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Rapp adopted the haughty attitude imams were known for.
The bodyguard was not intimidated. He stepped forward and motioned for Rapp to raise his hands. At that exact moment, Dumond’s voice came over Rapp’s earpiece.
“Mitch, we’ve got a call being made to the new number.”
Rapp began raising his arms and in clear unaccented English, replied to Dumond by saying, “Patch it through.”
The words spoken not in Arabic or Farsi, but Americanized English caused the bodyguard to pause for a second as his eyes and ears attempted to reconcile the diverging facts. Rapp pulled the trigger on the silenced .45-caliber Glock. The hollow-tipped bullet hit the man in his bulletproof tactical vest like a sledgehammer. He dropped his rifle as he stumbled backward two steps and fell. Rapp swung his cloaked arm around and brought it to bear on the assistant. He grabbed him by the back of the neck, and in Arabic hissed, “Do what I tell you and you will not be harmed.”
Rapp pushed him toward the door, past Stilwell, who was throwing a pair of white plastic flex cuffs on the gasping bodyguard. The assistant opened the door without having to be told, and he and Rapp spilled into the room. The imam was straight ahead, sitting behind his desk, frozen with a pen in one hand and the other draped on top of the desk. Rapp did a quick check to his left and right, and when he put his eyes back on the imam, he saw the gray-bearded man reaching for something under the desk. Rapp took aim and fired, sending a bullet thudding into the top of the heavy wood desk. Splinters flew and the elderly Husseini jerked backwards, rolling away from the desk in his chair. Rapp raised the pistol up above his head and brought it crashing down on the base of the assistant’s neck. The man’s legs turned to rubber, and he collapsed to the floor.
Rapp rushed around the desk and kicked the side of the imam’s leather office chair, sending him rolling across the wood floor and away from whatever it was that he had been reaching for. The chair skidded to a stop against a bookcase.
Rapp looked under the desk and found a gun set inside a small shelf. He left it there and moved to the imam while Stilwell dragged the bodyguard into the office and then went back for the rifle. “I’ve been told you’re a reasonable man, and I’m a little short on time. So I’m going to make this quick. I’ve got a briefcase with fifty grand in it. You tell me where you’ve stashed Imad Mukhtar and CIA Director Kennedy and the money’s all yours. If you don’t, I’m going to start by shooting you in the foot and then the knee. Both places that really hurt. So what’s it going to be…the money, or a bullet?”
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Stilwell closed the office door and slapped flex cuffs on the ankles and wrists of the unconscious assistant. The bodyguard was lying on the floor writhing in pain from what Rapp guessed was a broken sternum.
Rapp pointed at the bodyguard and said to Husseini, “He’s with Mukhtar, isn’t he?”
The imam nodded.
Rapp thought of Kennedy’s bodyguards all lined up and shot in the head. He then considered how eliminating this problem might motivate Husseini to be a bit more forthright; both in the sense that there would be no witnesses to talk about the deal Husseini had made, and by serving as a stark example of how serious the situation was. Rapp extended his wrist, squeezed the trigger, and a heavy bullet spat from the end. The man’s head bounced off the floor, and then the blood began to flow in an expanding pool of crimson.
Imam Husseini looked on in shocked horror. Rapp was about to tell him that he was now free to talk when he heard President Amatullah’s voice emanate from his tiny earpiece.
“Ali, this is Cyrus.”
“Marcus,” Rapp said in hushed English, “is he still in this building?”
A couple seconds later Dumond said, “We have his signal isolated to a four-by-four-meter area in the southwest corner of the mosque.”
“Stan,” Rapp commanded, “show him the cash.”
“Where are you?” Rapp heard Amatullah ask.
“I would rather not say,” Mukhtar answered.
“Well, there has been a change of plan.”
“I am close to getting you what you asked for.” Rapp could hear the frustration in Mukhtar’s voice.
“You need to release the hostage,” Amatullah said.
Rapp literally froze in mid stride.
“Why?” Mukhtar hissed.
“Because I am ordering you to.”
“I do not take orders from you.” Rapp noted the anger in Mukhtar’s voice.
“Well,” Amatullah sighed, “the Supreme Leader has decided that she should be released.”
“Why? Is this because of the ultimatum the American president has given you??
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