Vince Flynn: Transfer of Power

Wicker listened to Rapp over his headset and moved the crosshairs of his optic-green scope until they were centered on the left temple of the guard sitting in front of Harut’s.

“Roger that. Iron Man. The guard looks like he’s having a hard time staying awake. Other than him, the street is all yours.”

“Roger that,” whispered Rapp. He checked his watch, took a deep breath, and then looked to Harris.

“Give me a ten second head start, and then get moving.” Harris nodded, and Rapp disappeared around the corner. There was about a six-inch lip at the edge of the flat roof.

Wicker had run all of his calculations. The wind was gusting at speeds of up to twenty knots and could potentially cause some problems, but most of that would be negated by the fact that he was only two hundred yards from the target. For Wicker, this was close.

Wicker saw Rapp appear at the opposite end of the street, one block away from the guard. The sniper licked his lips and took a slow even breath.

Rapp slid his feet in a gingerly shuffle, making a scraping noise to alert the sleepy guard to his presence before he was close enough to startle him. With his head down and posture slouched, Rapp mumbled to himself in Farsi, while his eyes checked the street.

As he neared, the guard looked his way and sat up a little straighter.

The muzzle of the gun came up, but then upon recognizing the crazy old man, the guard let his weapon fall back to his lap.

The scene was developing in a casual, nonthreatening way, just as it had a dozen times over the last three nights. As he inched down the street, Rapp continued his mumbling, stumbling, and bumbling act. When he was about twenty feet away, Rapp greeted the guard and, without giving him a chance to respond, began talking about the weather. Deftly, Rapp noted the large man’s weight location on the chair. His legs were stretched out in front of him, and his balance was back. He was in no position to spring to his feet.

At first it looked as if Rapp was going to pass right by. He gave no sign of slowing until he was right in front of the guard.

Drawing closer, as if to ask a question, he zeroed in on the Iranian’s eyes and pointed down the street with his left hand. At the same time his right hand slid underneath his robe in a smooth, almost undetectable motion. Gripping the hard rubber handle of his matte-black knife, Rapp extracted the weapon and stepped forward.

In one fluid motion, the sharp blade of the knife sliced deep into the neck of the guard just under the jawline Rapp cupped his left hand over the man’s mouth and drove the knife upward into the base of the brain.

Then with a quick twist of the handle, the guard’s entire body went from rigid to limp in one convulsion as his brain stem was severed. Rapp propped the dead man against the wall and extracted the bloody knife.

Looking over both shoulders, he wiped the knife on the guard’s brown robe and covered the wound with the dead man’s turban.

Silently, Rapp ducked into the doorway and crouched. A narrow hallway of worn wooden steps proceeded to the second story apartment. Just as he had expected, there was no way of getting up the old rickety stairs without announcing his presence.

Rapp scanned the steps leading to the second floor for trip wires and replaced his knife. From a thigh holster under his djellaba he retrieved his silenced 9-mm Beretta. Several seconds later Harris and Reavers joined him.

Rapp stood and motioned for them to follow. To the surprise of the two SEALs, Rapp coughed loudly and began climbing the stairs while complaining in Farsi of the cold night air. The two SEALs followed close behind, their suppressed MP-10s up and ready to fire. Rapp climbed to the top landing, checked to make sure Harris and Reavers were behind him, and then took one step back, brought his right foot up, and lunged forward. His kick splintered the doorframe and sent the unpainted door swinging inward. In a blaze of motion, Rapp rushed the room, his silenced Beretta up and sweeping from right to left.

The two men at the kitchen table looked up from their backgammon board with sleepy eyes. Before they had a chance to reach for their weapons, Rapp fired. The silencer coughed twice, sending a bullet into each man’s forehead. As the bodies toppled from their chairs, Rapp rushed across the room and dove through the shabby curtain that served as a door to the bedroom. He hit the floor, did a forward somersault, came up on one knee, and began to search for his target. A thin wall of light from the kitchen now cut through the bedroom in a diagonal swath. Rapp saw an arm move through the block of light and fired.

Fara Harut was lunging for his gun, but before he could reach it, a bullet smashed through his right wrist, breaking it instantly and sending it jerking away from its destination. The elderly man recoiled in pain and clutched his wounded limb.

His next reaction was to scream for help, but before he could do so, the words were sucked from his mouth.

Mitch Rapp, adrenaline pumping, had lunged from his spot on the floor and brought the butt end of the Beretta’s grip smashing down across the Iranian’s temple. Harut crumpled back dazed and bleeding.

Rapp heard Harris call “clear” from behind him, while Reavers did the same from the kitchen. With his left hand, Rapp retrieved a syringe from under his robe and pulled the protective plastic cover off with his teeth. Then he stabbed the needle into Harut’s neck and pressed the plunger. The sedative would keep him out for the next two hours.

Carefully, Rapp put the plastic cover back on the syringe and placed it in his robe. Then he began searching the room for any documents that might be useful. In the nightstand he found a gun. He removed the clip, emptied the chamber, and tossed the gun into the far corner.

Harris was now at the bedroom window, his MP-10 at the ready. Over his radio he said, “Give me a sit rep by the numbers.”

Turning to Rapp, he said, “Nice work, Mitch. I’m glad we could be here to watch.”

“We’re not out of here yet. Harry.” Rapp continued searching for anything of value.

Harris kept his eye on the street and listened to his men report in.

When they were done, he said, “All right. Jordan and Tony, get your asses up here. Slick, keep me posted on what’s going on outside. We’re heading up to the roof.”

As Harris walked back into the kitchen, he pointed to the ladder on the far wall and said, “Reavers, get up on the roof and test the strobe…and make sure you check for wires on that hatch before you open it.”

Reavers climbed the short ladder and looked at the edges of the square hatch that led to the flat roof: After he was sure there were no booby traps, he opened the hatch and climbed onto the roof.

Harris, in the meantime, opened the back door just in time to greet his two men who were climbing the rickety stairs from the alley. Pointing to the front and back stairways Harris said, “Booby-trap both of ‘em.” Then he spun and went back toward the bedroom saying, “Bravo Six, this is Whiskey Five. We are ready for pickup. What’s your ETA? Over.”

The reply from the helicopters came back.

“We are seven two seconds out. I repeat, seven two seconds out. Over.”

Harris checked his watch. They were within fifteen seconds of their planned extraction time.

“Slick, what’s going on outside?”

Down the street. Wicker rubbed the trigger guard of his rifle while he scanned the dark street with his night-vision scope.

“Everything is quiet so far.”

Back in the bedroom, Rapp had turned his attention to cuffing and gagging Harut. Harris came through the doorway as he was finishing up.

“Mitch, let’s go. The chopper is on its way in.”