels. “Yeah . . . well things are about to get as real as they can get.”

“You sure you’re up for this?” Rapp asked, wanting to give him another chance to skip it. “I can handle it.”