Vince Flynn - Order to Kill

Jesem managed to stifle his sobs just as the satphone in Rapp’s pocket started to vibrate. The number on the screen was immediately recognizable. Irene Kennedy.

“Go ahead,” he said, picking up.

“I just got a call from Umar Shirani. It seems your plan worked.”

“He’s even more of a coward than I gave him credit for.”

“He says there are five more canisters missing and that his people are going to send a full report within the hour.”

“Give it to Craig. He’s in the process of analyzing samples from the warhead I brought him.”

“Mitch, I don’t have to tell you that this situation has just gone from dire to potentially catastrophic. Even if the people who took the fissile material don’t have a way to detonate it, they have enough to build a dirty bomb that could make Washington or New York uninhabitable.”

“Who are you talking to?” Jesem said. “I want a lawyer. Tell them I want a lawyer!”

“What was that?” Kennedy asked.

“The television,” Rapp said, leaning against the wall and examining Jesem. His beard and hair were almost identical to Rapp’s, but the similarities didn’t end there. They had the same coloring and build. And, though it was hard to judge exactly with him seated, they even seemed to be about the same height. He was undoubtedly younger than Rapp, but with all the damage done by Shirani’s men, someone would have to be looking pretty closely to notice.

“We’re out of time,” Kennedy continued. “Anyone with the ability to coordinate an operation this sophisticated has a plan that’s equally sophisticated. That fissile material could already be coupled with bombs small enough to smuggle across the U.S. border.”

“Agreed. Any movement on finding the man who took out Scott?”

“Yes, but it’s not an easy task. There are a lot of white spec ops men with athletic backgrounds in the world.”

“Hello!” Jesem said, getting as much volume as he could out of his raw throat. “Who’s there? Who’s on the phone? Is that the embassy?”

Rapp looked down at him. He stared back defiantly. Like Kennedy said, the clock was ticking. It was time to act. Rapp nodded toward Maslick and ran a finger silently across his throat.

Jesem clearly understood the gesture and immediately started jerking back and forth, trying to free himself. “Stop!” he yelled as the two-hundred-twenty-pound Delta man walked up behind him. “I’m an American citizen, you can’t do this! You can’t-”

Maslick grabbed his long hair with one hand and his chin with the other, twisting the young Coloradan’s head a full one hundred eighty degrees before kicking over the chair and spitting on his corpse. Normally, Rapp would have considered the last part a little unprofessional, but under the circumstances, it was hard to criticize.

“Mitch? Are you still there?”

“I’m here.”

“That wasn’t a television.”

“I’ll explain later. Look, Irene. I’ve got an idea. Let me and Mas work on it. In the meantime, I need everything you can get on a man named Eric Jesem from Durango, Colorado.”

“Eric Jesem,” she repeated. “I’ll get our people on it right away.”

Rapp disconnected the call and looked down at what was left of the young American-his pulverized face, the severe contusions on arms still secured behind the toppled chair. Finally, he approached and yanked up the dead man’s shirt.

“What are you looking for, Mitch?”

“No tattoos,” Rapp commented.

“So?”

“So, does he remind you of anyone?”

Maslick snorted. “You, kind of.”

When Rapp started pulling off the man’s clothes, Maslick took a hesitant step back. “Now, hold on, Mitch…”

“Shut up and get his pants.”

Unwilling to defy Rapp’s orders, he knelt and started unbuckling Jesem’s belt. “I got a really bad feeling about this, man.”

“It worked for Joe Rickman.”

“What the hell are you talking about? You blew the back of his head off. How is that working out?”

There was no key for the cuffs, so Rapp broke the bones in Jesem’s hands to get them off. When the battered body was completely stripped, Rapp changed into the dead man’s clothes. A little loose in the waistband but nothing the belt couldn’t handle.

“Did you see the garbage chute in the corridor on the way in?” Rapp asked.

“I saw a metal hatch in the wall. But I’m not sure it’s a garbage chute. It might lead to their fucking break room.”

“Pick him up,” Rapp ordered and then went to the door, opening it far enough to allow him to peer outside. As expected, the passage was empty. Shirani was probably waiting in one of the air-conditioned vehicles. His men would be busy keeping an eye on the presidential guard that Maslick had stationed throughout the facility.

Rapp motioned for Maslick to follow and then padded out into the hallway. He moved quickly to the hatch and pulled it open. The rotting stench suggested he’d guessed right about its purpose and he tossed his clothes into the hole. Jesem took a little more effort, but after thirty seconds or so of pushing he fell through the darkness to the burial he deserved.

When they returned to the cell, Rapp kicked the overturned chair into a corner and faced Maslick. He’d never really paid much attention to how massive the man was, but now it was impossible to ignore the thick shoulders, powerful chest, and dinner-plate hands.

“Has Dr. Kennedy signed off on this, Mitch?”

“Shit. We both know you’ve been waiting for this moment for years.”

“No lie there.”

With that, he threw a right cross that connected just below Rapp’s cheekbone. He was spun around by the force of the blow and slammed face-first into the wall behind him. It was all that kept him upright as blood started to flow from his nose, mingling with Jesem’s as it soaked into the man’s T-shirt.

Steadying himself with one hand, he turned to face the Delta man again.

“Is that all you’ve got?”

EAST OF MOSCOW

RUSSIA

GRISHA Azarov glanced at the map reading out on his phone and turned left at the end of a half-constructed apartment complex. The traffic was almost nonexistent, giving him an opportunity to examine the crumbling structure.

A number of makeshift tents had cropped up beneath the graffiti-covered concrete that made up the first floor. The inhabitants were a perfect example of Maxim Krupin’s subjects. Cold and hungry, but still loyal. Still waiting for him to deliver on his promise to once again make the world tremble at their feet.

The basset hound in the passenger seat spotted something of interest and barked joyously as they moved onto a broad avenue. Azarov had requested that the bomb-sniffing dog be waiting for him when he landed. Fortunately, it had turned out to be an unnecessary precaution. The animal’s well-trained nose had turned up nothing in its examination of the car Krupin had provided.

Another four kilometers brought him to a nondescript glass-and-steel building on an even more nondescript side street. He passed by the entrance leading into the parking garage, driving another block before parallel parking next to the sidewalk. The hound’s tail wagged excitedly when Azarov opened the door but then went still when he frowned and shook his head. “You have to stay here. I won’t be long.”

It seemed to understand his words and curled up on the seat, closing its eyes. He’d never owned an animal before, but it was hard not to acknowledge the appeal of having a friend that would never turn on him, spy on him, or try to kill him. Now that Olga was gone, maybe it was something he should look into. He could pay Cara to take care of it when he was gone. Another excuse to see her without exposing his feelings.