Vince Flynn - American Assassin

His arms were pinned beneath him. He cracked one eye and thought of the ultimate yin and yang-life and death. He wondered if it was normal to think about it so much or if he should bring it up to Lewis when he made it back stateside. That was if he made it back. That thought brought a smile to his face. He had no idea why he found it amusing that someone might kill him, but he did. Probably because there was a better-than-even chance that whoever the man was, he had no idea the kind of fight he was in for. Rapp didn’t discuss it with anyone, not even Lewis or Kennedy, but he was good at this kind of work and he was getting better.

At twenty-three he was already intimately familiar with death. There was his father and then Mary, and now less than a week ago he’d stared into the eyes of a man and pulled the trigger. And as life drained from the man’s face, he had felt nothing. At least not guilt, or sorrow, or nerves. It was as if a calm had passed over him. And then last night, the bizarre home invasion of Herr Dorfman. When he’d signed on with Kennedy, he hadn’t had that type of thing in mind. Killing a man in the manner that he’d killed Sharif, he’d dreamed of at least a thousand times. Dorfman, never. Never once had his fertile imagination predicted that he would see a man shot in the head while he clutched his prized poodle.

Without warning, or any real conscious decision, he jumped out of bed, assumed the position, and started doing push-ups. He thought of the old saying. If you’re not busy living, you’re dying. It felt good to be living. He ripped through fifty push-ups, flipped over, and did fifty sit-ups, and then decided he needed to take a run. He dug out his gear. It was four-thirty-seven in the afternoon. His running shoes were virtually brand-new, as the last pair had been stuffed in a garbage can in Istanbul. With a house this big, Rapp assumed they had to have a workout room. He was right. A staff member must have heard him coming down the stairs and met him in the foyer. He escorted Rapp back upstairs, down the hallway past his room to the far wing of the house. The room had windows on three sides, a treadmill, a bike, and a rowing machine, as well as a universal machine and some dumbbells.

Rapp got on the treadmill, picked the mountain course, and hit start. For the next thirty minutes the ramp rose and fell, and all the while he kept a six-minute pace. When the digital readout told him he’d run five miles, he punched the red stop button and jumped off, his chest heaving, sweat dripping from his face. He didn’t even have enough left for a cool-down. As he stood hunched over, his hands on his knees, he wondered for a brief moment if he might vomit. And that was when she walked into the room. Rapp stood up straight, a pained look on his face, and tried to take in a full breath.

“Here you are,” she said in near perfect English. “I have been looking all over for you.”

Rapp could hardly conceal his surprise. Here, standing before him, was possibly the most attractive woman he’d ever laid eyes on, and she was looking for him. Still out of breath, he started to speak but stopped. The nausea came back and he decided rather quickly that he needed to open one of the windows or he really was going to vomit in front of this beauty. He held up a single finger and said, “Excuse me.”

Rapp cranked one of the windows open and took in the fresh cold air. A couple of deep breaths later the nausea began to pass. “Sorry,” he said as he turned back around. “I’m a little out of shape.”

The blond beauty placed a hand on her hip and gave him an appraising look. “I don’t see anything wrong with your shape.”

Rapp laughed nervously and, not knowing how to respond, said, “You look great… too, I mean, you don’t look like you need to work out… is what I mean.” That’s what came out of his mouth. Inside his brain he was screaming at himself. You’re a moron.

“Thank you.” She flashed him a perfect set of white teeth.

That was when Rapp noticed the dimple on her chin. Her overall looks had knocked him so off-kilter that he was just now getting around to categorizing her individual features: blue eyes, platinum blond hair pulled back in a high ponytail, prominent cheekbones, like some Nordic goddess. Weren’t these people all related somehow? A tiny little upturned nose. The dimple on the chin, though, that had caught his attention for some reason.

“My grandfather sent me to find you.”

That was where he had seen it. Herr Ohlmeyer had that same dimple, or cleft, or whatever it was that they called it. Somehow it looked much better on her. Rapp smiled and offered his hand, “I’m Mitch… I mean Mike.” Get hold of yourself, his brain screamed at him.

“Greta. Pleased to meet you.”

The smile made him a bit wobbly in the knees. Of course you are, Rapp thought to himself. The image of Greta in pigtails and lederhosen with a white blouse and ample cleavage, holding a couple of beer steins, flashed across his mind. What the hell is wrong with me? He noticed her face muscles tighten a bit and then she looked down at their still-clasped hands. “Oh, I’m sorry,” Rapp said as he released her hand. He hustled over to the shelf where the towels were and grabbed her one. Instead of giving it to her, he began mopping her hand. “I’m so sorry.”

She laughed nervously and took the towel from him. “My grandfather wanted me to tell you, drinks are being served at six sharp in the library. Jacket and tie are required. His rules, not mine.”

“Okay,” Rapp replied, and then, feeling some irrational need to keep talking, he asked, “What are you wearing?”

She crinkled up her nose and said, “You are funny.”

And then she was gone. In stunned silence Rapp watched her leave. He didn’t know how it was possible, but she looked every bit as good from behind. She was in a pair of jeans that were tucked into brown leather riding boots. The door closed with a click that snapped Rapp out of his trance. He slapped himself in the head twice. “What are you, fifteen, you moron?”

He tried to finish the workout, but his mind wasn’t in it, so he went back to his room, took a cold shower, and thought about Greta. Romance, companionship, call it whatever you want, it was not something he had put a lot of thought into since losing Mary. He’d had a few flings here and there, but they were purely physical. They all wanted to fix him. That was the problem. They knew who he was, and that he’d lost his high-school sweetheart in the attack that had so devastated Syracuse. Being the captain of a national championship lacrosse team, at a school that was crazy about the sport, virtually guaranteed that a certain number of women would end up in his lap. Unfortunately, they eventually wanted to talk about his feelings, about how he was coping with the loss and heartache. Nothing could have been more unappealing to him. His feelings, his personal agony, were no one else’s business.

It had been almost four years now. Maybe that was what was going on. Time really was healing the wound. Or maybe it was Sharif and Dorfman. Maybe tossing their bodies down that big hollow pit in the back of his mind had helped stay the pain. Or maybe it was simply the fact that Greta was so stunning, she’d blinded him into forgetting his past for a moment. No, that couldn’t have been it. At least not all of it. He’d met plenty of gorgeous women the past few years, and none of them had hit him with this kind of lightning bolt.

Rapp knotted his tie in the mirror and decided to leave the question there. It was a riddle. An unsolved problem, more than likely all the above, or some of the above. And what did it really matter? He’d felt something he hadn’t felt in years and wasn’t sure he would ever feel again. The spark of a crush, or love at first sight, he had no idea. He had a hard time buying the latter. More than likely it was simple lust. Two young, attractive people, their pheromones in overdrive. Was there a chance she felt the same thing? He recalled the look she’d given him as she gave him the once-over.