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“You must leave now!” the man yelled. He took another step closer and brought the club up, brandishing it in an attempt to scare Rapp and Ridley.
It occurred to Rapp that the big goon had probably used the same club on Johnson. Rapp glared at the man and said, “Get that thing out of my face, or I’ll shove it up your ass and turn you into a popsicle.”
The guy kept coming. The club was now raised above his head.
Without turning, Rapp said to Ridley, “If you have to shoot him, don’t kill him.” He rocked back on his heels like he might move away, knowing it would cause the man to continue rushing carelessly forward with all of his vulnerable areas exposed. Suddenly, like a pole-vaulter’s, all of Rapp’s energy came forward and he charged. His gamble paid off. The big man was used to people backing down. The sight of someone charging him caused him to freeze for a second, and that was all Rapp needed. He made a head fake to the right and then charged straight in. His left hand shot up to grab the wrist with the club while his right hand went for the big guy’s throat. Rapp kept all of his weight moving forward. He clamped his right hand under the big guy’s chin and drove it up, accelerating through the target. The goon toppled straight back. On his way down he managed to grab ahold of Rapp’s right shoulder but it wasn’t enough to break his fall. Rapp didn’t resist. He went down with the man, driving his head into the concrete sidewalk.
Rapp came to a stop with his right knee in the guy’s stomach. He watched as the guy’s eyes fluttered and then rolled back into his head. After that, he went completely limp. The wooden truncheon fell from his hand and rolled across the sidewalk. Rapp’s eyes were drawn to the underside of the man’s wrists, where he saw three distinct scratch marks. There were more marks on the guy’s neck. Rapp was suddenly aware of a familiar smell. He lowered himself down and took a whiff of the man’s shirt. It smelled like a fire. Like burnt food.
“Mitch,” Ridley called out, just as the car started. “What do you want me to do?”
Rapp stood. His right hand grabbed his silencer while his left hand drew his 9mm Glock. He watched as the car backed up to get out of the space. Rapp spun the silencer onto the end and leveled the gun just as the car was beginning to pull away. Two rounds spat from the end of the silencer and both passenger side tires went flat. Rapp walked between two parked cars out into the street, leveled his gun, and shot out the driver’s-side tires. The car limped along for another twenty feet, the engine straining to transfer its power into any real momentum. Rapp shot the driver’s-side mirror clean off the car. The engine roared louder. He took careful aim at the driver’s window and sent a round through the forward-most portion, instantly shattering the safety glass into thousands of pieces.
“Put your hands where I can see them,” he yelled, “or I’ll blow your fucking brains out!” He approached the c
ar from the oblique, saying, “You two in the backseat, get out this side, hands in the air. Let’s go!” he yelled. “Right now!”
The two men spilled out of the car and dove to the pavement. Rapp moved to his left so he had a clear view of Aabad, who was behind the wheel. “Aabad, get out of that car right now.”
The door opened slowly and Aabad got out with his hands up in the air. Rapp waved his gun toward the back of the car. “Hands on the trunk! Let’s go!” Rapp followed him and kicked his feet apart, and then shoved his gun into the back of his neck. While he searched his pockets with his free hand he asked, “Where in the hell you going in such a rush, Aabad?”
“Nowhere,” Aabad answered nervously.
“Why aren’t you inside, praying?”
“I…”
“That’s right, you don’t have a fucking answer, do you?” Rapp smelled Aabad’s suit coat and discovered the same burnt smell he’d gotten from the big guy’s shirt. Rapp practically stuck the silencer through Aabad’s skull. “You been barbecuing lately?”
“What?” Aabad asked, his voice cracking.
“Barbecue! Cooking pork on a grill!”
“I don’t know what you are talking about.”
Rapp grabbed the man’s right wrist and wrenched it up behind his back. Aabad howled in pain. Rapp moved his face within inches and spat, “I know what you’ve been up to, you crazy motherfucker. You tortured my guy last night, didn’t you? You cut off three of his toes, stuffed him in a trunk, and burned him.” Rapp saw the recognition in Aabad’s eyes—the shock that he had been discovered. He twisted the arm further.
“I want to talk to my lawyer!” Aabad screamed. He now had tears in his eyes and was grimacing from the pain.
Rapp laughed, “That ain’t gonna happen. You know why? Because I’m not a cop.” He stuck his gun into Aabad’s face. “You know many cops who carry silencers, you idiot? I’m going to give you two choices, Aabad.” Rapp wrenched the arm a little further and over Aabad’s howls, he said, “You either talk to me, or I cut your toes off, just like you did to my guy. Except I doubt you’ll make it to three. In fact, I bet you start blabbering before I make the first slice.”
“I want my lawyer!” he cried.
Rapp turned to Ridley and was about to tell him to get the car, when the sounds of the city were dwarfed by a booming clap and then a rumble that carried over their heads and rolled toward Maryland. To the uninitiated, it could have been confused with thunder, but not to Rapp and Ridley. They both knew exactly what it was, and before they could verbalize it, two more explosions ripped through the air.
CHAPTER 65
MCLEAN, VIRGINIA
NASH stood at the back of the Operations Center on the sixth floor of the National Counterterrorism Center and stared up at the wall at the far end of the room. The big fifteen-by-twenty-foot screen was divided in four. One section showed the estimated casualty numbers from the attack, and the other three showed images of each blast site. The smaller screens along each side were providing live feeds from FOX, BBC, CNN, Al Jazeera, Al Arabia, and the local NBC affiliate.
They had hit three restaurants at almost precisely 12:30. Right in the middle of the lunch rush. The estimated numbers of casualties were staggering. The number on the board right now was at three hundred. Nash was so shocked by it that he had to ask Art Harris if it was a typo. The FBI’s deputy assistant director for the CTC Division said his guy actually thought it might be low.
Nash stood there and stared in semi-disbelief. He’d seen carnage up close over in Afghanistan and Baghdad, but he was just a visitor over there. It was different when it was the city you lived and worked in. On top of all of that was the agonizing fear that the terrorists had gotten their hands on one of the NCTC’s own threat assessments. This attack was right out of a scenario they’d been warning about for several years. All three targets—the Monocle, Hawk ’n’ Dove, and Bobby Van’s—were actually named in the report as locations of extreme concern.
Nash’s assistant, Jessica, approached and said, “The director is on the line for you, and so is your wife.”
“Tell Maggie I love her and I’ll call her later.” Nash stepped forward and put his hand on the shoulder of the man who ran the floor, Senior Operations Officer Dave Paulson. “Dave, you mind if I use one of your phones?” Paulson had four computer screens and three phones on his desk.
