Vince Flynn - Protect And Defend

In a split second Rapp made up his mind. He turned to the right and burst through the doorway as the man he had just shot was coming to a rest on the floor. A second man was sitting on a chair inside the small vestibule. He barely had the chance to open his tired eyes to see what was going on.

The 9mm bullet hit him in the center of the forehead. Rapp tossed off his black robes and yelled for Stilwell to stay with Husseini. As he ran into the vestibule, he could he hear Mukhtar’s voice coming over the radio clipped to the dead man’s tactical vest. While still holding on to his.45, Rapp reached out and snatched the radio with his thumb and forefinger. He pressed the transmit button and countermanded Mukhtar’s order as he started down the stairs three at a time. He reached the first basement in just a few seconds and made sure to keep his finger on the transmit button so that Mukhtar couldn’t relay any more commands.

The door that led to the second basement was right where Husseini said it would be. Rapp yanked it open with no concern for his own safety and rushed into the significantly more narrow passage. A thought occurred to him and he brought the radio to his mouth. In a gruff voice, he barked. “I’m coming down. Don’t do anything until I get there.”

Rapp momentarily lost his footing on the smooth narrow treads and skidded into the wall at the switchback. A third of the way down the last, small flight he leapt and hit the dirt floor. He glanced to his left. There was nothing but darkness. He wheeled to his right, dropping the radio and bringing both guns to bear on the wood slat door thirty feet away. Lines of light cut through the cracks, and a man’s voice could be heard on the other side asking someone to repeat what they had said. Rapp charged forward, picking up speed. Lowering his shoulder he plowed through the ancient dry wood like it was made of twigs.

Two men stood no more than eight feet away. One in front of the other. The closest one was holding a radio in front of his mouth and in the other hand a pistol dangled lazily at his side. Rapp fired the 9mm, hitting the first man in the side of the head. As he sank to the floor, Rapp got a full look at the other man, and his first glimpse of Kennedy. She was tied over the back of a chair and bleeding profusely. Her shirt was lying in shreds on the floor, and her back was covered with long red welts from being whipped. The other man was shirtless, covered in sweat and holding a double length of electrical cord in his right hand.

The man shrugged, dropped the cord to the ground, and raised his hands in the air.

Rapp took one more look at Kennedy and then the man who had been beating her. He could feel the bile rising up from deep within.

The man looked at Rapp and said, “I was only following orders.”

“So am I.” Rapp pulled the trigger on the 9mm and shot him in the chest.

Ashani was driven straight to Langley by Rob Ridley and brought into the Old Headquarters Building via the executive underground parking garage. Before entering the director’s private elevator he’d been roughly searched by two of Kennedy’s bodyguards-an indignity that he would have not tolerated a week earlier; but now, considering all that had happened, he didn’t dare complain. He’d spoken with Rapp twice in the past week. The first conversation didn’t go all that well. In fact it consisted mostly of Rapp threatening him and telling him to pass along threats to other Iranian officials. Ashani had learned a great deal about the man in the past week, and nearly all of it was unsettling. He was not someone they could afford to take lightly or ignore.

Ashani had discussed the problem with Najar, who was not pleased to be threatened. His curt response was that they should hire someone to kill the American agent. Ashani, who hated the idea, dissuaded his mentor by explaining that others had tried to do the same thing and had failed. “In fact,” he added, “they are all dead.”

Ashani used that anecdote to help pitch his proposal. He explained in detail what he proposed to do and how it would both solve a problem and satisfy Rapp. It was the classic killing of two birds with one stone. With Najar’s blessing, Ashani had called Rapp and told him he would like to sit down and discuss a very important matter. Rapp pressed him for more information, of course, but Ashani just repeated that he was willing to share some very important information with him. Rapp agreed to the meeting, but refused to do so anywhere other than Langley. Ashani reluctantly agreed, and now he found himself entering the belly of the beast.

As he was escorted through the door by Rob Ridley, he laid eyes on Kennedy for the first time since their meeting in Mosul. She was sitting in a chair next to a couch with an expression that was devoid of emotion. Ashani averted his eyes, feeling an overwhelming sense of shame. He noticed someone approaching from the far end of the large office and turned to see who it was. The man was around six feet tall and had longish, wavy black hair and a beard-both with flecks of gray. He was wearing dark slacks and a white dress shirt that clung to his broad shoulders and tapered down to a narrow waist.

Ashani knew it was Rapp by the photos in his dossier, but seeing him in person was an entirely different matter. It was like looking at a photo of a lion as opposed to standing only a few feet away from one of the Creator’s most efficient predators. He had expected him to be more rigid, like the former army officers who worked for him, but he wasn’t. He had a relaxed, athletic grace in the way he moved. Ashani thought of the threats Rapp had made over the phone, and it sent a shiver down his spine.

Rapp pointed at the couch next to Kennedy and said, “You can sit over there.”

There were no pleasantries. No hellos, or would you like anything to drink. Ashani moved around the glass coffee table and sat on the couch. He looked at Kennedy and with all the sincerity he could muster said, “I am so sorry for what happened to you, and my country offers its sincerest apologies.”

“Bullshit,” Rapp said in a menacing tone. He took up a position on the other side of the coffee table and remained standing. “There’s people in your government who were behind the whole thing.”

Ashani looked up at Rapp and noticed a large-caliber automatic holstered on his left hip. He turned back to Kennedy and said, “He is right. Most of them have been punished. Some have paid with their lives.”

“What about Amatullah?”

“As I have already told you,” Ashani said to Rapp, “his term is up in less than a year. He will not be running for office again.”

Rapp stood there and shook his head in disgust.

Ashani found the man very unsettling, so he turned his attention back to Kennedy. In a soft voice he said, “I wish there was a way I could prove to you that I had nothing to do with this crazy plot. I have four daughters and a wife. I would never have participated in something like this.”

“Yeah, you just help fund and train Hezbollah suicide bombers so they can blow themselves up in supermarkets and kill pregnant women.” With a sarcastic sneer Rapp added, “That’s much better.”

Kennedy looked at Rapp and cleared her throat. It was a signal for him to back off. She then looked at Ashani and said, “It is my hope that this experience will serve as a lesson that our two countries need to open relations. The lack of communications only allows the zealots to advance their ideas.”

“I agree,” Ashani responded.

Rapp made a face like he might get sick.

“Now, why did you travel all this way?” Kennedy asked in a congenial voice.

“The short answer…Imad Mukhtar.”