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All of this information was passed on to the Canadian Security Intelligence Service who in turn tried to question Khalil about the boy’s kidnapping. Khalil became instantly belligerent and got his lawyer and the Muslim Council of Montreal involved. Canada’s solicitor general, a wimp if there ever was one, balked at the specter of being labeled intolerant, and yanked on the Intelligence Service’s chain. They were told to stay away from Khalil and his mosque. People went missing all the time the world over. Just because the kid got grabbed did not mean Khalil had a hand in it.
Rapp was not so trusting. He put Marcus Dumond, his best hacker, on the case and within thirty-six hours Dumond was coming up with all kinds of irregularities in Khalil’s banking records. He was still up to his neck in Wahhabi money, and he had also sent two other boys to Saudi Arabia for religious instruction. Thus far they had not been able to verify if the kids were actually in school, but the parents had confirmed that they had not heard from their children in several months. They had been told it would probably be a year before they would hear from them due to the strict religious regimen of the school. Rapp smelled a rat, and the rat was Khalil Muhammad.
There were worse offenders out there, to be sure, but this one was too close to home. Too brazen. Who knew what he would try next if he was left unchecked? No, it was better to deal with him now. Make an example of him. Kennedy wanted him to disappear, but Rapp had an even better idea. The more he mulled it over the more he liked it.
Rapp walked over to the window, looked out at the gray sky, and said, “All right, here’s what we’re going to do.”
4
I t was a cool, crisp evening and perfect walking weather, so that’s what Rapp did. He wanted to get his blood flowing. The collar of his black leather coat was turned up, and a worn Montreal Canadiens hat sat on his head. He’d picked up both at a thrift store as well as a pair of jeans and hiking boots. He paid in cash and was grateful there weren’t any surveillance cameras. The jacket was perfect, at least in terms of what he was looking for. It had big square oversized pockets in the front. Good for holding weapons. No flaps. Good for extracting weapons. There was a tear on the left shoulder seam, but that was all right. He wouldn’t be hanging out at the Ritz. Both the mosque and Khalil’s apartment were in a rundown part of town. It was a pity he couldn’t keep the jacket, but there was a pretty good chance he was going to get blood on it. This one was going to be messy. When it was over everything he was wearing would be thrown into a garbage bag and tossed into the St. Lawrence River.
Rapp kept his hands stuffed in the oversized pockets and his chin down. In the left pocket was a tactical Rip Cord knife, and in his right pocket a silenced 9mm Glock 26. He’d brought both weapons into the country concealed in the false bottom of his flight bag. Since the CIA, through a subsidiary, leased a large portion of the private airport in Virginia, it was easy to get the bag past security, and upon landing in Canada he did not have to worry about having his flight bag x-rayed. The gun was there as a precaution. The knife would be the instrument of choice. The intent was to send a message. Actually several messages.
He’d seen all the photographs, memorized the street maps, noted the vague patterns of the police squads that patrolled the neighborhood. Compared to most of the ops he’d run, this one ranked pretty low on the risk meter. When Rapp told Coleman what he wanted to do, the former Navy SEAL took it in stride. He asked a few questions, and tried to poke a hole in the plan, but didn’t try too hard. The plan was solid, the target was a lamb. That’s what they called guys like Khalil. Guys who couldn’t bite back. The only real concern was the police, but they weren’t very aggressive in their patrols. Once an hour at the most.
Coleman knew better than to argue with Rapp. There were more than a few people back in DC who would flip if they knew he was planning on exposing himself like this, but unlike them, Coleman had seen him in action enough to defer to the younger man’s expertise. Rapp was the perfect balance of athleticism, grace, and skill. Coleman had worked with the best, and he was one of them himself. The tight fraternity of Special Forces operators was made up of men who were pushed and trained to the absolute limits. He’d known a few guys who were better shots than Rapp, a few more who were stronger, and maybe only one or two who could match his endurance. But they all lacked Rapp’s experience, which is the one thing training can never fully substitute for. His operational instincts were unsurpassed. He could take a look at
a tactical situation and dissect it in seconds, coming up with the most efficient way to get from point A to B.
So there was no arguing. Rapp would be the man on the ground. Coleman and his team were manning the surveillance, and in place for backup in case anything went wrong. No one argued with Rapp’s deployment of assets. In truth the men were bored. Six days of surveillance on a guy who was this careless got old real quick. Coleman and his team were restless. The sooner Rapp got it over with the happier they’d be. They’d go back to America. They’d get paid in cash, and they’d get on with their families, friends, and jobs.
Rapp was not trying to prove anything. He didn’t need to. Especially to these men. They’d seen him handle far more difficult situations. There was nothing brave or bold about what he was about to do. It wasn’t like he was charging a machine-gun nest or taking down a building with men shooting back at him. But in the interest of expediency he was going to handle this one. He wanted it done a certain way, and didn’t want to have to explain it to Coleman and his men. It was just better if he did it himself.
