Vince Flynn - American Assassin

“Mikhail, I am-”

“Don’t say it again. If you are truly sorry you will tell me who the mystery American is. If not, I am done playing games and I will leave.”

Mughniyah had specifically told him not to divulge that information until he was there, but Sayyed was growing weary of the man’s paranoia. He did not trust Ivanov, but he couldn’t see what harm could be caused by telling him about Bill Sherman. “I will give you a sneak peak, but you have to play dumb when Mughniyah gets here.” Turning, Sayyed said, “Follow me.” As they walked over to a folding table, he said, “This American is rumored to have been heavily involved in some of the CIA’s most sensitive operations. Including operations directed at your country.” There were three files on the table. Sayyed picked up one and handed it to Ivanov.

Ivanov had been preparing himself for this for the past twenty-four hours. He had expected to see the man in person, but in a way it would be easier for him to downplay his reaction this way. He opened the file, looked at the Polaroid photo of the American spy, and nearly gasped. Ivanov hid his emotions and tilted his head as if he were trying to place the face, even though he knew with absolute certainty who the man was. He and Stan Hurley had tangled back in Berlin a long time ago. Hurley had become such a problem that he had sent two of his best men to kill him one night. Neither came back. Their bodies were found floating in the Spree River the next day. The day after that, Hurley marched into Ivanov’s office in broad daylight and put a gun to his head. Hurley explained the rules to him that morning, rules that Ivanov already knew, but had nonetheless ignored. The Americans and Russians were not supposed to kill each other. It was all part of the new détente of the Cold War, the easing of tensions in the early seventies brought about by Nixon and Brezhnev. The American then gagged him, blindfolded him, tied him up, and pilfered his files.

When Hurley was done, he loosened the ropes on Ivanov’s wrists a bit and whispered in his ear, “You should be able to wiggle your way out of these in a few minutes. By then I’ll be gone, and you’ll be faced with two options. You can scream your head off and try to chase me. If you do that your bosses and everyone else back in Moscow will know that you let an American waltz into your office in the middle of the day, tie you up, and steal your files. You will be an embarrassment to the KGB, and we both know how much the KGB likes to be embarrassed. Your other option… well, let’s just say I hope you’re smart enough to figure it out.”

Ivanov was smart enough, and he had never told a soul about that day. He coughed into his hand and turned to Sayyed. “I have heard of this man. What else can you tell me about him?”

Sayyed thought it best to not be too forthright on this point. Telling him that the American was the toughest, craziest man he’d ever encountered would not be good for the negotiations. Fortunately, he was saved by the sounds of approaching vehicles.

HURLEY dangled in the air from a hook that was tied to his wrists. His toes hovered only a few inches from the floor. His shoulders ached like nothing he had ever experienced. This had been his punishment for taking a bite out of Sayyed. They also decided to tape his mouth shut, but he thought that had more to do with silencing his insults than with their fear of being bitten. The only nice thing to come of it was that they’d left him alone. Not that hanging by your wrists a few inches off the ground was a nice thing, but it was certainly preferable to having your fingernails ripped out and being electrocuted.

There was a noise at the door. A second later it opened and the light turned on. Hurley blinked a few times before he could see it was Radih. The Fatah leader crossed over and exhaled cigarette smoke into Hurley’s face. Hurley inhaled the smoke and thought he might apologize for all the nasty things he’d said about Radih’s mother if only the man would offer him a heater.

Radih reached up and tore the tape off the American’s mouth. “I have a surprise for you.”

“We gonna try the rubber hose today?”

“No, something much better.”

“Great,” Hurley said with feigned enthusiasm. “I can’t wait. Hey… about that stuff I said about your mom-”

Before Hurley could get the rest of it out, Radih smashed his fist into Hurley’s stomach. “I have had enough of your lies. I am going to make you feel more pain than you have ever imagined.”

“Good,” Hurley coughed. “I hope you kill me, because Mughniyah will kill you for it. Nothing could make me happier than making sure you went down with me.”

“Don’t worry. I’m not going to kill you,” Radih said, smiling. “But I am going to kill your son.”

Hurley laughed. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

Radih turned to his men. “Get him.”

“My son?” Hurley asked. “You must be off your rocker, unless you mean one of your bastard brothers I fathered with your mother.”

“Yes… keep talking. We will see how tough you are in a moment.”

The two men returned, each with one arm looped under Rapp’s armpits. Rapp was shuffling along trying to keep up and blabbing incessantly about the money he could get them.

Rapp saw Hurley and yelled, “Dad. Don’t worry, we’re going to get out of this. Washington is going to pay for your release.”

Hurley looked at Rapp and said, “What the fuck are you talking about? Have you lost your mind?”

Radih was finally having some fun. “This is beautiful. You are right. I can’t kill you, but I can kill your son. A big American fuck-you.” Radih snapped his fingers and pointed at the floor. “Bring him here.” The men dumped Rapp on the ground at Radih’s feet. “I will handle him,” he said as he drew the American’s silenced Beretta from his waistband. “Hold the father’s head and make sure his eyes are open.”

The two men left Rapp and took up positions on the right and left side of Hurley. They grabbed his head and dug their thumbs into the skin just under his eyebrows and pulled up.

“Make him look,” Radih commanded as he grabbed a fistful of Rapp’s hair. “Over here.”

“Why are you doing this?” Rapp wailed in a panicked voice. “Our government will pay you.”

Radih bent over and said, “They will pay for him, you idiot. You are worthless.” He straightened and looked at Hurley. “Are there any other lies you’d like to spew about my mother?”

Hurley didn’t offer a reply.

“How does a man of your considerable though twisted talents sire such a stupid child?”

Rapp looked up, only half listening to the insults. His focus was on a beautiful 9mm suppressed Beretta. Radih kept waving the gun back and forth, sticking it in Hurley’s face and then pointing it at Rapp’s head. Rapp followed it like a tennis volley. Radih’s finger was on the trigger and the red dot above his thumb told Rapp that the safety was off and the gun was hot. The man settled into a rhythm with his insults. He was now saying something about Rapp’s mother, the woman he presumed to have slept with Hurley. The Palestinian stuck the tip of the suppressor under Hurley’s nose and ordered him to beg for his son’s life. As Hurley started to speak, the gun began its slow-motion arc back to Rapp.

Rapp made his move. He’d sawed most of the way through the tape around his wrists while he was back in the holding cell. Now, not sure the tape would break, he went for a two-handed grab around the barrel of the gun. His hands clamped down on the steel while the gun was still swinging Rapp’s way. Rapp stood, driving the gun straight up so a misfire wouldn’t bury itself in Hurley’s chest. At the top, he pivoted to his left, bringing the gun up and over the top of his head, before pulling it back down on the other side, effectively putting Radih in an arm bar. In this position the Palestinian couldn’t move unless he let go of the gun. Rapp delivered a quick knee strike to Radih’s face, and a bullet spat harmlessly into the cinderblock wall.