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“How do you mean?”
“How do we know they’re not going to start a fight?”
“We don’t.”
“Wonderful.”
“Mitch, the only people I trust in this town are my Kurds.”
Rapp looked down at all the cops. “Not even the police?”
“Least of all the police.”
“You can’t be serious.”
“I sure the hell am. They’re one of the most corrupt groups in the damn city. If a fight starts there’s a better than fifty percent chance they’ll just run.”
“Then why are we using them?”
“Because we don’t have a lot of options.”
“Shit.”
“Mitch, it’s not as bad as you think. These guys have no idea who they’re protecting. All they know is they’re going to get a nice big cash bonus from us if this thing goes off without any problems.”
Rapp looked at the security monitor with renewed concern. He pointed at the screen and said, “Look at these two idiots. They’ve got those fifties pointed in the wrong direction.”
Stilwell checked out the screen and shook his head. “There is no such thing as muzzle discipline over here. There isn’t a day that goes by where I don’t have to tell some idiot to lower his gun. And they’re all walking around with the damn things chambered, safeties off, and their fingers on the trigger. Accidental discharges are as common as car wrecks…and they aren’t good drivers.”
Rapp swore to himself. An accidental discharge in a situation like this would likely result in a thousand plus rounds flying through the air in every direction. He walked over to the window and looked through a slit in the curtain down at the street. Rapp had a secure radio clipped to his belt and a wireless earpiece in his left ear. He touched the transmit button and said, “Mac, how are you feeling?” Rapp looked directly at Kennedy’s security chief who was blocking the entrance to the café.
“Just great,” he said sarcastically. “I’m surrounded by men in masks carrying bigger guns than mine who would love nothing more than to kill our boss. Other than that it’s a wonderful morning. The sun is out, the temp’s in the mid-sixties. I feel like I’m on vacation.”
“I know.
It sounds like they’re wrapping it up. Irene’s gotten through all her main points. It shouldn’t be much longer, and then you guys can get the hell out of here and back to the airport.”
“I’m counting the seconds.”
“Hang in there.”
Rapp clicked the secure radio out of the two-way mode and looked to the far end of the street. Several of the cops were now milling about with Russian-made rocket-propelled grenade launchers resting on their hips.
“This place is fucking crazy,” Rapp mumbled to himself.
There was way too much unsecured firepower. Subconsciously, he brought his left hand up and touched the .45-caliber Glock 21 pistol on his left hip. Underneath his oversized gray shirt, Rapp was wearing level-three body armor with a ceramic chicken plate over his heart. The Glock was in a paddle holster with two spare magazines clipped to his belt. Rapp turned his attention away from the street for a moment and eyed the small arsenal Stilwell had assembled on the other side of the room. On the floor was a black composite case with two locking clasps.
Rapp walked over, knelt, and popped the two clasps. He lifted the lid and revealed his personal arsenal: a 5.56mm rifle with a suppressor, a spare .45, and a Glock 17 with a suppressor, all sitting in foam cutouts. The M-4 was made by Sabre Defense. It was a Massad Ayoob special broken down into a lower and upper receiver. Rapp assembled the weapon in a few seconds, screwed the silencer onto the end, and loaded it with a thirty-round magazine. He checked to make sure the safety was on, then chambered one of the .233 rounds, grabbed two spare magazines, and walked back to the window.
“Call the base,” he said to Stilwell, “and make sure the quick-reaction force is at the gate ready to move, and I mean locked and loaded, engines running.”
“Will do.”
Rapp clutched the grip of the M-4 and checked his watch. It was 11:17. He looked down at all the firepower on the street and couldn’t shake the feeling that something wasn’t right. One misstep, by either group, and Kennedy and her detail would be caught in the crossfire. Rapp could hear Kennedy’s voice coming from the speaker behind him. His eyes narrowed as another police pickup truck joined the other two at the far end of the street. This one was carrying eight men, all in uniforms and black hoods. They piled out of the truck and moved off in pairs toward each corner of the intersection. Rapp swore under his breath and decided enough was enough.
“Mac,” Rapp said as he keyed the transmit button on his radio. “I think it’s time to wrap this thing up and get her back to the base.”
“I agree.”