Rapp entered the alley from the east. He was wearing a tiny wireless earpiece and Coleman was giving him updates.
“That’s the one. Turn left.”
Rapp didn’t reply. He simply turned and started down the dirty alley. He was in a two-story canyon of bricks and mortar. At the street level on each side were dry cleaners, video rental, restaurants, an electronics store, and a menagerie of restaurants and the other businesses that dot the urban landscape of any big city. The second stories consisted of offices and a few apartments. Coleman and his team had done a good job. This was a perfect site for the takedown.
Rapp stepped around a foul-smelling puddle of liquid and checked the windows on the second story. Only two lights were on. They were both near the middle of the block. The street lights at both ends had been taken care of earlier in the week along with seven other lights in the neighborhood. One of Coleman’s men had walked around with a .22-caliber silenced pistol and shot them out. It was Urban Espionage 101. Their way of prepping the battlefield. They’d monitored the police scanner while doing it to make sure no one had called it in. In a big city like this it would take months before the lights would get fixed. And in the meantime someone like Khalil would have a few days to adjust to the change in his environment.
Coleman reported that they’d watched Khalil walk home that first night after they’d shot out the lights. He didn’t even notice the change. Rapp couldn’t believe it. This guy was incredibly stupid. Had no concept of the gravity of the situation he’d involved himself in. Here he was recruiting young men to go off and fight for his extremist arcane view of Islam, and he honestly thought he was safe just because a liberal Canadian official was afraid of being labeled intolerant.
Rapp was a soldier in a war, and this Khalil was an enemy combatant. No, that wasn’t right. If he’d gone into battle himself he would’ve been a combatant and maybe Rapp could have given the man an ounce of respect. Like suicide bombers. Politics aside, calling them cowards couldn’t be further from the truth. It took a pair of balls to strap on a vest filled with explosives, walk into a crowd, and blow yourself up. It also took a sick, twisted, and warped mind, but they weren’t cowards.
Rapp would not lose any sleep over this one. Not that he normally did anyway. Khalil was a coward. He stood up in his minbar, the pulpit in a mosque, every Friday and spewed his vitriolic hatred for the West and especially America. He poisoned the young minds of impressionable men and duped them into joining his jihad. Then he and his fellow cowards enslaved these young men and turned them into human bombs. Khalil risked nothing, and Rapp would feel nothing.
Rapp reached the other end of the alley. It was perfectly dark. A sliver of a moon was rising in the east, barely adding to the ambient light of the city itself. The wall where he wanted to stage the incident was just as Coleman had said. A good ten feet of brick and then a Dumpster. The concealment was ideal. Even a worthy adversary would have little chance against an ambush like this. Of course if it was a worthy adversary, he’d skip the knife and use the silenced gun. Rapp’s eyes adjusted to the extremely faint light. He squatted down to get a better look at the ground and found a soda can and several beer bottles. He quietly picked them up with his gloved hands and set them under the Dumpster. The last thing he needed was to kick something like a beer bottle and alert the target that he was behind him.
Rapp settled in against the brick wall. Any minute now. He’d timed his arrival so he wouldn’t be left standing around exposed for too long. Coleman’s voice came over his earpiece and announced that Khalil was locking the front door to the mosque. Several men were standing outside talking to him. Nothing unusual, reported Coleman. Now Khalil was on the move and headed Rapp’s way.
Rapp leaned against the wall. Flexed his legs and hands. Cracked his neck to the left and then the right. The blood was flowing, his heart rate was right where he wanted it to be. He was at that perfect equilibrium between being too loose or too tight. He was poised on the balls of his feet, ready to get it over with.
The first sign of trouble came almost immediately. Coleman’s gravelly voice came over Rapp’s earpiece with a tone of frustration. “We’ve got a problem. He’s not alone.”
Rapp’s eyes stayed fixed on the brick wall opposite his position. A small mike was pinned to the collar of his jacket. He whispered, “How many?”
“Our guy plus two.”
“Shit,” Rapp muttered under his breath. “Do we have an ID on the other two?”
“Negative.”
Rapp pictured in his mind how it would play out. One additional guy would be okay. One quick pistol butt to the back of the neck and he’d be out cold. A leg sweep on Khalil and he’d be on his back before he ever knew what hit him. Three, though, was a problem. It would take less than a second to shoot all three in the back of the head, but killing the two unknowns was not an option. Not Rapp’s style. If he tried to knock the other two out and then take Khalil it could get messy. One of them might get away or at least scream and alert some of the neighbors. Or worse, if they were armed, one of them might shoot him.
“I think we should abort,” said Coleman.
“Negative. Let’s see how it plays out. How much time do I have?”
