Vince Flynn - Act of Treason

The old man did and Rapp decreased the pressure on the tip of the knife.

Rapp could feel the man breathing heavily through his nose. “Listen, I’m not going to kill you unless you give me a reason to. Just relax and take a few deep breaths.”

Keeping the knife at his throat, Rapp used his right hand to reach down and grab a towel that was stuffed into one of the pockets at the front of the old man’s apron. Rapp looked at it before bunching one end into a ball with his fist.

“Open your mouth wide,” Rapp whispered.

The old man did as he was told and Rapp stuffed a third of the towel into his mouth. He then made the man lay down flat on his stomach and put his hands behind his back. Rapp cut the long ties off the apron and used them to hog-tie the man’s ankles and wrists together. When he was secured, Rapp stowed the knife and drew the pistol.

Rapp showed the gun to the old man and whispered, “Any noise at all and I’ll shoot you. Don’t try to bang your feet against the wall or roll over. Otherwise you’re a dead man. Do you understand?”

The old man nodded.

“How many people are in the office? Blink your answer.”

The old man’s eyelids opened and closed twice.

“Deckas and the big Russian?”

The old man nodded his head up and down.

“Is Deckas interrogating the Russian?”

Again he nodded.

“All right, sit tight.” Rapp patted the old man’s head. “This whole thing will be over in a minute.”

Rapp sprang to his feet and started down the hallway, gliding along the right edge. Gazich would have used a silenced weapon. Most likely subsonic rounds, probably nine millimeter. The walls were old. Probably lattice covered with plaster. They would definitely stop a nine-millimeter round, subsonic or not. Maybe even a forty-five. Rapp again tried to visualize the layout of the office. Desk in the middle on the left and a couple of chairs or a couch on the right. Gazich would be standing and that meant he would have minimal cover. The Russian would not be a problem. He was either immobile from gunshot wounds or tied up. If Gazich was interrogating him he had probably switched to a knife. Options increased and techniques varied with a knife.

Rapp stopped one step short of the door. His mind was made up on a plan of action. It would be lightning fast. One, two, three, four. He listened for a moment. It sounded like Gazich was asking a question. The Russian pleaded with him in broken English, his voice much louder and more fearful than that of his inquisitor. Rapp took all of this as a good sign.

Reaching out, he placed his right hand on the doorknob and waited a second. As soon as he heard Gazich begin to speak, he twisted the old brass knob and flung the door inward with a good push. He was ninety percent sure Gazich was on the right, but he had to make sure he wasn’t on the left first. Rapp hugged the door frame as his left hand and gun filled the void of the open doorway. The door sailed past ninety degrees, revealing the edge of the desk exactly where Rapp thought it would be. The gun came straight up and locked in a level position. The door continued its arc, swinging inward on its hinges, revealing an empty desk. Rapp started swinging the gun back to his right. At the same time he shifted his weight to his left while hugging the door frame and leaned just enough into the open doorway so his left eye could take in nearly the entire right side of the room while exposing only a fraction of his body.

Gazich came into view first. He was standing sideways, the Russian was in a chair directly in front of him, but Rapp wasn’t worried about the Russian. Rapp’s eye was locked on Gazich. A literal tunnel. His gun not quite there yet. Ninety-nine percent of his focus on the threat. He heard the door bang hard against something as his eye searched Gazich’s hands. The Bosnian was turning toward him, his hands still at his side. He was expecting the old man. Some recess of Rapp’s brain registered that the door had not opened 180 degrees against the wall so it had probably hit a bookcase or some other piece of furniture. The black finish of a gun and its long silencer against the faded denim of Gazich’s pants caught Rapp’s eye. The elevation of Rapp’s left arm dropped immediately. Gun seeking out gun. A tenth of a second later Rapp squeezed the trigger, letting loose the first shot.

Gazich stood a mere fourteen feet away. The round caught him square in the back of his right hand, plowing its way through flesh, crucial tendons, and then bone. His hand clenched for a millisecond and then opened like a clamp with a broken spring. The brain made none of these decisions. It was simply mechanical failure. The gun dropped free-falling to the floor, but before it hit, a second round caught Gazich in the right knee and then a third in the left knee.

For two seconds time stood still. Nothing moved. Rapp waited, still concealed by the door frame, and watched the same way you would watch the demolition of a building. That strange moment of disbelief in the immediate aftermath. When the explosive charges have just blown out all the support columns, yet the building still hangs there for a second or two defying gravity. And then physics takes over and everything comes crashing to the ground.

Gazich’s legs wobbled. His arms began to move away from his body in an effort to provide balance, but balance wasn’t the problem. The problem was two shattered kneecaps. It was structural. He picked up his right leg to widen his stance and when he put it back down the limb folded like a cheap rental chair at a backyard wedding. Gazich went down hard, somehow managing to get his left hand out in front of him to prevent a face plant. He ended up on his side, his left hand stretched out a mere four inches from the pistol he had dropped.

Rapp stayed right where he was, completely aware of the proximity of Gazich’s hand to the weapon. He watched as Gazich’s eyes moved from the pistol to the stranger in the doorway. Rapp knew what was going through his mind, so he stepped partially into the doorway and started to lower his weapon. His eyes were locked on Gazich’s. Rapp’s pistol almost got to a point where it was perpendicular with the floor, but he saw the fingers on Gazich’s hand open and reach for the weapon. Rapp’s pistol came up and a fourth shot spat from the end of the silencer. It bored a hole through the center of the assassin’s palm before it ever reached the gun. One, two, three, four. Just like Rapp thought it would be.

Rapp stepped into the room and kept his gun trained on Gazich’s head. He walked over, placed his right foot on the gun and slid it back toward the doorway. Gazich started to move.

“Keep your hands away from your body, or I’ll put a bullet in your head.”

The Russian took all of this as a sign of his salvation, and exclaimed, “Thank god you are here.”

Rapp looked at him with a furrowed brow. The guy’s left ear had been partially carved away from his head and the tip of his nose looked like a filleted lobster tail. Blood cascaded down his face and onto his white shirt.

“Untie me, my friend.”

Rapp didn’t move.

“Untie me right now,” the Russian demanded.

Rapp leveled the pistol at the Russian’s groin. All three green dots in a row. “Shut the fuck up, or I’ll blow your balls off.”

Groin injuries could be really messy. Lots of blood, and lots of pain. Since the Russian could barely keep his mouth shut as it was, Rapp assumed the lout would scream like a stuck pig if he pierced one of his testicles with a ball of lead. Rapp was not one to make empty threats, and the Russian’s inability to keep his mouth shut and follow a simple order was pushing him to the brink. He was one of these irritants who liked to think out loud. The type who gives a running narrative of the obvious. He alternated between muttering to himself and attempting to bribe Rapp with riches, his volume increasing with each passing moment.