Vince Flynn - Consent To Kill

What in the hell am I doing back here?

He rolled his head to the other side and saw that his right arm was in a cast. His brow furrowed. Nothing was making sense. He looked up at the door and something clicked. He had left the hospital. He remembered driving home with his wife. He remembered coming in the house and not feeling well. He remembered being on crutches and going for the back door, feeling that a little fresh air might help. He'd just gotten the door open and hopped onto the deck when he…he couldn't remember anything after that. Rapp looked up at the ceiling again, and wondered if he'd blacked out. He tried to lift his right arm to scratch his face, but it didn't cooperate. He remembered the cast. For a split second he thought he was paralyzed, and then he was able to wiggle his fingers.

I must have blacked out. It's the only thing that makes sense.

Rapp had never done well with drugs before. He went back to his last memory of standing on the deck, leaning against the railing and taking some gulps of air. There was no denying it; the fast food he had devoured was not helpful. Rapp thought of the steep stairs that led down to the dock and the crutches.

I must have lost my balance and fallen. That's how I broke my arm.

There was movement near the door, and Rapp turned his head to see who it was. Just that small effort sent pain screaming up his neck to his forehead. Rapp winced as his head began to throb. That pain led to the realization that more than just his head hurt. He took a deep breath and suddenly felt as if someone was sticking a knife into his side. A figure came through the door, but his eyes couldn't focus. He thought it was his wife for a second, but as the form stepped from the shadows into the faint circle of light that surrounded the bed, he realized it was Irene Kennedy. As she came closer, Rapp realized she'd been crying. It occurred to him that his injuries must be pretty serious.

She placed a hand on his cheek and said, "You had us worried there for a while."

"Where am I?" Rapp whispered.

"You're at Johns Hopkins."

A second person entered the room. It was a man Rapp did not recognize. "Where is Anna?"

Kennedy started to say something and then stopped. Her eyes filled with tears, and she said, "Mitch, there was an explosion."

"Where's Anna?" he asked in a much louder voice. Suddenly two more people entered the room. They were big guys wearing surgical scrubs. Rapp looked at Kennedy, panic in his eyes. The tears were now rolling down her cheeks and her bottom lip was trembling.

"Dammit!" he yelled. "Where is Anna?"

Kennedy lowered her eyes and said, "She was killed in the explosion."

Rapp's entire body tensed as he let loose an agonizing scream. With anger, shock, fear, and misery coursing through his body, he somehow managed to jerk himself halfway out of the bed before the two large orderlies and the doctor could wrestle him back down.

Kennedy had warned the doctor there was a good chance Rapp would need to be restrained when he came to. The doctor listed off the injuries: two broken ribs, a broken right arm, a deep contusion on the right thigh, a left knee that had just been operated on, and swelling on the back of the brain. He assured Kennedy that the patient wouldn't be going anywhere for some time.

As the orderlies held him down, the doctor jabbed a needle in his thigh and hit the plunger. After about ten seconds the fight was out of Rapp. The orderlies released him and took a step back. Rapp lay there motionless, staring up at the ceiling, a single tear moving slowly from the corner of his right eye and tracing a path down his cheek.

THERE WASN'T MUCH left of the house other than the reinforced steel door frames, the chimney, a small section of the staircase, and a few charred studs that jutted up from the smoking hulk of the first floor. The entire scene was illuminated with portable floodlights. Gas-powered electric generators hummed in the night air while firefighters picked through the rubble with axes and long crowbars. Skip McMahon surveyed the scene from the end of the driveway. He was a big man, over six feet tall and closer to 250 pounds than he was to 200. He'd been with the FBI thirty-five years and this one hit close to home. He knew both Rapp and his wife and liked them. Kennedy had called McMahon and asked him to treat the house as a potential crime scene even though the sheriff for Anne Arundel County was calling it an accidental explosion.

Normally the FBI would have no jurisdiction over something like this, but Rapp was a federal agent, and if it turned out the explosion was intentional, they would take over the investigation. For now, though, McMahon and the agents he'd brought from the Washington Field Office were there to watch and try not to upset the apple cart. The Anne Arundel sheriff's department was well funded and professional. McMahon had worked with local law enforcement enough over the years to know that coming in and acting like you were hot shit did nothing but aggravate an already difficult situation.

McMahon leaned against his government-issue sedan and took a swig of lukewarm coffee. The sheriff approached and stopped a few paces away. He knew the Anne Arundel County sheriff from the DC-Baltimore Joint Terrorism Task Force. The man started talking, and despite the fact that McMahon disagreed with him he listened patiently.

"I'm telling you, Skip, I know it's hard to believe, but we get one of these explosions every year or so. Usually no one's home, but it happens."

McMahon looked at the smoking pile of debris that was once Rapp's house. "Pat, I'm only going to say it one more time. Guys like Mitch Rapp don't get blown up by accident."

"And terrorists don't fake explosions. You said it yourself. They like machine guns, they like suicide bombers, they like headlines. They don't kill people and try to make it look like an accident."

McMahon had to admit he was having a hard time squaring this one glaring inconsistency. The sheriff was right; terrorists liked big explosions. That's what got them news coverage. McMahon didn't know a lot about the forensics of bombs, but so far the local experts were saying all evidence pointed to a propane explosion. McMahon wanted to be sure, so he'd put a call into headquarters and asked for them to send the bureau's forensic bomb people out here. They were the best in the world, and if they couldn't find anything, he doubted they could prove it wasn't an accident. If that was the case the FBI would pack up its bags and head back to DC. The only thing left to take care of would be the insurance.

"Has anyone taken credit for the explosion?" the sheriff asked.

McMahon shook his head. The agents back at the Joint Counterterrorism Center were monitoring all news outlets for mention of the attack. McMahon had been tempted to pass on what Kennedy had told him about the threat on Rapp's life that had come in the week before, but for now he decided to withhold the information. Investigations were always tricky when they involved multiple jurisdictions, but they were never more complicated than when they involved the CIA. For good reason, the CIA didn't like sharing its sources and methods. Especially when judges ordered them to hand such information over to lawyers who represented suspected terrorists.

The sheriff was hammering his point home to McMahon when one of his deputies came up. Two men in street clothes were following him.

"Boss," the deputy said to the sheriff, "these two guys say they're here to see a Special Agent McMahon."

The sheriff jerked his thumb toward McMahon. "Here he is."

"There's also a news van at the checkpoint."

"Crap," said the sheriff.

"It's the NBC affiliate from Baltimore," the deputy offered. "They know the wife died. They said the network sent them down to get some footage for a tribute they're going to run in the morning."