Vince Flynn - Order to Kill

“My team?” Azarov asked.

“Men hand-picked by me from the ranks of ISIS.”

“They’re unreliable and poorly trained,” he protested. “At a minimum I should be provided soldiers or former soldiers. Preferably from the Russian special forces.”

“Out of the question.”

“Then this operation may end up the same way the action against Rapp did.”

This was the kind of insubordination that would normally cause Krupin’s anger to flare, but in this case the man was doing an admirable job of keeping his infamous temper in check. It was another indication of how critical this operation was to him. If his plan failed, it was likely that Russia’s slide would become irreversible. The people would eventually turn against him. And when they did, it would be with the same speed and violence as they had against the czars.

“I don’t think so, Grisha.”

“May I ask why?”

“I would be concerned if you didn’t. My plan is not complicated. You will accompany the weapons to Al-Hofuf, a Saudi city I imagine you’re familiar with. There you will distribute them to six two-man teams who will take them to coordinates our people have designated as being optimal. Your men’s ability to blend in is far more critical than any specialized military training they might have.”

He tapped a few keys on his laptop and brought up markers for those locations before continuing. “You’ll accompany one of those teams to an abandoned oil-production facility. From that central location you’ll command the operation.”

“There appear to be seven markers.”

“One backup team, should problems arise.”

Azarov nodded silently. “Can I assume, then, that you plan to wait until all the weapons are in position before detonating?”

“It seems prudent. The location farthest from Al-Hofuf will take an estimated fourteen hours to reach, while the closest will be a journey of only about three and a half hours. The teams will be staggered so they all reach their destinations at the same time. We don’t want the Saudis and Americans to know what’s happening until it’s done.”

“Then why not detonate the bombs remotely when you see that everyone is in position? What is the point of having me on location?”

“Two reasons. First, with the storms we’re predicting, satellite communications are likely going to be unreliable. And second, while we’ve trained the ISIS teams as thoroughly as possible, they can’t be relied on to handle any significant problems. For that, only you can be trusted.”

“So, I will have the ability to remote-detonate the weapons?”

“No. We couldn’t create a foolproof system for that. Each man will have his own detonation code. When they are cleared to do so, they will enter them in within thirty seconds of each other.”

“And be vaporized.”

“Of course.”

“What about the bomb that I’m being asked to detonate?”

Krupin’s irritation at being interrogated like this was beginning to show, but still he answered. “You will leave in the vehicle you arrived in. When you’re at a safe distance, the two men you left behind will detonate the bomb. Should they be unable to, you will be provided with a code that has a twenty-minute delay.”

“But what if-”

“All the operational details are here,” Krupin said, cutting him off and holding out a thumb drive. “Review them and, as always, if you have any concerns, contact me.”

Azarov accepted the drive and just stared down at it.

“Do this, Grisha, and you will have anything you want. Unlimited wealth. Unlimited power. You-”

“I want out,” Azarov said, without looking up from the innocuous piece of plastic in his hand.

“What?”

“I want to never return to Russia. I want you to forget I exist.”

Krupin leaned back, his narrow lips spreading into a smile. “Are you going to retreat to Costa Rica? Return to the farming of your youth?”

“That’s my affair.”

Azarov’s tone registered in Krupin’s eyes but nowhere else. “And if I refuse?”

“Then I’m sure the ISIS team you’re so confident in can handle the operation without me.”

“You may not be as indispensible as you believe, Grisha.”

Again, the gun beneath Azarov’s arm made its presence felt. This time there must have been some hint of it in his body language because, for the first time in their relationship, the Russian president became visibly nervous.

“If you want to turn your back on everything I’m offering you to live a life with no value, Grisha, then so be it. As you say, that’s your affair.”

NEAR BHAKKAR

PAKISTAN

JOE Maslick adjusted his grip under Rapp’s arm, dragging him down the hallway with the help of one of Saad Chutani’s men. Rapp wasn’t moving at all, his bare feet just dragged lifelessly across the concrete floor. Maslick was actually a little relieved when he started to cough, despite the fact that every successive convulsion sprayed blood from his grotesquely swollen lips. When a pink tooth dislodged and skittered across the floor, though, the sweat running down the former Delta operator’s back turned cold.

Had he gone too far? The goal was to mimic the damage Jesem had suffered and obscure any differences between his and Rapp’s features. It had been no small task. The Pakistanis had gone to town on Jesem, and his nose had been significantly different from Rapp’s in both size and shape. Trying to make the switch convincing without doing damage severe enough to hinder Rapp’s operational ability had been impossible.

Rapp had survived his years in this business because he was just plain faster, stronger, smarter, and more accurate than everyone else. There was no way that was true any longer. If he never came back from this mission, Maslick would spend the rest of his life wondering if it had been the result of one too many uppercuts to the chin for him to see straight. A kick to the ribs that was a little too hard to allow him to move effectively. Internal bleeding created while trying to match the bruising on Jesem’s stomach.

General Shirani appeared at the end of the hallway with two of his men, effectively blocking it. Just like Rapp had said he would.

“What are you doing with my prisoner?”

Maslick took in a breath and let it out slowly. This was going to be the hard part. He’d never been much of a talker, even when he was a kid. But that was okay. His job was shooting, not making speeches. He said what needed to be said and then killed the people who needed to be killed. Unfortunately, his orders in this situation were somewhat different.

“Get the fuck out of the way,” he said.

Good use of vulgarity, but too quiet. Too hesitant. Shirani was a useless Pakistani piece of shit, but he was still a four-star. And that was a rank Maslick had spent most of his life being taught to respect.

“Where is Mitch Rapp?”

“He went out to one of the trucks. Said he needed to talk to-”

It turned out that Rapp wasn’t really unconscious. Maslick felt a painful jab in the small of his back.

“I mean, he said he needed to get out of this shithole.”

“Our nuclear facility isn’t luxurious enough for him?”

“I think he meant your whole fucking country.”

The sharp edge of Rapp’s thumbnail was replaced by a couple of encouraging pats.

Both Rapp and Kennedy believed that General Shirani had an open communication channel with ISIS. He denied any connection, but the truth was that he’d get in bed with anyone interested in weakening the civilian government.

The idea now was to piss him off. To make him so mad that he’d forget his fear of Rapp and do anything he could to screw over America in general, and the Agency in particular.