Vince Flynn - The Last Man

“He knows these people. He’s worked with Rick for the last two years. He has to have some info we could use. We ship him back to Langley and he’s going to become significantly less cooperative.”

“I don’t give a shit. We ship him back to Langley and he’ll realize real quick I’m not the only who’s pissed at him. His career is over unless he gets some religion real quick, and even then I’d stuff him in some cubicle.”

Before Nash could respond, Coleman approached and said, “Hubbard called. He talked to that veterinarian in J Bad.”

“And?”

“The vet says he never put the dog down. Told Hub he couldn’t figure out what was wrong with it, so he referred Rick to another vet here in Kabul. Better animal hospital.”

“So was Hub wrong or misinformed?”

“I’m not sure I understand.”

“He told us the dog was put down by a vet in Jalalabad. Did Rick tell him that or did he just assume?”

“I don’t know.”

“Get him on the phone. I want to talk to him.” Rapp pivoted and faced Nash. “You’ve got about a minute to convince me. We need to be out there, not in here. We need to be kicking down the door of every scumbag we can find and maybe if we get a whiff that Iran is behind this, we need to return the favor.”

“I’m as pissed at him as you are. He broke our first rule. He forgot who he works for. It’s not State… it’s us. But you said it yourself. The clock is ticking. This trail is going colder by the second and let’s face it… Rick’s got the brains, not the brawn. If he hasn’t already broken it won’t take much longer. We need Darren to give us everything now. Not two or three days from now when he’s back at Langley and Irene finally makes him see what a jackass he’s been.” The LasT Man 93

Rapp didn’t like it, but Nash was right. “Then put all the cards on the table and give him two clear choices: He either gets his shit together and remembers which team he plays for or he’s done. This is his last chance.”

Nash nodded and said, “I think you should be the one to deliver that message.”

Before Rapp could reply, Coleman handed him the phone. “Hub… did Rick tell you that he had Ajax put down by the vet down there in Jalalabad or did you just assume he did?” Rapp listened as Hubbard relayed his answer and then said, “Text me the info on the vet here in Kabul. I’m going to have a talk with him.” Rapp handed the phone back to Coleman and before he could return the problem of Darren Sickles, Nash asked a question of his own.

“What was that all about?”

Rapp wasn’t about to go into his suspicions. Not until he had more information. “I’m just trying to run down a few leads. Darren is all yours. I need to get out of this building or I’m going to commit some serious violence.”

“Give me five minutes,” Nash begged, holding up the fingers on his right hand.

“No. I’m sick of talking. I need to get back out there.”

“A vet… what in the hell is he going to tell you?”

“Don’t worry about me. Focus on Darren and those other idiots. We’ve got more people coming in,” Rapp checked his watch, “about three hours from now. They need to hit the ground running and that means you have to put a game plan together for them.”

Nash’s face soured. “Who said I was the office manager?”

“It goes along with your fancy new title. You’re the senior man on the ground, so you get to stay here and babysit everyone while we go kick down some doors and knock a few heads.”

“This is bullshit.”

Rapp smiled. “You’re a national hero. We can’t afford to lose you.”

“More bullshit,” Nash barked. “You were there, too. In fact, you were the crazy son of a bitch who rushed those guys with nothing more than a pistol.”

“Shhhhh.” Rapp said with a finger over his mouth. “That is classified information.” He laughed and then said to Coleman, “Get the boys saddled up.”

“You want to travel light or in force?”

“Light… just you, me, Joe, and Reavers. And none of that MRAP shit.” Rapp started to walk with Coleman at his side. “Find us an old beat-up sedan.”

Nash was genuinely conflicted as he watched Rapp and Coleman walk down the long hallway. It pained him to not be included in stuff like this. He had officially become a paper pusher and it killed him. It made his wife a great deal happier, and in light of the fact that he had four kids, one of whom was still in diapers, it was probably a good idea to hang up his spurs, but God, he missed it.

The assassin had killed eighty-seven of his fellow human beings. At least that was how many he had specifically tallied. There were likely a few more, bodyguards and such, who died later from injuries suffered at his hands. So he reasoned the number could be as high as one hundred, but the official tally stood at eighty-seven. Many of those kills he was proud of, nasty people who were creating pain and destruction in their lust for power or profit. There were also more than a few that he knew he’d answer to his maker for. Most of those came early in his career before he’d honed his skills and become more selective. Some were mistakes, and some were a simple lack of experience. He’d used his hands, wires, knives, and poison, but most often he used a gun or a rifle. There were a few regrettable times when he’d employed explosives, which were extremely effective, but unruly in the sense that the odds for collateral damage increased dramatically.

He was good at killing. Too good, really, and that was what brought about his near downfall. You didn’t get good in this line of work from a lack of confidence, but you could definitely end up dead from an overabundance of belief in your abilities. After thirteen years in the business he learned that there were certain times when you needed to say no-sometimes for no reason other than the fact that you’d said yes too many times. The challenge to test your abilities and the money were incredible motivators, and he’d found himself competing to be the best. Increasingly, he needed to take the most difficult jobs, so he could prove to himself that he had no peer. It was stupid, really, as if there would one day be an awards ceremony for the greatest assassin of the last decade.

Eventually his ego and an extremely big payday put him on a collision course with mortality. That one job had changed everything. It had made him wiser. He was still confident, but he was also keenly aware of his weaknesses and the fact there were others out there who were every bit as talented as he was, and even a few who were better. The last and final piece was perhaps the most difficult to judge. By necessity, he never met his employers. He didn’t want them to know what he looked like, and if they had any brains they knew it was best not to reveal themselves to a world-class killer. This type of arrangement necessitated a middleman who was able to negotiate contracts and make sure that payments were made on time. He had used three such individuals over the years. The first two were dead-one of natural causes, the other from a bullet to the back of the head while he was taking a leisurely stroll through del Retiro Park in Madrid. The Spaniard, it turned out, didn’t fully embrace the confidential aspect of their work, and it didn’t help that he was stealing money from him.

His agent for the last two-plus years had been a Russian, and up until this point things had gone smoothly. This current contract was beginning to take on the stench of a job that he should have declined. Separate the most obvious problem, which was the target, and he was left with a bevy of red flags. Chief among them, his employer was showing himself to be a control freak. Just in the last few hours the anonymous employer had provided information that left him to wonder who he might be. It was natural to wonder such things in this line of work, but more often than not, there was a simple motivation. This one was beginning to feel different. The mystery man was feeding him with information that could be provided only by someone on the inside. In the assassin’s mind, that distinctly raised the possibility that he was being watched. The anonymous employer was now calling the shots at a level the assassin did not like. This employer was a puppet master who thought he needed to pull the assassin’s strings, as if the assassin was an amateur. After revealing that the target was none other than Mitch Rapp, a bellman delivered a large manila envelope with which contained an address, a map, a key, and specific instructions on when and how he was to take the shot. The assassin was at first offended. He was the professional, after all. If this employer was so good at this, he should come and take the shot himself.