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“I am going to worry about you. You’re out there snapping at Marcus like he’s your little brother.”
“He is like a little brother to me.”
Coleman took a step back. “This isn’t good, man.”
“What isn’t good?”
“I’m telling you, you’re too emotional. I think you should turn this over to someone else.”
“Who? The fucking feds? Yeah…let’s get the HRT in here. That would go over really well, right up to the point where Anna gets killed and they start asking who I am.”
“I’m not talking about the feds, Mitch. Just calm down for a second. You need to know when to let go. This thing is going to get worse before it gets better, and you can’t let your emotions get in the way of making the right call.”
Rapp was going to argue but thought better of it. “If at any time you think I’m blowing this thing, you let me know. I respect your judgment, and I’ll listen.” He paused for a second and added, “With one exception. Every last one of these motherfuckers is dead, and don’t try to talk me out of it.”
THE CATERING VAN pulled up in front of Marcus Dumond’s four-plex. It was white with a large black chef ’s hat on both sides and the back cargo doors. Above the hat was the name of a catering outfit, Kip’s, and beneath it was a phone number. The catering outfit was legitimate, run by a former Agency employee and his wife. The Agency had arranged some very favorable financing for the couple, and in return they had a legitimate cover for some of their surveillance vans.
Dumond climbed into the back of the van with two laptops and a bag of equipment. Rapp and Coleman joined him in the van, and Kevin Hackett and Dan Stroble followed in Coleman’s Explorer. Dumond told the driver to take them to Washington Circle and closed the door. Dumond went to work immediately, getting his laptops set up and bringing the rest of the equipment on-line. One side of the van contained three pizza racks stuffed with high-tech surveillance equipment. In the middle were two color active-matrix flat panel displays. The top one was touch-sensitive and used to control a vast array of technology, and the bottom one was for video feed. Dumond sat in a captain’s chair that was bolted to the floor. There was a small space under the monitors for Dumond’s legs. Rapp and Coleman watched him work from a bench seat in the back.
It took almost fifteen minutes for them to reach Washington Circle. There was a luggage rack on the roof of the van. It was never used. Instead, it housed a myriad of antennas, video cameras, directional microphones, and a direction finder. After Dumond had hacked his way into the Sprint network, he got the direction finder ready and told Rapp it was a go.
Rapp and Coleman had been discussing how to handle the call. They both agreed that, to start with, it was best if Rapp acted as if he knew nothing about Rielly’s disappearance.
Dumond had rigged the cell phone so both he and Coleman could listen in on the call. He was also recording the conversation on a DAT. Rapp punched in the number and counted the rings. When he hit four, his heart sank for fear that the call would once again go unanswered, but then, after the sixth ring, someone picked up. Rapp said, “Professor, how are you doing?”
PETER CAMERON HAD left Rielly sitting in the living room and walked toward the front of the house when his phone started ringing. When he reached the foyer, he answered it and heard the familiar voice of Mitch Rapp. Cameron left the house and went to stand in the driveway next to his car. He didn’t want Duser or his men to hear him talking.
“I’m sorry I haven’t taken your calls, but a few things came up.”
“Like what?”
“I’d rather not talk about it over the phone.”
“Does that mean you’d like to meet in person?”
“Maybe.” Cameron hesitated. “If you can guarantee my safety.”
“That all depends on what you have to tell me.”
“Listen, when I was hired to do this, I had no idea who you were, and if I had, I would have never taken the job.”
“That makes me feel much better,” Rapp responded with sarcasm. “Who hired you?”
“I don’t want to talk about it over the phone.”
“Then let’s meet.”
Cameron leaned against his passenger door. “I would, but something tells me I might not leave that meeting alive.”
“That depends on what you have for me and how honest you are.”
“What I have for you is big! Really big! But you need to give me some assurances.”
“Like what?”
“That I’ll live, and you’ll leave me alone. That no one from the Agency ever knows who I am.”
“That might be a tough one.”
