Vince Flynn - American Assassin

“Do ’em right this time, shithead,” the big man said testily.

Rapp was sweaty, dirty, hot as hell, and not used to taking crap from anyone. He had done his pullups correctly. If anyone could be accused of not doing them all the way it would be the very man who was in his face. Rapp was tempted to set the tone and knock the guy on his ass, but he figured there would be plenty of time for that later. He turned back around without responding and stepped to the line.

“That’s right,” the big man said, “be a smart boy and keep your mouth shut. Just fucking do ’em right this time.”

The rest of the afternoon proceeded without incident and they were allowed to jump into the lake to cool down before dinner. Rapp steered clear of Victor but kept an eye on him. He had learned that was the big man’s name. Or at least the name he’d been given. Since they were forbidden to use their real names, the instructors gave each of them a fake first name. Rapp’s was Irving, which they had already shortened to Irv. The other five guys were Fred, Roy, Glenn, Bill and Dick.

They all seemed decent enough and pretty much kept their heads down and their eyes alert. There were a lot of knowing glances and silent communication. Since they were forbidden to talk about their past, there was no mention of military service or the units they had served in. This created an interesting situation for Rapp. The instructors more than likely knew he’d never served in the military, but the other recruits had no idea.

It created a weird dynamic when you dumped a group of guys in a situation where they were forbidden to talk about their pasts. It pretty much killed small talk, so little was said during dinner. Rapp retired to his cot so he could ice his groin and was staring up at the slow, churning revolutions of the ceiling fan that hung from the rafters directly above him. He was thinking about the match, going through it move by move wondering what he could have done differently, when Victor appeared next to his cot.

“What’s your name?” he asked in a hushed voice.

Rapp glanced over to the door where one of the instructors was giving orders to one of the other guys.

“Irv.”

“No, dumbass.” He shook his head. “I mean your real name.”

Rapp was starting to think he didn’t like Victor. He’d been warned by his recruiter repeatedly that talking about your personal life was grounds for immediate dismissal from the program. Just ten minutes earlier, while they were eating, the instructors had reminded them of this again. Rapp impassively looked up and said, “Didn’t you hear what the instructors told us?”

A lopsided grin fell across the other man’s face. “That’s just a bunch of BS. It’s a game. They’re just trying to fuck with us.” He glanced over his shoulder to make sure no one was close enough to hear and said, “Come on… where you from.”

“What’s your angle?”

“Huh?”

“What are you up to?”

“Just trying to get to know the guys… that’s all.”

“Try not to take this the wrong way, but it’s none of your business who I am or where I’m from.”

“Is that so?” His face flushed a bit and his jaw tightened. “I’ll tell you something. I don’t need you telling me what is and isn’t my business.”

Rapp didn’t like his predicament. He was on his back and vulnerable, but he didn’t want Victor to think he was easily intimidated. “It’s not me telling you,” he said in a casual voice, “It’s them.” Rapp looked over at the instructor by the door.

The instructor finished whatever he was saying and left. It was just the seven recruits now.

Victor started laughing. “There goes your mother. Looks like your ass is mine.”

Rapp decided lying down was no longer the best position to be in. He quickly swung his legs off the cot and stood. In a conversational tone that was loud enough for the others to hear he said, “What’s your problem, Victor?”

“You’re my problem.”

“I gathered that,” Rapp said from the other side of the cot, “but could you be a little more specific. Maybe it’s something I could fix.”

“I doubt it,” the bigger man said with disdain. “You look soft to me. Like you don’t belong here.”

“Well… why don’t we find out.” Rapp gestured to the wrestling mat.

Victor laughed as if the idea was preposterous. “You don’t stand a chance.”

Rapp nodded as if to say maybe, maybe not, and walked over to the edge of the mat. “I’m sorry about your mother, Victor.”

“What did you just say?” Victor asked.

“I said,” Rapp half yelled, “I’m sorry about your mom.”

“You’d better watch yourself!” Victor’s eyes had taken on a wild glare.

“Or what?” Rapp asked.

The other five guys all dropped what they were doing to see what was going on.

“You gonna take a swing at me, Victor?” Rapp egged the big man on. He was ready to end this thing right now. “What’s wrong… your mom the neighborhood slut when you were growing up… she didn’t hold you enough when you were little? She let every guy she met suck on her tit except you?”

“You got a big mouth,” Victor snarled, barely able to contain his rage.

“Just trying to figure out what’s wrong with you, Victor. You been shooting your mouth off all day. Acting like a world-class prick. We’re all getting sick of it.”

“I’m going to kick your ass!” Victor howled as he hopped from one foot to the other like a boxer.

Rapp didn’t say a word. He moved to the middle of the mat and motioned for Victor to join him.

Victor started whooping and hollering as he danced circles around Rapp. He was throwing shadow punches and explaining in detail what he was going to do to Rapp when suddenly one of the instructors reappeared in the doorway.

“What in hell are you ladies doing?”

Victor fell silent, but it was too late.

“That’s it, you dumb-assess. If you’ve got enough energy to fight then you’ve got enough energy to run. You’ve got sixty seconds to muster your worthless asses outside on the line. Put your running gear on and move it!”

Everyone sprang into action, and while they were putting on their gear the other five men made their displeasure known through a mix of looks and verbal complaints. Rapp did not respond, while Victor seemed to relish it. He turned the taunts back on the other men and invited any of them to take a shot at him just as soon as one of them grew a set of balls. Rapp put on his shoes and sprinted for the door. He was the first one on the line, and while he waited for the others, it occurred to him that something wasn’t right. If this program was so secretive and elite, what in hell was a loudmouth like Victor doing here?

TOM Lewis took the call on the secure line. He listened patiently to the person on the other end relay a seemingly benign message about a meeting that was to take place in Washington, D.C., the following afternoon. To anyone with the ability to breach the secure system, which of course included the internal security people back in Langley, the conversation would have seemed so ordinary as to not warrant a second thought. In the third sentence, however, an adverb was used that caused his right eyebrow to shoot up a quarter inch. Lewis thanked the person on the other end and said they would talk at the meeting the next day.

The clinical psychologist slowly placed the phone back in its cradle and tapped his pen on a generic desk blotter. Everything in the office was generic; all standard-issue government furniture, the kind that was purchased in massive quantities every year by the behemoth federal government. The desk, bookcase, and credenza were all made from particle board coated with a thin plastic veneer that was supposed to look like wood, but didn’t. The chairs were black plastic with coarse charcoal fabric seats that could render a pair of dress pants useless in just nine months. Lewis was amazed at how ubiquitous this type of furniture had become in Washington, which in turn led him to the conclusion that the maker of this substandard furniture was more than likely headquartered in the home district of the chairman of the House Appropriations Committee.