Vince Flynn - Order to Kill

Now there was nowhere for the CIA man to go-he was stranded in the low ground with little overhead cover. Azarov sprinted toward a ladder and climbed halfway up it, leaping onto an immense pipe and landing with a deep ring that resonated through the air. He let his momentum carry him to a three-meter gap that plunged down to the base of the facility. Falling forward onto his stomach, he thrust his pistol over the edge of the narrow platform he’d come to a stop on. Rapp was one level below, running along the only catwalk accessible to him. His back was square to Azarov’s position. An easy shot even for a novice.

He lined up, but before he could fire, Rapp vaulted the railing and fell toward the top of a containment tank no more than two meters in diameter. The reason he’d been able to run so silently became evident when he landed. His stocking feet provided no purchase on the smooth steel and he slid out of control toward its edge. A moment later, he was gone. Azarov heard the dull thuds of a body bouncing through the pipes on its way to the ground. While impossible to see from his current position, he knew that it was at least a thirty-meter drop. Impossible even for the storied Mitch Rapp to survive.

The Russian continued to aim over the top of the platform, his heart rate higher than it had been on an operation in years. It was difficult to conclude anything but that the man had fallen. Removing his boots had been a reasonable risk to take, but in this case the strategy had failed. Mitch Rapp was either dead or dying, his broken body bleeding into the sand.

Then why was he still afraid of the American? It seemed inconceivable that Rapp had survived, but until Azarov saw the body, the possibility existed. As much as he wanted to retreat to the SUV and escape across the desert, he couldn’t bring himself to do it. Not until he was certain of the CIA man’s fate.

• • •

Rapp threw himself to the catwalk, already certain that the Hail Mary shot he’d taken at the Russian had gone wide. He immediately rolled to his feet and began sprinting toward a series of tanks about ten feet from the edge of the right hand railing.

If he were Azarov, he’d climb halfway up the ladder to his left and then use a large pipe to gain a platform that jutted out over open air. It would provide a perfect position to fire down on Rapp’s unprotected position.

He was only about halfway to the tanks when the ring of someone landing on that very overhead pipe sounded-a full second sooner than Rapp thought possible. He pushed himself to a speed that felt like it was going to shatter his bad knee with every stride.

The second ring reached him when he was still ten feet out from the section of railing he was he was going for. Azarov would be lining up and this time he wouldn’t miss.

Rapp leapt the rail earlier than planned but still managed to clear the gap, landing on top of a tank and going into an uncontrolled slide toward the opposite edge. He tumbled over and dropped five feet before grabbing a steel grid that, thank God, was right where he remembered it. The Glock was still in his left hand and stopping his momentum with only his right demanded a graceless maneuver that nearly dislocated his shoulder.

Once he got his feet under him, he yanked the wrench from his overalls and threw it down at the pipes below. The fact that it was wrapped in cloth kept it from ringing against the metal, instead giving it a muted thud that would be fairly convincing mixed with the howl of the wind.

The Russian was in an adjacent section of the facility and there was no easy way for him to cross over. That made it possible for Rapp to take his time climbing down and gaining a walkway twenty feet below. What would Azarov do now? Was he trusting enough to go for his vehicle and run? Or would he want to confirm that his adversary was dead?

Probably the latter, Rapp decided. The question was what to do about it. Though he and Azarov couldn’t easily get to each other, the Russian did have access to a vantage point that would allow him to see that his opponent’s corpse was conspicuously absent. That left Rapp with a short window where he could use the element of surprise. The problem was that the only way he knew of to cross to Azarov’s sector was an open catwalk on the top level. By the time he reached it, the Russian would know his opponent was alive and would be looking for the move.

Rapp traversed the walkway, protected by a firewall on his right. It turned to steel mesh for about five feet and he searched the area visible through it before darting across. After covering another ten feet, he came to a sudden halt and turned around. The bottom corner of the mesh had broken free of its spot welds and was curled back a good five inches.

He walked back to it and shoved the detached edge with his foot. It took everything he had, but he managed to pop two more welds. Were the rest similarly weak?

Rapp crept along the catwalk, searching for something he could use as a pry bar. Finally he found a shutoff valve with a long lever connected by nothing but a pin. It took some effort, but he managed to work it free.

Wedging the steel rod into the hole in the mesh, Rapp threw his full weight behind it. A moment later he was rewarded by the quiet crack of welds giving way.

When the gap was wide enough, he stuffed his Glock down the back of his overalls and squeezed through. There was nothing on the other side to stand on, so he grabbed an overhead pipe and went hand over hand across it. The pain in his injured shoulder was excruciating, but there was no way to favor it. If his sweaty hands lost their grip, Azarov would find exactly what he expected to find in the tangle of pipes below.

Rapp finally reached another catwalk and dropped onto it, landing in a crouch. He was operating blind now-there had been no time to survey this part of the facility.

He stayed in the shadows, stopping every few seconds to listen for sound that couldn’t be explained by the wind. Finally, he was rewarded. The quiet rhythm of footsteps became audible below and to his right.

He flattened himself on the catwalk and let his Glock hang over the edge. A moment later, cautious movements became intermittently visible through the mesh. Range was just under thirty yards.

There was no clear shot but he knew he wasn’t going to get another chance like this one. He needed to drive Azarov onto the more open left side of the walkway he was on. Just a couple feet was all Rapp needed. He waited for the optimal moment and fired, slamming a bullet into an electrical conduit a few feet to Azarov’s right.

Instead of moving left, though, the Russian went low and right, throwing himself toward the conduit Rapp had just hit and disappearing from sight.

“Shit!” Rapp said under his breath. This guy wasn’t just good, he was a fucking prodigy.

Despite that, now the Russian was in a box. Going back would be too much exposure for him to risk. However, there was an open pipe about six feet in diameter ahead of him and only the top four feet were visible from Rapp’s position. It was Azarov’s only option, and it wasn’t a bad one. He undoubtedly knew where it led, while Rapp had no idea.

An elongated shadow appeared at the entrance to the pipe and Rapp unloaded his entire clip into the confined space, firing a wide, random pattern. He pulled back and slammed in his last full magazine before rising again. The shadow was gone but there was something near the edge of the pipe that he didn’t remember seeing earlier. Rapp thought it might be rust, but when he moved to a better vantage point, the dark smudge took on a familiar color.

Blood.

• • •

Azarov kept moving through the pipe, not stopping until it took a hard bend to the right. Only then did he pull up his soaked sleeve to look at the neat hole in his biceps. It was bleeding badly but the ricochet had passed through without hitting bone. He pulled off his shirt and tied it around the wound, sitting against the curved wall to catch his breath.