Vince Flynn - American Assassin

“Definitely not a SEAL,” Sergeant Smith said.

“Nope,” Sergeant Jones replied. “Not a D Boy either. Might be a gangbanger, though. That’s how those little fuckers shoot. Just spray it all over the place and hope they hit a vital organ.”

“Definitely not the way we do things around here,” Sergeant Smith said.

“Son,” the taller of the two said, “where the fuck did you learn how to shoot?”

Rapp cleared his throat and admitted, “I don’t know how to shoot, Sergeant.”

“You mean you’ve tried and suck, or you’ve never been taught?”

“Never been taught, Sergeant.”

There was an uncomfortable pause while the two instructors tried to figure out what to do. Unfortunately, Victor took the opportunity to throw in one of his asinine comments. “He shoots like a girl.”

Underneath Rapp’s bronzed skin his cheeks flushed. He had known that, due to his lack of training, shooting would be one of his weaknesses. Still, it embarrassed him that the others were so much better. Rapp looked to Sergeant Smith and asked, “Any pointers?”

The shorter man looked up at Rapp and regarded him for a moment before nodding and saying, “Let’s see you do it again.” Sergeant Smith handed him a fresh magazine.

Sergeant Jones yelled, “All right, Victor, you jackass. Get up here and show us what you can do.”

The other five stood back and watched in silence while two fresh targets were put up. Sergeant Smith stood at Rapp’s side and quietly issued instructions. He watched Rapp squeeze off one shot and then reached in to adjust his grip, elbow position, and feet. With each shot the instructor issued corrections and the grouping of shots grew tighter. This time the holes were still loose, but at least all of them were in the chest area, as opposed to all over the entire target.

Rapp heard someone giggle and he looked over at Victor’s target. The clown had shot eyes and a nose in the target and five more shots made a downturned mouth. The remainder of the shots were concentrated in the groin area.

“Victor,” Sergeant Jones said, “what in hell are you doing?”

“Long-term strategic planning, Sarge.”

“I doubt your pea-sized brain could attempt any such thing.”

“Population control,” Victor said, spitting a gob of chew on the ground. “Shoot the nuts off all the hajis and no more baby terrorists. Twenty years from now we declare victory. Brilliant, if I say so myself.”

Sergeant Jones put his hands on his hips. “Put the weapon down, Victor, and step back.” The big man did so, and then Sergeant Jones continued in a disappointed voice, “Since all of you appear to be decent shots and Victor here thinks this is a joke, we’re going to head back over to the O course where I’m going to run all of you until at least one of you pukes. Our earnest, yet respectful virgin will stay here with Sergeant Smith and attempt to learn the basics of pistol shooting.” The big sergeant eyed the group and when no one moved he said, “Well, I guess you ladies would like to do some push-ups first.” In a gruff voice he shouted, “Assume the position.”

All six men dropped to the ground and got into the plank position. They were told to start and no one said a word except Victor, who continued to complain as they counted out their punishment.

While they worked through their push-ups Sergeant Smith began instructing Rapp on the finer points of marksmanship. Rapp listened intently, digesting every word. Sergeant Smith told Rapp to aim for the head this time. He slammed a fresh magazine into the hilt and hit the slide release.

“When you have a fresh magazine in and hit the slide release, a round is automatically chambered.” The sergeant offered Rapp the weapon and said, “The hammer’s back. So she’s hot. Not every gun is like that, but that’s how the Berettas work. Also that red dot right there… red means dead. So don’t point it at anything you’re not going to shoot at and always keep that finger off the trigger until you’re ready to fire. Got it?”

Rapp nodded.

“All right, show me that stance. Keep those feet just so. You’re a lefty, so put your right foot a few inches in front of your left. Create the power triangle with your arms and place that dot right in the center of the head. Some guys get all hung up on breathing in versus exhaling, but I don’t want you to think about that crap. You’re going to need to learn to shoot on the run, so breathing in or out ain’t going to work. The main thing right now is how you squeeze that trigger. Notice how I didn’t say pull. Don’t pull it. Squeeze it straight back and put a round right through the middle of the head this time.

Rapp did everything he was told and the bullet spat from the end of the suppressor. The muzzle jumped and when it came back down Rapp was staring at a perfectly placed shot.

“Do it again,” Sergeant Smith ordered.

Rapp squeezed the trigger and the bullet struck the target half an inch to the right of the first one.

“Again.”

The third shot bridged the first and second. Rapp fell into a rhythm. He didn’t rush it, but he didn’t take too much time either. It took him less than twenty seconds to empty the rest of the magazine, and when he was done all of the rounds were within a six-inch circle-a jagged hole punched through the face of the paper target. Rapp breathed a sigh of relief.

Sergeant Smith clapped him on the shoulder and said, “You’re coachable, kid. Nice work. Let’s try this a few more times.”

Rapp was in the midst of reloading the weapon when by chance he turned his head and looked over his left shoulder. About sixty feet away, in the shadows of a big pine, a man was watching them. With the poor light Rapp couldn’t be certain who it was, but he thought it might be the guy he’d seen on the porch earlier in the morning. Rapp turned back to Sergeant Smith and was about to ask him who he was when he thought better of it. It would be a mistake to confuse a little one-on-one instruction with friendship.

DR. Lewis walked into the office, offered a faint smile to his visitor, and closed the door behind him. He’d been watching the new recruit intently for the past three days. At twenty-three he was the youngest project they had attempted to run through the program, and from what he’d seen the last few days the man showed a great deal of promise. Before sitting, Lewis glanced down at the notepad and pen sitting in the middle of the desk. Next to them sat a file with Rapp’s name written in large black letters. It was impossible to miss and intentionally so. They knew surprisingly little about the man, but then again how much could you really know about someone this young-this untested? If he listened to the irascible Hurley, inexperience was a curse, and if he listened to the more pragmatic Kennedy, it was a blessing. Lewis didn’t know who was right, but he had grown tired of listening to them bicker.

Moving behind the desk, Lewis sat in the worn leather and wood desk chair and leaned back. The chair emitted a metal squeak. The doctor ignored it and moved his eyes from the subject to the contents sitting on his desk. There were many tools in his trade-little tricks that could be used to test the people he was assigned to evaluate. Some were subtle, others more overt, but all were designed to help him get a better glimpse into the minds of the men they were recruiting. The file on the desk had been a test. Lewis had spent the last five minutes in the basement watching the recruit via a concealed camera. Rapp had sat sphinxlike in the chair. He had glanced at the file only once and then adopted a relaxed posture that spoke of boredom. Lewis didn’t know him well enough to gauge whether it was sincere, but there was something about this Mitch Rapp fellow that suggested great possibilities. There was a casualness on the surface that helped mask something far more complex.