Vince Flynn: Consent To Kill

Rapp was not trying to prove anything. He didn't need to. Especially to these men. They'd seen him handle far more difficult situations. There was nothing brave or bold about what he was about to do. It wasn't like he was charging a machine-gun nest or taking down a building with men shooting back at him. But in the interest of expediency he was going to handle this one. He wanted it done a certain way, and didn't want to have to explain it to Coleman and his men. It was just better if he did it himself.

Rapp entered the alley from the east. He was wearing a tiny wireless earpiece and Coleman was giving him updates.

"That's the one. Turn left."

Rapp didn't reply. He simply turned and started down the dirty alley. He was in a two-story canyon of bricks and mortar. At the street level on each side were dry cleaners, video rental, restaurants, an electronics store, and a menagerie of restaurants and the other businesses that dot the urban landscape of any big city. The second stories consisted of offices and a few apartments. Coleman and his team had done a good job. This was a perfect site for the takedown.

Rapp stepped around a foul-smelling puddle of liquid and checked the windows on the second story. Only two lights were on. They were both near the middle of the block. The street lights at both ends had been taken care of earlier in the week along with seven other lights in the neighborhood. One of Coleman's men had walked around with a.22-caliber silenced pistol and shot them out. It was Urban Espionage 101. Their way of prepping the battlefield. They'd monitored the police scanner while doing it to make sure no one had called it in. In a big city like this it would take months before the lights would get fixed. And in the meantime someone like Khalil would have a few days to adjust to the change in his environment.

Coleman reported that they'd watched Khalil walk home that first night after they'd shot out the lights. He didn't even notice the change. Rapp couldn't believe it. This guy was incredibly stupid. Had no concept of the gravity of the situation he'd involved himself in. Here he was recruiting young men to go off and fight for his extremist arcane view of Islam, and he honestly thought he was safe just because a liberal Canadian official was afraid of being labeled intolerant.

Rapp was a soldier in a war, and this Khalil was an enemy combatant. No, that wasn't right. If he'd gone into battle himself he would've been a combatant and maybe Rapp could have given the man an ounce of respect. Like suicide bombers. Politics aside, calling them cowards couldn't be further from the truth. It took a pair of balls to strap on a vest filled with explosives, walk into a crowd, and blow yourself up. It also took a sick, twisted, and warped mind, but they weren't cowards.

Rapp would not lose any sleep over this one. Not that he normally did anyway. Khalil was a coward. He stood up in his minbar, the pulpit in a mosque, every Friday and spewed his vitriolic hatred for the West and especially America. He poisoned the young minds of impressionable men and duped them into joining his jihad. Then he and his fellow cowards enslaved these young men and turned them into human bombs. Khalil risked nothing, and Rapp would feel nothing.

Rapp reached the other end of the alley. It was perfectly dark. A sliver of a moon was rising in the east, barely adding to the ambient light of the city itself. The wall where he wanted to stage the incident was just as Coleman had said. A good ten feet of brick and then a Dumpster. The concealment was ideal. Even a worthy adversary would have little chance against an ambush like this. Of course if it was a worthy adversary, he'd skip the knife and use the silenced gun. Rapp's eyes adjusted to the extremely faint light. He squatted down to get a better look at the ground and found a soda can and several beer bottles. He quietly picked them up with his gloved hands and set them under the Dumpster. The last thing he needed was to kick something like a beer bottle and alert the target that he was behind him.

Rapp settled in against the brick wall. Any minute now. He'd timed his arrival so he wouldn't be left standing around exposed for too long. Coleman's voice came over his earpiece and announced that Khalil was locking the front door to the mosque. Several men were standing outside talking to him. Nothing unusual, reported Coleman. Now Khalil was on the move and headed Rapp's way.

Rapp leaned against the wall. Flexed his legs and hands. Cracked his neck to the left and then the right. The blood was flowing, his heart rate was right where he wanted it to be. He was at that perfect equilibrium between being too loose or too tight. He was poised on the balls of his feet, ready to get it over with.

The first sign of trouble came almost immediately. Coleman's gravelly voice came over Rapp's earpiece with a tone of frustration. "We've got a problem. He's not alone."

Rapp's eyes stayed fixed on the brick wall opposite his position. A small mike was pinned to the collar of his jacket. He whispered, "How many?"

"Our guy plus two."

"Shit," Rapp muttered under his breath. "Do we have an ID on the other two?"

"Negative."

Rapp pictured in his mind how it would play out. One additional guy would be okay. One quick pistol butt to the back of the neck and he'd be out cold. A leg sweep on Khalil and he'd be on his back before he ever knew what hit him. Three, though, was a problem. It would take less than a second to shoot all three in the back of the head, but killing the two unknowns was not an option. Not Rapp's style. If he tried to knock the other two out and then take Khalil it could get messy. One of them might get away or at least scream and alert some of the neighbors. Or worse, if they were armed, one of them might shoot him.

"I think we should abort," said Coleman.

"Negative. Let's see how it plays out. How much time do I have?"

"Approximately three minutes until he reaches you."

Rapp nodded to himself. Three minutes was a long time. He played a few more scenarios out in his mind. They all came up short. The problem was how he wanted it to look. He could easily shoot Khalil and tell the others to run, but then he'd end up with the exact mess that Kennedy wanted to avoid. Maybe he'd just follow the idiot right into his apartment and cap him.

"One of the guys just peeled off," Coleman said.

"Good," said Rapp. "We're back on. Everyone look sharp. Two isn't a problem. Hold your positions unless I give the word."

Rapp flexed his hands again and edged over to the corner. He looked left then right. The street was empty. No pedestrians. No cars. Coleman and the others relayed the position of the two men like it was a countdown for a shuttle launch, but instead of using seconds they were using blocks. Rapp's pulse picked up a bit as they neared. Nothing unusual, just the body getting ready for action. The adrenaline would begin to kick in a bit, and then he'd have to move or he'd get that lead in the boots feeling. They were getting close. Rapp shifted his weight from one foot to the other and then bounced from side to side like a boxer stepping into the ring.

There was a minivan with tinted windows parked thirty feet away. In the cargo area one of Coleman's men was watching intently, ready to pop the door at the first sign of trouble. He was armed with a silenced pistol. No need for anything more powerful. At the opposite end of the block, Coleman would now be taking up position with the second van. If anything should go wrong three separate rallying points were already set. If things went well, they'd simply dispose of Rapp's clothes, and head back to the hotel, catch a few hours of sleep, and fly out first thing in the morning.

Rapp could hear them now. They were speaking in Arabic. He could hear their footfalls on the cement sidewalk. There were two men. Rapp could tell by the noise. One of them dragged his feet and the other one was a heel-to-toe walker. Coleman's calm voice came over the tiny earpiece.