Vince Flynn - Consent To Kill

"Fuck 'em."

Rapp scanned the parking lot. "You sure you weren't followed?"

"No." He looked at his vehicle. "You think you'd have a hard time putting a tail on this thing?"

Rapp looked at the nine-passenger truck. "You get married and have a bunch of kids I don't know about?"

"No, I've got a lot of shit I have to haul around," the former SEAL replied a bit defensively.

"The environmentalists must love you. What's that thing get…about two miles to the gallon?"

"The environmentalists can go fuck themselves," growled Coleman. "There isn't a bigger group of brainwashed dipshits on the planet."

"Come on, Scott, tell me how you really feel about them."

"The same way you do," snarled Coleman. "Now, I didn't drive all the way across town to meet you in some high school parking lot so you could give me shit about my truck."

Rapp held up his hands. Coleman was normally a pretty cool customer. "Calm down. What in the hell is wrong with you?"

"I haven't killed anyone in a while. What's wrong with you?"

"God," Rapp moaned, "you SEALs are a weird bunch."

"Oh…and you're the picture of mental health."

"Good point," Rapp laughed, "but seriously…what's up? You just find out you have testicular cancer or something?"

"Worse…the fucking IRS called me this morning. They want to see all my records…personal and business."

Rapp didn't like the sound of this. He got noticeably more serious. "Have you ever had any problems with them before?"

"Hell no. I was an officer in the Navy for almost twenty years. We don't make enough money for them to mess around with."

"And now that you're getting all of these government contracts…"

"Shit, I suppose. I mean, Mitch, we're billing seven-plus figures every month. I've had to hire five people just to handle all the paperwork."

"How are your records?"

"How the fuck would I know…I'm not an accountant."

Rapp stared at him with his hawklike eyes. "Do you have anything to hide?"

Coleman looked down and kicked a rock. "I don't know. Like I said, I'm not an accountant."

"Scott, it's me…Mitch. If I'm going to help you out here, you have to be straight with me."

"Can you make this go away?" Coleman asked hopefully.

"As long as you haven't fucked up too bad…yeah."

Coleman kicked another rock. "As far as I know all the domestic stuff is in order, but I've got an offshore company that I run most of the foreign contracts through."

"And you keep the money offshore."

"Yeah." He looked up at Rapp uncomfortably.

Rapp nodded. "Don't worry. You're not alone. Anything else happen in the last few days?"

"Like what?"

"Anyone poking around asking questions? Anyone from your past try to contact you? Any new unexpected business come in?"

Coleman thought about it for a moment. "No." He studied Rapp. "Why?"

Rapp leaned against his car and put his hands in his pockets. "I got a call from a source over at the DOD this morning." By DOD, Rapp meant Department of Defense.

"You mean a mole?"

"I wouldn't call the chairman of the Joint Chiefs a mole."

"General Flood called you?"

"Yes."

"What'd he want?" asked Coleman.

"He didn't want anything. It was a courtesy call. It appears someone in Washington has a real hard-on for you this week."

Coleman closed his eyes. "Please tell me the IRS didn't call the Pentagon and ask to review my contracts."

"No. Someone else called and asked for a copy of your personnel file."

"They can look all they want. That file is clean."

"They called back and asked for your classified file. They wanted to know how many times you've been sheep-dipped by the CIA, and if you've ever worked with yours truly before." Rapp pointed to himself.

"They asked General Flood this?"

"No…they tried to browbeat someone much further down the totem pole. It got kicked up to the Joint Special Operations Command, who in turn called Flood."

"So who's asking?"

"Someone who works for the director of National Intelligence."

"Why would they give a rat's ass about me?"

"That's what I'm trying to figure out. I think it has something to do with our meeting the other day."

"In Irene's office."

"Yeah…that was a mistake."

"Hold on a minute. We haven't done anything wrong."

"You're kidding…right?" Rapp looked at him like he'd lost his mind.

"Well…nothing recently. I mean for Christ's sake we're on the same team. Aren't we?"

"That doesn't always matter with these pricks." Rapp shook his head. "It was stupid to meet at the CIA the other day."

"You're telling me that's what this is all about? Mark Ross didn't like my smart-ass attitude, so he's going to have the IRS bend me over and give me an exam?"

"Scott, we're in the middle of the biggest power grab this town has seen in fifty years. Mark Ross is trying to exert his new authority over the CIA and the rest of the intelligence community, and the billions of dollars that goes along with their budgets, and I'm guessing he wants full disclosure by everyone under his command."

"And what does that have to do with me?"

"He's not stupid. He wants to know what we were talking about with Irene. He called her the next day and asked her to brief him."

"What'd she tell him?" asked Coleman.

"We're looking at using your firm for some of our overseas security needs."

"Well, you are."

"And we're also thinking about using you to do a few other things."

"Yeah, but he can't know that."

"He suspects something, and I'd say based on your audit and the request for your jacket at the DOD, he's not satisfied with the answer Irene gave him."

"Fucker." Coleman's fists were clutched so tight the veins on his forearms were bulging.

"Don't worry…I'll figure out a way to make this go away."

"How?"

"I'm not sure, but I'll figure something out."

"The IRS is coming by tomorrow."

"I know a lawyer." Rapp smiled. "A real bastard. He specializes in this stuff. They hate him at the IRS. I'll have him call you. He'll have no problem putting them off until I can call off the dogs from the other end. In the meantime, keep working on what we talked about. I don't want this to slow us down one bit. I'll have you all freed up by next week, and then we can get moving."

Coleman nodded. "Anything else?"

"Yeah. Anything else unusual happens I want you to call me right away."

The former SEAL nodded.

The assassin had been wandering the streets in a seemingly aimless pattern for over two hours, which was about how long it had taken him to sort things out. He could be an exceedingly patient man when the situation called for it, and this was one of those times. The first thing he had to do was dump the motorcycle. It had been waiting for him two blocks from the hotel. He would miss the agile, high-powered Ducati, but scooters and motorcycles in Paris were like beautiful women; they were everywhere. He would find another motorcycle in the morning, and he was done chasing beautiful women.

He no longer considered himself a Frenchman. He was a man without a country, but he supposed if there was any place that he had to call home it would be France. He knew Paris very well and had a network of motorcycle and scooter garages that specialized in servicing the underbelly of Paris. They sold new machines, but always had plenty of used bikes, and preferred to deal in cash, which suited him perfectly. When he was actively engaged in new business, like now, he sometimes changed bikes daily, and even resorted to stealing them himself. Among his many skills, he was a mechanic. He knew how to take a pile of junk and turn it into a dependable machine in a matter of hours. If it had an engine and two wheels, he could fix it.