Vince Flynn - Order to Kill

How had Rapp survived the fall from that tank? And more important, how had he crossed the fire barrier without using the high catwalk? The only answer was that somehow the CIA man understood this complex better than he himself did. If that was the case, then he knew where this pipe let out and that there was only one vantage point that would allow him to see both ends simultaneously. Was he currently making the difficult climb to get there, or would he risk chasing his injured quarry?

Speculation was pointless. Azarov had failed to predict the man’s actions at every turn. The question that had existed for so long in the recesses of his mind was now answered. Rapp was the better man. The weaker, older American was going to kill him.

No .

Not now. Not when he was on the verge of escaping Maxim Krupin’s orbit and pursuing a life of his own. An identity of his own.

Azarov unwrapped his wound and used the back of the shirt to sop up the blood flowing from his arm. When the cloth was well impregnated, he tore off part of the left sleeve and used it to rebandage his arm. Finally, he put the shirt back on. The blood on the back would make him appear more badly injured than he really was. Hopefully it would be enough to lull Rapp into a moment of carelessness.

Azarov started moving along the interior of the pipe again, forced into a slight crouch by the confined space. Even if Rapp did know the facility better than he did, it would be difficult for the man to reach the far end of the pipe in time to line up a reliable shot.

Azarov told himself that if he remained focused, if he timed everything to perfection, there was still a chance that he would be the one who survived.

• • •

Rapp stayed high, moving from catwalk to catwalk as he tried to figure out where the pipe Azarov was hiding in led. After a few minutes it became clear that he wasn’t going to be able to keep the entrance in view if he went much farther. For all he knew, the pipe didn’t go anywhere and the Russian was sitting a few feet inside, waiting to attempt an escape. Or he could be dead. Or-as likely as the first two scenarios-he could be running along it looking for a way out.

Rapp stopped, suffering a rare moment of indecision. The only thing he was sure of was that he didn’t want to go in after the man-it was too confined a space. So forward or back? His gut said forward and he decided to listen. While his battlefield intuition had failed him more than a few times, it was right more often than it was wrong.

He dropped onto a tightly packed series of pipes before crossing to an adjacent catwalk. When he lost sight of the pipe entrance, he increased his pace to a point that it would be impossible for Azarov to come up behind him. Even at that speed, it took him almost five minutes to reach the place where the pipe disappeared into a large storage tank. A hatch on top was open and Rapp slowed, aiming his Glock upward when he spotted movement.

Azarov had cleared the tank and was lurching along a catwalk more than fifty yards away. Based on his awkward gait and the amount of blood that had soaked through his shirt, he looked to be in pretty bad shape.

Rapp moved into a position behind the man, initially hanging back to reduce the chance of being spotted. Eventually, he started to close the gap, lifting his pace only when he had a clear understanding of his surroundings and a solid view of his still-dangerous opponent.

Azarov was bleeding enough to leave a visible trail and his movements were becoming increasingly labored. Further, he was heading into territory that would put him at a significant tactical disadvantage. The terrain got physically more demanding and he was going to hit the edge of the facility in a position that would make it easy for Rapp to get above him. Pain, blood loss, and desperation could do terrible things to a man’s judgment-particularly one so talented that he might never have been faced with those challenges. He was checkmating himself.

Or was he? Rapp stopped at the bottom of a set of steps.

While it looked like Azarov was barely putting one foot in front of the other now, he’d made pretty good time in that pipe. And the blood trail was heavy enough to follow but not heavy enough to suggest the man was bleeding out.

The Russian had wanted to force this confrontation when he believed he had the tactical advantage. Now, though, that advantage had been lost. He was smart enough to know that. And if that was the case, he was probably also smart enough to be looking for a way out.

Rapp spun and started sprinting in the opposite direction, dropping his weapon and launching across a ten-foot gap to a ladder. He gripped the sides with his hands and feet, dropping down it in a near free fall before hitting the catwalk below. The east edge of the facility was visible ahead and he ran toward it, taking every opportunity to drop down to lower levels. He was only a few yards away when the blast hit him.

The force of it threw him over the guardrail and he didn’t bother fighting it. The sand and sky looked pretty much identical as he went end over end through the air, making it necessary for him to use the rising flames to orient himself. He cleared the concrete slab and landed feetfirst in the sand, immediately pitching forward and trying to roll with the impact.

Dazed, it took him a few seconds to realize that his hair was on fire. Once he’d patted it out, he just lay there staring up at the debris arcing through the sky. Azarov would have dropped off the north side before triggering the explosion and would now be following the wind into a radioactive no-man’s-land intended to discourage a chase.

Rapp considered defying the man’s expectations and going after him, but the idea faded quickly. He’d had enough of Grisha Azarov for one day.

“JUST keep holding the ice bag to it,” the camouflage-clad nurse said.

“That’s it?” Rapp responded. “That’s your expert advice?”

His nose had started bleeding again after the explosion and despite every effort by him and the army’s medical team, it wouldn’t stop.

“I’ve seen a lot of stuff, sir. But that nose… how did it happen?”

“Angry woman.”

She let out a hesitant laugh but then fell silent when he didn’t smile. “Sir, I’d suggest you get stateside as soon as possible and find the best plastic surgeon you can.”

Since no one in the medical tent seemed to be in danger of telling him anything he didn’t know, Rapp wandered out into the night.

Lights had been set up to illuminate the temporary American base, their powerful beams extending into the desert well past the two-hundred-yard perimeter. He stopped to let a truck carrying hazmat suits roll by and then crossed a section of compacted sand that functioned as road.

Two choppers passed overhead, angling north toward the radiation zone Grisha Azarov had created. Surprisingly, it was the only one. Bazzi and his men had managed to take out all the ISIS teams without giving any of them time to detonate. That left Rapp owning the only failure.

When he got home, Kennedy would casually mention-repeatedly-that backing Azarov into a corner had been a mistake. Of course, Rapp would passionately defend his actions and there would be no clear winner. There never was. In this case, though, she was more right than wrong. In the heat of the moment he hadn’t been able to see that it was a contest that could only have losers. Chalk it up to too many years of examining problems through a set of gun sights.

“Mitch!”

Rapp turned and saw Mike Nash jogging toward him. When he pulled alongside, he was a noticeably out of breath. The muscle weight he’d added apparently helped his back but wasn’t doing much for his stamina.