Vince Flynn - The Last Man

“The damage they have caused? And I suppose you think we’ve had no hand in this mess… training and funding the mujahideen and then the Taliban and even some members of al Qaeda.”

“Afghanistan is a mess, but it is our mess. It is time for the Americans to leave.”

“And what do you think they’re trying to do? This reintegration program that I’ve been helping them with is so they can pull out.”

“And maintain a network of paid spies to continue to manipulate the affairs of this region.” Durrani shook his head. “It is unacceptable.”

“It is understandable considering everything they’ve been through.”

“Would they allow us to meddle in the affairs of countries in their geographical sphere of influence?” Durrani didn’t wait for an answer. “They most certainly wouldn’t. They have worn out their welcome. It is time for them to go home.”

Increasingly, this was how their conversations played out. To push further would be a waste of time and energy. “And what about Rickman?”

The general shrugged. “Another casualty of war. Everyone involved in this mess has lost thousands. Rickman is just another body.”

Ashan shook his head in genuine disbelief. “That’s where you’re wrong. Joe Rickman is not just another body. He is one of the CIA’s most important assets, and they are not just going to sit back while he’s tortured. The man has too many secrets… extremely valuable secrets.”

“You are overstating his importance, and even if you weren’t, good luck finding him.”

“Overstating his importance.” Ashan stood and walked to the other side of the large desk. He faced his friend and said, “Do you know who the Americans have dispatched to find Rickman?”

“I have no idea.”

Ashan placed both hands on the desk and said, “Your old friend Mitch Rapp.”

Durrani looked away and swallowed hard. After a moment of silence he said, “We will offer him any assistance he needs.” The words were flat, with no real commitment behind them.

“Akhtar, we have been friends for a long time. I don’t want you to react… I don’t want you to say a word. For once, please listen to me. Mitch Rapp is an extremely dangerous man. The fact that they have sent him over here is proof of how serious the Americans are about getting Rickman back. Rapp doesn’t care about diplomacy or politics. He is the last man you want to cross. He will kill anyone who has anything to do with this. I’m going to leave now, but I suggest you follow through on your words. Offer him any assistance he needs, and if you find out that any of your people have aided the Taliban in-”

“We have no idea who did this,” Durrani said, with more than a tinge of irritation in his voice.

“You are correct,” Ashan said in a soothing voice, “but we can make some educated guesses, and if the usual suspects are involved, we can almost guarantee that somewhere, someone has a connection to the ISI. We need to put our people to work. They need to tell us what they find out and we need to hand it over to the Americans. I know this is painful for you, but you need to act like a true ally.”

Durrani looked as if he’d taken a bite out of a sour lemon. “I am sick of the Americans and their arrogance. This is not my problem. They can find Rickman on their own.”

Ashan stepped back. “Fine, you stubborn fool. Rapp has already warned you what he would do to you if you stabbed him in the back again.” He retreated toward the door and asked, “Does he strike you as a man who doesn’t follow through on his threats?”

“I am not afraid of Mitch Rapp.”

Ashan placed his hand on the doorknob, a genuine feeling of sadness in his heart. His friend had turned into a stubborn old fool who thought the Americans lacked the resolve to play this nasty game at his ruthless level. For the average American he had a point, but Mitch Rapp was in no way average. Ashan opened the door and over his shoulder said, “If you aren’t afraid of Mr. Rapp then you need to have your head examined.”

Kabul, Afghanistan

Rapp looked out the porthole of the enormous MRAP Cougar. The drive from the airport to the embassy was short, just under two miles. The Army Corp of Engineers had done a nice job widening the Great Massoud Road to relieve as many choke points as possible. Cameras had been installed and fresh blacktop prevented insurgents from trying to bury roadside bombs. No parking was permitted on the street and the sidewalks were kept clear of garbage, vendors, and pretty much anything that could conceal a roadside bomb. Despite all of these precautions, Rapp was filled with anxiety.

While most people found comfort in the Mine Resistant Ambush Protected vehicles, Rapp thought of them as big rolling coffins. You might as well paint a sign on the hulking side that said Infidels. Rapp preferred a more low-profile form of transportation. The Clandestine Service at Langley bought older-model vehicles and had private contractors make sure the cars were in top mechanical shape. Occasionally they would add bulletproof glass and some armor, but in Afghanistan, Rapp felt the key was to change vehicles often and blend in.

As they hit the big turnaround at the corner of the embassy, Rapp felt his chest tighten. They were close to the gate and this was where the crazies liked to attack. The vehicle came to a sudden stop. They were the third in a three-vehicle convoy. Rapp looked up at Coleman with irritation washed across his face and asked, “Why are we stopping?”

Coleman gave him an easy shrug. “Probably checking our creds.” “You mean to tell me those dumbasses didn’t pre-clear us?” “No idea.” Coleman smiled, amused at Rapp’s nervousness. Rapp punched the button to lower the back hatch. “Well, I’m not going be a sitting duck.” As the stairs lowered, Rapp nimbly navigated them before they were all the way down.

Coleman laughed at him and popped the button to close the hatch. The Air Force security guys driving the vehicle were grumbling up front, wanting to know who the moron was who had just compromised their secure vehicle. Coleman waved them off and apologized.

Outside, Rapp came face-to-face with a U.S. Marine who couldn’t have been older than twenty. The corporal gave Rapp a knowing nod and said, “I don’t like those things either.”

Rapp took a quick look around and realized the Marine was part of a security team that had been pushed out one hundred feet from the main gate. They were in a semicircle spaced every thirty feet; a loose picket designed to create a secure pocket while credentials were verified and vehicles checked. The embassy’s perimeter blast walls, ballistic glass, and Kevlar-reinforced walls were impervious to car bombs, but visitors were vulnerable during this brief window when they were at the embassy’s doorstep. Two four-man fire teams composed the extended security.

What a shitty job, Rapp thought to himself. They were a thin tripwire out here to slow down any crazy bastards who were barreling down on the gate in an explosives-laden vehicle. Their early shots with their M-4s were not likely to stop the vehicle nor were the rounds of the M249 SAW. It was the job of the big. 50 caliber guns back at the gate to punch a hole in the engine of any unauthorized vehicle.

“How’d you end up with this powder-puff job?” Rapp asked, as his eyes continued to sweep the area.

The Marine tapped the two chevrons on his sleeve. “Shit rolls downhill and, as my gunny likes to remind me, the Corps is not a democracy. So I do what I’m told.”

Rapp nodded-understood it was the way it had to be. “Good luck.” Rapp turned and headed for the door next to the big steel gate. A sergeant in his tan combat utility uniform and decked out in body armor intercepted him. Rapp pulled out a set of fake State Department credentials.