Vince Flynn - American Assassin

“I don’t want to be in the position of defending Ivanov, but I think we need more evidence before we settle on him as the thief.”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

Sayyed nodded. “You are correct. Mikhail Ivanov is not exactly the most honest man I know.”

“And let’s not forget the little falling-out he had with our Turkish friend,” Badredeen added.

Sayyed was the one who had passed on the information he’d picked up from Damascus. Hamdi Sharif, the arms dealer whom they had worked with for close to a decade, had reportedly had a fight with Ivanov over a business deal. A month later, Sharif ended up assassinated on a park bench in front of his house. He had asked Ivanov about it, but of course the man had denied any connection.

Mughniyah placed his big hairy right hand on the table. He tapped a thick finger and said, “Moscow is a den of thieves. I warned all of you about this years ago. The collapse has turned it into a free-for-all where the most brutal simply take what they want.”

Sayyed could not argue with what he had said. “So what do we do?”

“You say the Russian will be here Friday?”

“Yes.”

“Good. We are going to have a little auction.”

The word seemed to wake up Radih. “What kind of auction?”

“The kind where we sell the American spies to the highest bidder.”

“What bidders?” Sayyed asked.

“Don’t worry,” Mughniyah cautioned. “Just make sure the Russian is here, and I’ll take care of the rest.”

“What about Damascus? I must report this missing money.”

Mughniyah shook his head. “Not yet. Give me a few days and then you can tell them.”

RAPP stepped out into the hot afternoon sun and looked over the edge of the veranda. The narrow street that snaked its way up the hill was barely wide enough for a single car to pass. Down at the bottom, maybe a hundred yards away, he could see the Toyota pickup truck blocking the street. The houses on this little goat hill were all flat-roofed. Clotheslines were strung up and shirts and pants and other garments flapped in the breeze. Beneath him, in the tiny courtyard, three vehicles were packed in with no more than a few feet in between. The ten-foot wall had a ring of razor wire strung from one end to the other. He looked to his right and found a stack of green fiberglass crates. Stenciled on the side in black letters were a string of numbers and letters that he didn’t understand, then a few that he did.

Each crate contained multiple M72 LAW antiarmor weapons. Next to those were a crate of rounds for an M203 grenade launcher that was leaning against the wall. Above that, affixed to the wall, was a hand-drawn laminated map that marked the distance and elevation to certain landmarks up to a mile away. Rapp was wondering what all this stuff was for when he heard the voice of the man who had pulled him out of the safe house the night before.

“We call this the sky box… not anymore really, but during the height of the war we would sit up here and watch it all unfold.”

Rapp turned around to find Rob Ridley sipping on a bright red can of Coke. “Sky box?”

Ridley approached the edge of the balcony, pointed toward the ocean to the north, and then drew his hand south. “See that big, ugly scar that runs from the north to the south?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s the famous Green Line. We’d sit up here and watch them fight, like a football game. That’s why we called it the sky box.”

Rapp pointed to the stack of U.S. Army crates. “Looks like you guys did more than watch.”

“That shit is more for self-defense, although I saw some badass snipers roll through here. That’s the unwritten story about this little war… the snipers. They did most of the damage. We found that they were getting a little close.” Hurley pointed up at the overhang. “They started sending rounds in here on a daily basis. We put up sandbags, and then after one of our guys got killed, we put in a request for a couple of those badasses from Fort Bragg. Two of them showed up five days later.” Ridley pointed at the map on the wall. “They put that thing together. In six days they had thirty-one recorded kills, and that pretty much solved the problem. Kinda like bringing in an exterminator.” Ridley laughed and then added, “That’s classified, so don’t go around telling that story to just anyone.”

“How long have we had a presence up here?”

“You’d have to ask Stan that question. I was still in the Marine Corps when they blew our barracks up.” Ridley pointed to the south. “Right over there. I showed up in ’88. That was when we started rotating sniper teams through here. They loved it. In fact this is where the D Boys battle-tested the first Barrett.50 cal. He shot a guy just over seven thousand feet away.”

“That’s more than a mile.”

“One-point-three and some change.” Hurley looked off toward the Green Line. “Strange breed, those snipers. Pretty quiet lot… kept to themselves for the most part, but that night they got shitfaced and naked. I guess seven thousand feet is a pretty rare club. At any rate I think we’ve been up here since ’85.”

“I thought we pulled out,” Rapp said.

“Langley never pulls out… or at least rarely. Shit, this little outpost is what stopped this thing from being a complete disaster. We knew everything Damascus was up to. We helped blow up supply convoys, target the occasional asshole who wandered too far away from his home turf. We even taught these guys how to use indirect fire and the other side knew we were here, too. That’s why they sent those snipers after us.”

“So this is where you’re based?” Rapp asked, thinking it didn’t make a lot of sense.

“No.” Ridley shook his head. “Not for over a year. Things are too quiet around here now.”

“So what exactly do you do for Langley?”

“I’m kind of here and there. I guess you could call me a floater.”

Rapp had no idea what that meant and got the distinct impression that Ridley wasn’t going to enlighten him any further. Rapp let out a yawn. His nights and days were upside-down. After their mad dash from the apartment, Ridley had filled in some of the blanks. The problem was that beyond the obvious fact that Hurley and Richards had been picked up, Ridley had very few details. Rapp had pressed him hard, wanting to know what Langley was doing to find them. Ridley had to admit not much of anything. Langley was sending a small six-man SOG team, and they were actively trying to collect any intel that would aid in a rescue.

Ridley worked his sources well past midnight, but every single one of them seemed to have conflicting information. Finally at 4:00 A.M. he sent Rapp to bed and told him to get some rest. He assured Rapp he’d been through more than a few of these abductions, and they tended to progress slowly, especially for the first few days. Rapp had a hard time falling asleep. He couldn’t stop himself from imagining what Hurley and Richards were going through. As part of his training, he’d spent two days tied to a chair. Guys would come in randomly and smack him around. They even gave him some low-voltage shocks from a small engine battery. There was nothing remotely enjoyable about the experience, and Hurley had cautioned them that it paled in comparison to what they would go through at the hands of a sadist or a skilled interrogator. Finally, around sunrise, he had dozed off.

“Listen, I know what you’re going through.”

Rapp gave him a sideways glance. Ridley was a few inches shorter and a decade or so older. Rapp couldn’t quite figure out if he was an optimist or a pessimist. He seemed to kind of float back and forth between the two.

“I’ve known Stan for six years. I’d do anything to try to save the guy. But we need to get some good intel before we can even consider lifting a finger.”