Vince Flynn - The Last Man

One of the glass doors opened and the assassin stepped slowly into the lobby. He glanced at Coleman and then focused on Rapp. “We need to talk and we must do it quickly.”

“Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t shoot you.”

Louie Gould kept his hands in the air and gave a slight shrug. “I can give you several, but since time is of the essence, let’s start with the fact that I didn’t shoot you in the head when you got out of your truck a minute ago. Even more important, I think you’re going to need my help in the very near future. Possibly the next thirty seconds.”

Despite the anger that was coursing through his veins, Rapp’s pistol was extremely steady. “What in the hell are you talking about?”

Gould took a quick look around the waiting room. He would have preferred to have this discussion in a more intimate setting, but there was no time for that, so before he got into the details he looked at Rapp’s blond-haired friend and said, “I told your guys outside that they should call for backup but I don’t think they took my advice. Trust me, you are going to want to make that call and do it quickly.” The assassin then said to Rapp, “I still take the occasional contract.”

Rapp shook his head. “That wasn’t part of the deal.”

“I know,” he said sheepishly, “but we needed money and I have been very selective.” He shook his head, showing the first sign of frus 12 0 Vince FLy nn tration. “We can discuss this all later. The important thing is that I took a contract from an anonymous employer. My instructions were to fly into Kabul yesterday. About ninety minutes ago I received instructions to come to an office building on this street. When I arrived, this rifle was waiting for me along with a photograph of my target.” Gould pointed at Rapp. “You.”

“You’re full of shit.”

“I wish I was, but that’s not the real problem.” Gould kept his hands up while he took a step back to see if he could see what was going on at the one end of the block. As he did so, one of Rapp’s men came through the door.

It was Maslick. “There’s something going on out here. Both ends of the street are blocked by the police and they’ve got about ten guys at each end that look like they’re planning some kind of an assault.”

Gould confirmed with his own eyes what the man had said. “They’re here to kill you. And me, too, I suppose.”

A single rifle shot cracked the relative calm of the afternoon. The four men in the lobby were all combat veterans and none of them flinched. They all looked at Reavers, who was standing on the sidewalk. Before any of them could react, a fusillade of bullets rang out. The glass doors shattered and when they looked up, Reavers was falling to the ground.

Coleman shouted above the roar of the rifle shots, “Suppressive fire? I’ll grab him.”

Rapp moved to his left and pushed his back against the wall while Maslick moved to his right and did the same. Both men began squeezing off well-aimed shots at the officers at the opposite end of the street. Coleman holstered his gun, yanked open the door, and grabbed Reavers by the tactical vest. The big man didn’t budge on the first try so Coleman put all of his muscle into it. Bullets were zipping past his head in both directions. He backpedaled into the reception area and immediately noticed the streak of red blood on the white tile floor. Out of the line of direct fire he knelt and tried to find where he’d been shot. His hands slid over Reavers’s body, checking for blood. Within seconds he found two fatal wounds. The first was in his hairline on the top right side of his head and the second was in the groin. Reavers’s brain was gone, but his heart was still pumping, and from the looks of the pool of blood on the floor, his femoral artery had been hit.

In battle, the passage of time slowed for Coleman. In a brief instant he acknowledged that his friend was gone and that now was not the time to deal with it. That would come later-anger, frustration, genuine sadness, and some laughs, to be sure, but right now was about survival.

“Reavers is dead,” Coleman announced above the roar of fire. He grabbed his friend’s M-4 rifle and started stuffing his extra magazines into his vest and cargo pockets.

Rapp stole a quick glance at Reavers’s lifeless body, and then he noticed the frightened look on the little boy’s face. He yelled to Coleman. “Get these people back into one of the exam rooms!”

Gould showed up at Rapp’s side and dropped to one knee. He began firing well-aimed single shots. In less than five seconds he counted three kills with as many shots. “We need to put someone on the roof.” After a couple more shots he yelled, “And you might want to see if you can get someone to come help us!”

“Scott,” Rapp barked without taking his eyes off the street, “call Mike and tell him what we’re up against. Tell him we need a Quick Reaction Force ASAP or we’re all dead.” Rapp stepped back, ejected an empty magazine, and popped in a fresh one. Yelling back to Coleman he added, “A gunship would be nice!” Rapp popped off a couple of rounds and saw a man go down. Then, looking down at Gould, he said, “Get up on the roof and see what you can do. I’ll join you as soon as I can. How much ammo do you have?”

Gould shook his head. “Just this one thirty-round magazine, and then I’m down to my pistol.”

Rapp noted the make and model of the pistol in Gould’s vest. “At these distances I bet you’re pretty good with that thing.”

Gould nodded. “The best.”

“We’ll see about that. Grab one extra magazine for the M-4 from the blond guy, and then get your ass up on the roof before we’re all dead.”

Coleman had stashed the old man, the mother and son, their animals, and the receptionist in one of the exam rooms down the hall. Rapp assumed there were some nurses and at least one vet somewhere in the building, but there wasn’t a lot he could do about their safety other than keep the local police at bay until the cavalry arrived. As best he could tell, three more pickups filled with combat-clad cops had arrived. It begged the question, could that many Kabul police officers be corrupt?

The front entrance to the clinic was a tangled mess of broken glass and chipped stone. The door, and the two side windows, were completely blown out and the metal frame was twisted and punctured from bullet strikes. Rapp was about five feet from the edge with his back pressed against the wall. Maslick was standing directly across from him. They were alternating darting out and taking a few shots to keep the cops from rushing the door. So far they were succeeding, but just barely. Rapp watched Maslick eject a spent magazine and insert a fresh one. Their advantage in this fight was their ability to hit targets with consistent, frightening accuracy. Coleman, Maslick, and Rapp had all fired thousands of practice rounds a month with pistols, carbines, and long rifles. Rapp had no idea how much Gould practiced, but his fee was likely a good predictor of his ability. Even though they were outgunned, this was all going to come down to ammunition.

Rapp knew a little about how these men were selected and trained. Most of them were simply trying to make a living and were extremely brave, as the Taliban often targeted them and their families. He found the idea that they were all corrupt to be a bit of a stretch. It was more plausible that it was someone in their chain of command who was corrupt. Rapp thought of Commander Zahir down in Jalalabad. Until recently the man had been a terrorist and had a bounty on his head, courtesy of the U.S. government. Not only was the bounty gone, but the man was now on our payroll. How many assholes like Zahir were now wearing the uniform of the Afghan Police? Innocent or not, these cops were trying to kill Rapp and his men, so he was left with no alternative if he wanted to survive.