Vince Flynn: Memorial Day

To the men and women who serve

As always I must first thank my best friend and love of my life, my wife, Lysa. As my friends are fond of pointing out, I definitely overachieved when I married you. To my editor, Emily Bestler, and my agent Sloan Harris, thank you once again for all of your guidance and friendship. I can't imagine working with anyone else in the business. To Sarah Branham and Katherine Cluverius, thank you for putting up with me. To Jack Romanos and Carolyn Reidy at Simon & Schuster, two of the smartest people in publishing, a sincere thanks for all of your support. To Judith Curr and Louise Burke, your enthusiasm and humor are two of the many reasons why I enjoy being published by Atria and Pocket Books. To Paolo Pepe for his creativity, Seale Ballenger for his commitment and hard work, and as always, to the entire S&S sales force. To John Attenborough and all of the folks at S&S Australia, thank you for showing my wife and me your lovely country. We can't wait to come back. Also, a special thanks to Jeffrey Berg at ICM for taking such a personal interest in Memorial Day.

One of the best parts of my job is getting to meet the people I base my fiction on. At the CIA I'd like to thank Bill Harlow, Chase Brandon, Robert Richer, Michael Tadie, and all of the people at the CTC who gave me such a warm reception last year. At the FBI I'd like to thank Brad Garret, Pat O'Brien, and Jay Rooney. I admire the commitment and sacrifice that all of you make. To Larry Johnson, again, thank you for your always unique take on national security. To Kat, your frank advice and humor are always welcome. And to Carl Pohlad, thank you for all your generosity and friendship.

To Larry Mefford, who recently left the FBI for greener pastures and hopefully a little less stress-you are a true gentleman and a professional who will be missed. To Paul Evancoe, a real shooter, thank you for taking the time to explain to me the intricacies of the Nuclear Emergency Support Teams and all things technical. Your career is a story worth telling, and when you get it down on paper I can't wait to read it. Thank you for your commitment to service and country, and best of luck with your new endeavor. Lastly, to all of my sources who wish remain anonymous, thank you for your insights.

Mitch Rapp stared through the one-way mirror into the dank, subterranean cement chamber. A man, clothed in nothing more than a pair of underwear, sat handcuffed to a small, ridiculously uncomfortable-looking chair. A naked lightbulb hung from the ceiling, dangling only a foot or so above him. The stark glare of the light combined with his state of near total exhaustion, caused the man's head to droop forward, leaving his chin resting on his chest. He was dangerously close to losing his balance and toppling over, which was exactly what they wanted.

Rapp checked his watch. He was running out of time and patience. He'd just as soon shoot this piece of human refuse and get it over with, but the present situation was more complicated than that. He needed the man to talk, that was the point of this endeavor. They all talked eventually, of course, that wasn't the problem. The trick was to get them to tell you the truth. This one was no exception. So far he was sticking to his story, a story Rapp knew to be an outright lie.

The CIA counterterrorism operative hated coming to this place. It literally made his skin crawl. It had all the charm of a mental hospital without the barred windows and the beefy orderlies stuffed into their white uniforms. It was a place intentionally designed to starve the human mind of stimuli. It was so secret, it didn't even have a name. The handful of people who knew of its existence referred to it only as the Facility.

It was off the books, not even listed in the black-intelligence budget submitted in secret to Congress every year. The Facility was a relic from the Cold War. It was located near Leesburg, Virginia, and looked just like all the other horse farms dotting the countryside thereabouts. Situated on sixty-two beautiful rolling acres, the place had been purchased by the Agency in the early fifties, at a time when the CIA was given far more latitude and discretion than it was today.

This was one of several sites where the CIA debriefed Eastern Bloc defectors, and even a few of the Agency's own who were snared in the net of James Angleton, the CIA's notoriously paranoid genius who was in charge of rooting out spies during the height of the Cold War. Very nasty things had been done to people in this crypt. This was where the CIA would have likely taken Aldrich Ames if they had caught him before the FBI did. The men and women who were charged with protecting Langley's secrets would have given almost anything for the chance to put the screws to that traitorous bastard, but they were unfortunately denied the opportunity.

The Facility was not a pleasant place, but it was a necessary evil in a world chock-full of sadistic deeds and misguided, brutal men. This was something Rapp was more than aware of, but that didn't mean he had to like it. He was neither delicate nor squeamish. Rapp had killed more men than he could even attempt to count, and he'd employed his craft in a variety of imaginative ways that spoke to the sheer depth of his skill.

He was a modern-day assassin who lived in a civilized country where such a term could never be used openly. His was a nation that loved to distinguish itself from the less refined nations of the world. A democracy that celebrated individual rights and freedom. A state that would never tolerate the open recruiting, training, and use of one of its own citizens for the specific purpose of covertly killing the citizens of another country. But that was exactly who Rapp was. He was a modern-day assassin who was conveniently called anoperative so as to not offend the sensibilities of the cultured people who occupied the centers of power in Washington.

If those very people knew of the existence of the Facility they would fly into an indignant rage that would result in the partial or complete destruction of the CIA. These haters of America's capitalistic muscle wanted to analyze what we had done to evoke such hatred from the terrorists, all the while missing the point that they were using the logic of a seedy attorney defending a rapist. The woman had on a short skirt, sexy top, and high heels-maybe she was asking for it? America was a rude and arrogant country run by selfish, colonialist men who were out to exploit the resources of lesser countries-maybe we were asking for it?

Under their narrow definition the Washington elite would call this place a torture chamber. Rapp, however, knew what real torture was, and it wasn't this. This was coercion, it was sensory deprivation, it was interrogation, but it wasn't real torture.

Real torture was causing a person so much unthinkable pain that he or she begged to be killed. It was hooking alligator clips to a man's testicles and sending jolts of searing electricity through his body, it was gang-raping a woman day after day until she slipped into a coma, it was forcing a man to watch as his wife and children were sodomized by a bunch of thugs, it was making a man eat his own excrement. It was monstrous, it was barbaric, and it could also be wildly ineffective. Time and time again such methods proved that most prisoners would say or do almost anything to stop the pain, sign any confession, create terrorist plots that didn't exist, even turn on their own parents.

Rapp was a practical man, however, and the prisoner sitting cuffed to the chair on the other side of the glass knew firsthand what real torture was. The organization he worked for was notorious for its treatment of political prisoners. If anyone was deserving of a good beating it was this vile bastard, but still there were other things to consider.