Vince Flynn: Memorial Day

He paused for a second, shielding his eyes from the sun with his left hand, wondering if he should give himself some time to let his eyes adjust to the brightness. He decided to press on and climbed the three steps quickly. Under his left hand he could make out the silhouette of the captain standing at the helm.

Al-Yamani could hear the man talking to him but couldn't make out what he was saying. They were going much faster than he'd realized, and the wind was howling over the bow of the boat. Al-Yamani made no effort to try and understand the man. He had surprise on his side, and everything would be over in a few seconds. Moving past the helm, al-Yamani slid his right hand under his shirt while he brought his left hand up and placed it on the shoulder of the captain. He leaned in as if he was going to ask a question, and as his lips began to part, his left hand clamped down tightly on the captain's shoulder. His right hand came thrusting upward, sending a six inch stainless-steel blade into the man's back.

Thomas Scott arched his back in pain, his hands instantly gripping the wheel, his mind scrambling to comprehend what had just happened. Suddenly, he was yanked away from the helm and spun across the deck. Frantically he tried to reach behind himself to get a grip on whatever it was that was causing him such pain. Before he had time to react, he was up against the side of the boat and losing his balance. He could feel himself going overboard. Blue sky filled his vision and then he hit the water hard.

Al-Yamani watched the Brit disappear under the boat's churning wake, and then scrambled to the helm. He looked down at the high-tech dashboard and squinted to read the dials and digital readouts. Bending close, he noted his speed, heading, and GPS location. He'd spent a week studying the owner's manual and knew the controls well enough to do what needed to be done. After scanning the horizon quickly he began slowly turning the wheel, bringing the boat around on a new northerly heading.

With the vessel pointed in the right direction al-Yamani relaxed a bit. He turned around and looked at the boat's long curving white wake. Bringing his hand up to shield his eyes from the bright sun, he strained to see any sign of the man whose life he had just taken. He thought he saw something for a second, but then it vanished. Al-Yamani wasn't worried. They were thirty miles from the nearest piece of land, and he had stabbed his victim in the heart. If by some miracle he wasn't already dead, he would be shortly.

Al-Yamani turned his attention to what lay ahead, a confident look of anticipation on his face. He had waited his entire life for this opportunity. It was his destiny to come to America, and it was his providence to strike a blow for Allah. Al-Yamani was not alone. There were others, and they were at this very moment converging on America from all points of the compass. Before the week was over, the arrogant and hedonistic Americans would be dealt a crippling blow.

WASHINGTON, D.C.

The new Joint Counterterrorism Center, or JCTC, was located near Tyson's Corner west of downtown D.C. The facility housed the CIA's Counterterrorism Center, the FBI's Counterterrorism Division, and the newly created Terrorist Threat Integration Center, or TTIC. The reason for putting all three under one roof was to create better analysis of the information collected on terrorists. On paper many people in Washington thought it was a great idea, but in reality it was proving a bit more difficult, at least from Rapp's perspective.

Rapp slid into the high-tech conference room and tried to keep a low profile, which was not easy considering his reputation. He did not plan on staying. The long table was ringed with directors, deputy directors, and assistant directors from various key federal agencies and departments. Every single one of them knew of Rapp's exploits to one degree or another, and he made many of them nervous.

The conference room had opened only in the last week, and it was Rapp's first time inside. The first thing he noticed were the photographs that dominated the wall directly across from him. Twenty-two faces stared back at him. He knew their names by heart, as well as where they'd grown up and where they'd received their training. They were the twenty-two terrorists that the FBI and the Department of Justice would most like to apprehend, put on trial, and incarcerate. Rapp simply wanted to hunt them down and put a bullet in each one of their heads.

That more than anything summed up the problem Rapp had with the Joint Counterterrorism Center. They had too many rules, and they were in a war against an enemy who had none. He understood why they had to operate within the confines of the law and the courts. The Bill of Rights was not something to be taken lightly, but there were times when expediency saved lives.

Rapp was only marginally surprised to hear that this was the exact topic being discussed. Some woman from the Department of Justice was railing against the Patriot Act, and warning everyone that it was only going to cause them problems down the line. He caught his boss's eye and gestured for her to step into the hallway with him.

When Director Kennedy had joined him in the hallway, she asked, "What's up?"

Rapp looked around suspiciously. "I don't want to talk about it out here."

"Understood." Kennedy led him to the elevator where they went up several floors to the CIA's portion of the building. After passing through several cipher locks, they entered a vacant conference room and closed the door.

Rapp handed Kennedy a file. "I think you're going to find this very interesting."

Without saying a word, Kennedy took the file and sat. She undid the red string and opened the top secret folder as if she had done it thousands of times before, which she had.

She skimmed the first page, and based on the thickness of the file said, "Why don't you take a seat?"

"Don't feel like it." Rapp clasped his hands behind his back and flexed his knees. He was in no mood to sit. "I've got a plane waiting to take me to Kandahar."

The director of the CIA continued reading and said, "Aren't you getting a little ahead of yourself?"

"That's what I'm paid for."

She looked up at him over the top of her glasses and shook her head. Rapp was like a brother to her, which at times could be a problem.

Impatiently, Rapp watched her read the hastily compiled file. His mind was already racing ahead, going over what he would need to pull off an operation of this magnitude.

Colonel Haq had given Rapp the information he was looking for and then some. The man had proved himself a virtual fountain of intelligence, and for that reason alone he was still alive. If he continued to cooperate, Rapp would keep his promise, and the Pakistani would see his children again. Haq had turned on his fellow ISI members who were Taliban sympathizers, and he'd given them crucial information on al-Qaeda and its reconstituted leadership. But most importantly, he had given them the location of al-Qaeda's base of operations.

In a sense, for Rapp, the planning and execution of his next step were easy. But getting permission for that next step in a town like Washington, with all of its competing interests, was a bit trickier. He usually preferred to limit involvement to the Agency and a few highly trained special forces' outfits, but this one was going to have to go all the way to the top. The operation was complicated. It involved snubbing a very important ally, and it wasn't "black," meaning the international community and the press would find out about it five minutes after it was over.

Whether the mission was a success or a failure, Rapp and the CIA would need the cover of the Oval Office, and that meant the president would have to be brought into the loop. Rapp was woefully inept at reading the constantly shifting political landscape of Washington, but Kennedy excelled at interpreting the wants and desires of America's most insatiable egos.