Vince Flynn - American Assassin

“Understood.” SOG stood for Special Operations Group. There was a good chance Hurley would know the men. “Air cover?”

“If you need it he’ll get it. Last resort, though.”

Before Hurley could comment, there was a banging on the side of the plane and he realized it was time to go. Kennedy passed him two files. “Those are for you. This one,” she said as she handed him a third, “is for Mitch. Make sure he knows to destroy it before he makes contact with Ismael.”

“Will do.” Hurley stood. “Anything else?”

Kennedy joined him in the aisle. She didn’t want him to go, but he was a good soldier, so there was no stopping him. So much of their shared sorrow revolved around that once-beautiful city on the eastern shore of the Mediterranean.

Hurley could see that she was concerned, and he knew why. He gave her a hug and said, “Don’t worry. Everything will be fine.”

“Yeah,” she said, not really believing it herself and holding back the tears. “Beirut’s still a nasty place.” She stayed strong for him. There was no turning back now that he knew. The only thing to do was support him. She kissed him on the cheek and said, “Be careful.”

WHEN it was all done Rapp would swear that he felt the zip of the bullet as it passed his left temple. It was that close. The only thing that saved him was the awkward movement that the Libyan made as he drew his pistol. The fake was weak. He looked over his left shoulder a bit too dramatically and then swung back to his right, drawing his gun, his long overcoat flaring like a matador’s cape. The other reason Rapp didn’t fall for it was that mean old cuss Stan Hurley. It was the first time Rapp could honestly say he was grateful for all the shit Hurley had heaped on him. All of that damn methodical, shitty training paid off in the split second it took Ismael to draw his gun and turn on him.

The fact that Rapp didn’t want to kill the wrong man also contributed to the harsh reality that he was now cowering behind a Swiss mailbox, rounds of an undetermined caliber thudding into the metal receptacle at an alarming rate. And Hurley had been right, of course. He had told them that there were two ways to win a gunfight. Either land the first shot or find cover and conserve your ammunition. Hurley had put them in a situation so similar to this that it was now damn near calming to listen to his opponent mindlessly fire one shot after the next into a four-sided box of steel that had survived every change of season for the past fifty years.

Back in the woods of Virginia the idea was to find cover while Hurley fired live shots at you. And mind you, he didn’t fire them safely over the horizon. He liked to hit things close to you. Not rocks or anything hard enough to cause a life-ending ricochet, but soft things like dirt, sandbags, and wood. The object of the lesson was to teach you what it felt like to be shot at, so you could keep your head when confronted with the real thing. As a bonus, you learned to count not just the number of rounds you fired, but the number of rounds your opponent fired as well. At first, the exercise was unnerving, but after a while, as with most things in life, you adapted and got the hang of it.

Rapp squatted, his back pressed firmly against the mailbox, and counted the number of shots, which had been eight so far. He was waiting for the inevitable calm in the storm. There was a problem, however. While Rapp’s pistols were equipped with silencers, the Libyan’s gun was not. Eight extremely loud gunshots had rung out in a city with one of the lowest murder rates in the entire industrialized world. It might as well have been an artillery barrage.

There was no telling how many extra magazines the Libyan had in his possession, but he doubted the man could match the seventy-two rounds Rapp carried. Rapp released the grip of his still-holstered Beretta and stabbed the big gray button on his Timex digital watch. Just as Hurley had taught him, it was set for stopwatch mode. The average response time for a police car in a city of this size was roughly three minutes. And that was assuming there wasn’t one nearby. There were rules that were flexible, and there were rules that couldn’t be broken, and killing a police officer was one of those unbreakable rules. Hurley had told them, “If you kill a cop I will kill you before they do.”

The first eight shots had come in rapid succession. By the sound they were 9mm or maybe.40 caliber at the most. Rapp never heard where the first one landed after it flew past his head, but the second shot had blown out the driver’s-side window of the white BMW parked a few feet away, which was now chirping and beeping like a car with Tourette’s syndrome. The next six had hit the mailbox. Not a smart move unless he had a second gun, and he was closing on him. Rapp though that unlikely. Ismael was spooked and on the run, which in itself bothered Rapp.

The drive from Zurich had been easy. Just under three hours, counting a quick stop to call the answering service and confirm that the target was at his place of work. The file was straightforward. They were monitoring the calls he made at work, they knew where he lived and the make and model of his car. Hurley gave Rapp specific instructions. Tail Ismael after work and follow him to his apartment. If he comes out for an errand or an evening stroll and there’s an opportunity, take him. If not, wait until morning and shoot him while he’s getting into his car. Rapp had followed the instructions to the letter, and when Ismael bowed out of his apartment at ten-oh-nine that evening, Rapp watched him round the corner and then pursued on foot.

A block later Rapp noticed that Ismael had a duffel bag slung over his left shoulder. It was at that point that the wheels started to turn in Rapp’s head. He asked himself if it was normal to leave your apartment on a crisp winter night when you should be getting into bed. It wasn’t unheard of for someone to head out after ten, but it was far from common. Especially on a Tuesday night. Throw in the overnight bag and you now had someone who might be running. That was pretty much what Rapp was thinking when Ismael pulled his lame matador move. That and wondering if he could rush him at the next intersection, shoot him in the back of the head, and be in France before midnight.

Now, because he had failed to head Hurley’s warnings, he was crouched behind a mailbox, counting bullets and wondering if Ismael had one or two guns. One more shot thudded into the mailbox and then there was a two-second pause. Rapp stuck out his gloved hand to see if he could draw a shot. He pulled it back as a tenth bullet whistled harmlessly past. It sparked off the stone sidewalk and skipped down the street. Rapp thought he heard the clank of a slide locking in the open position, but he wasn’t sure. A split second later he heard the heavy footsteps of someone running. That was it. He was either reloading or out.

Rapp drew the silenced Beretta from under his right arm and bolted between the two parked cars to his left. He stayed low, glancing over the roofs of the cars. He caught a glimpse of the Libyan as he took a left turn at the next corner. That put a smile on Rapp’s face. Run all you want, he thought. The more distance we can put between us and those ten muzzle blasts the better.

Rapp rounded the corner wide and fast, trying to keep the parked cars between himself and Ismael. They were on the Left Bank, or Rive Gauche, and Ismael was headed toward the Rhone. They had just turned off a street that was purely residential and onto one that was a mix of retail and apartments. The shops were all closed and fortunately the sidewalk was deserted. Rapp stayed in the street and broke into a full sprint. Geneva, because it was wedged between two mountain ranges on one end and a lake on the other, was even more cramped than your standard European city. The streets were barely wide enough for two small cars to pass. An American SUV was out of the question.