Vince Flynn: The Last Man

“Who is he?” Rapp asked.

“Commander Abdul Siraj Zahir. ALP.”

ALP stood for Afghan Local Police. “What’s his story?” “Up until six months ago he was an insurgent. More of a crime boss, really. Extorted and kidnapped every village between here and the border, and now with the new reintegration program the geniuses in Kabul have seen fit to put him in charge of the local police.”

The info clicked and Rapp remembered the name. He and his group were responsible for a good number of the roadside bombs in the area. “Was he on Rick’s payroll?”

“They were working on it.” Hubbard motioned to the guards at the door and said, “It’s all right. Let him in.”

With obvious displeasure on his face, Zahir pushed his way past the guards and approached Hubbard, Rapp, and Coleman. He focused his attention on Hubbard and unleashed a torrent of expletives that were meant to punctuate his less-than-stellar view of Hubbard’s abilities and his view in general of Americans.

Rapp took a step back, his dark eyes dissecting this strange man who had so rudely forced his way into the safe house. The bombastic behavior and bluster were not entirely unexpected, but something else was. The fact that Hubbard was letting this piece of human refuse walk all over him. Rapp reminded himself that Hubbard didn’t have the luxury of flying under the radar as he did. He had to report to his boss in Kabul, Darren Sickles, who was more concerned with appearances than results. Sickles had to work side by side with the alphabet soup of U.S. agencies and departments that had come up with the touchyfeely reintegration program. The consensus with the foot soldiers in the Clandestine Service was that Sickles didn’t back them up. Rapp was willing to bet that this unhealthy and unproductive style of cooperation had something to do with Sickles.

When Zahir was done berating Hubbard he turned to Rapp and Coleman and asked, “And who in the hell are these two? Why wasn’t I called about these murders?”

Never one to run from a fight, Rapp squared himself so he was within striking distance of the police officer. Even though the man looked over fifty he was probably in his early forties like Rapp. Unlike Rapp, though, he was pudgy and out of shape. He had a little potbelly and that ridiculous shoe-polish-black beard.

Hubbard started to answer but Rapp reached out and grabbed his arm. Turning his eyes on the Afghani, Rapp said, “Who I am is none of your fucking business. As to why we didn’t call you, that should be obvious. You’re a thug and a piece of shit.”

Zahir’s face flushed with anger and he began to stutter.

Hubbard put up his hands and said. “Commander… what he’s trying to say is that it has been a very busy morning and that we were about to call you.”

Rapp kept his eyes on the Zahir but directed his ire at the Jalalabad base chief. “Hub, shut up. That’s not what I was about to say. I was about to tell this little yellow turd that I know exactly who he is, and if he has a half a brain he’ll get the hell out of here before I shoot him.”

“How dare you speak to me in such a way.” Zahir stepped back and began clutching at his big leather holster for his sidearm.

From the right inside fold of his jacket, Rapp produced his Glock 19 in an easy, fluid motion. Zahir was still struggling with the flap on his holster when he looked up to find the square black frame of Rapp’s gun in his face.

“I want you to listen to me,” Rapp said in an easy tone, “and I don’t want you to say a fucking word until I’m done.”

Coleman had already drawn his gun, a big H amp;K. 45 caliber, and maneuvered to cover the other two police officers who were just one step inside the doorway. The safety was already off and he spoke to the officers in Pashto, telling them to keep their hands where he could see them.

Rapp pressed the gun into Zahir’s face just under his nose. “Here’s what you need to know. I’m not some State Department weenie, or some two-star corporate general who thinks the best way to advance my career is to kiss your terrorist ass and get the hell out of this place so someone else can come deal with all you assholes again in twenty years. I’m the guy they call when the shit hits the fan. I’m the one they bring in to get results because they know I don’t play by the rules. I know who you are. I know you’ve killed plenty of GIs and you’ve tormented and kidnapped your fellow citizens for your own profit. You’re a bully and piece of shit and you’re the kind of guy who I actually enjoy killing. Normally I don’t put a lot of thought into the people I shoot, but you fall into a special category. I figure I’d be doing the human race a favor by ending your worthless life. Add to that the fact that I’m in a really bad mood. In fact I’m in such a shitty mood that putting a bullet in your head might be just the thing to make me feel better.”

Rapp studied the man for a moment and then tilted his head toward his right shoulder as if he thought there might be some other way to deal with him. “In the interest of fairness, I suppose I should give you a chance to convince me otherwise.”

Zahir’s chest was heaving as he struggled to get his lungs working. His eyes nervously darted between Hubbard and this crazed man sticking a gun in his face. He’d been around plenty of killers and felt he could tell the difference between the pretenders and the men who meant what they said. This man had the look of someone who clearly meant what he said. The only lifeline that came to mind was the person who had negotiated Zahir into leaving behind his lawless ways.

“Mr. Sickles is a good friend of mine,” Zahir sputtered. “He is a very good friend. He is a very important man. He will be very upset when he finds out about this.”

Rapp’s instincts were right. The Kabul station chief had put this goon in a position of power. “Darren Sickles,” Rapp said, with contempt dripping from each word, “is important in his own mind, but that’s about as far as it goes.”

“He is the CIA’s man here in my country!”

“He’s an idiot, and the fact that he put you in a police uniform pretty much proves the point, so you’re going to have to come up with something better than Darren Sickles.”

Zahir licked his dry lips and struggled to find something that would make this American reconsider his vile threat. After an uncomfortably long silence, nothing had come to mind, so Zahir forced a smile on his face and retreated a step. “I think it would be best if I left.”

Rapp grabbed the man’s uniform shirt. “That’s not an option. You either come up with a way to show me you might be useful, or I’m going to blow your brains all over the floor.”

Zahir’s eyes showed hope and he said, “Useful?”

“That’s right.”

“I can be extremely valuable.”

“I’m listening.”

“I know many people… I know many things. I can get you anything you want.” Zahir’s nature allowed him to go only so far, and he quickly added, “For the right price, of course.”

“The right price,” Rapp said, amused by the comment. “I’m going to tell you how this is going to work and that’s only if you can prove to me that I should let you live. You’re not going to get paid a dime. The only thing you’ll get from me is your life, which I would assume is fairly important to you.”

“It is very important to me, but I am not a wealthy man.”

“Stop talking about money. You’re boring me and if you bore me enough this negotiation will be over and you’ll be dead.”

“Tell me what it is you want me to do. I will do anything.”

Rapp thought about Rickman. The truth was, very few people knew what the man was up to. In a general sense Kennedy and a few others knew his operational orders, but in terms of specifics, Rickman had left them in the dark. Zahir might be able to pull back the curtains on some of those details. “The man who lives here, you know him?”