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“Isn’t that where they are made?”
“Near there.”
Ahmed picked it up and looked through the Barrett Optical Range Scope. “When do I get to fire it?”
“Hopefully not anytime soon, but just in case you have to, are you familiar with the weapon?”
“There is not much to know. It is one of the finest rifles ever constructed. Robust…accurate…very easy to shoot.”
“Good. There are three ten-round boxes already loaded.” Hakim pointed at the case.
“What type of ammunition?”
“Fifty-caliber BMG, armor-piercing incendiary.”
Ahmed tore his eyes away from the gun and said, “Only NATO troops have that ammunition.”
“And you.” Hakim laughed loudly.
“Where in the world did you get…?”
“I’ll tell you on the long drive to Washington. We’ll have plenty of time, but now we must get moving.” Hakim turned and looked up at his old friend, who was standing on the other side of the windscreen. “Are you ready, my friend?”
“Yes.”
“Good,” Hakim said with unbridled enthusiasm. “Just like we practiced last night. Everybody get in your proper place and we will start the engines.” The men started scrambling into their assigned boats. “Remember,” Hakim said, “keep your weapons hidden unless Karim or I tell you to get them out.” He then turned to Ahmed and whispered, “Stay close to me, and make sure your new toy is ready to use.”
Hakim started his engines one at a time and waited for his friend to do the same. After another minute Hakim ordered the lines to be undone and then got under way at a leisurely fifteen knots. With the wind whipping over their heads, Hakim turned to Ahmed and asked, “Are you familiar with the MH-65C Dolphin helicopter?”
Ahmed shook his head.
“Not to worry.” Hakim popped the small glove box on the dashboard and retrieved several pieces of paper. “Here are the schematics. I’ve circled the three places where it is most vulnerable. If we come across one it might be useful information.”
CHAPTER 38
WASHINGTON, D.C.
RAPP had to laugh at the irony of the situation. Here he was in an orange prison
jumpsuit shackled to a metal table in a room that reeked of urine. The cinder-block walls of the ten-by-ten-foot interrogation room were covered with a variety of body fluids that Rapp did not want to attempt to identify. The fact that America treated terrorists better than its own citizens was just another example of how upside down things were. He was in the Central Detention Facility, or D.C. jail, as it is more commonly known. A place located in one of the most run-down, crime-ridden neighborhoods in America. Every year for the last thirty, Southeast D.C. helped the capital city finish in the top five for most murders—usually number one. The jail was filled with gangbangers and crackheads and every other kind of reprobate that roamed the not-so-safe streets of the nation’s capital.
It was obvious that the political forces behind his arrest thought they could somehow unravel him by sticking him in this place, which was proof that they were either very stupid or very petty or probably both. When they’d finished fingerprinting and photographing him, they took away all his clothes and gave him the orange jumpsuit and the paper slippers and stuck him in general holding. No lawyer, no phone call, just Ridley standing there, doling out threats like a kindergarten teacher on a field trip. Ridley warned them it was a mistake. Told them over and over not to dump him in general holding, but the jailers stuck with their official line that everyone gets the same treatment.
Rapp lasted less than five minutes in the big thirty-by-ten-foot cell. A wiry black perp, all strung out on drugs, got in his face almost the second he walked in the door. Rather than engage the man in conversation, Rapp hit him with a quick jab to the solar plexus and sent him to the floor, where he lay gasping for air like a fish out of water. Two slightly larger and younger black men took umbrage at this and strolled across the cell hooting and hollering about all the hurt they were going to put on their new bitch. In five seconds Rapp sized them up, drew them in, and dismantled them. The man on the left got a half a step ahead of the other guy and threw the first punch. Rapp moved his head a mere six inches and let the fist sail past. With a slight pivot he brought up his right leg and then sent his foot crashing down on the outside of the man’s right knee. Having thrown his punch and missed, the man was left for a second with ninety-five percent of his weight resting on that front foot. When Rapp’s foot made contact and pushed through the target, the man buckled as if he’d been walking on a pair of flimsy stilts.
The second guy was on him almost immediately and actually got ahold of Rapp’s jumpsuit for a second, before Rapp broke free with a series of quick rabbit punches to several vital organs. He then took the man by the wrist, twisted the hand 180 degrees, and straightened his arm so that his elbow was in a locked position pointing directly up at the ceiling. One quick kick to the stomach sent the man to the floor. There was a moment where the entire room was still. Rapp looked across the cell at the other gangbangers and tried to gauge their mood. They were all paying rapt attention, and a few looked like they might join in. Rapp decided that the easiest way to stop the violence was to make an example. With the perp’s arm still in a straight and locked position, Rapp dropped to his right knee, brought his left arm up above his head, and brought his elbow smashing down. When the blow struck, the other man’s elbow socket exploded, sounding like a two-by-four snapping from too much weight.
When the guards showed up, the first perp was just regaining his ability to breathe, but the other two were rolling around on the ground screaming in pain with limbs pointed at very unnatural angles. The guards had a quick conference and decided to move Rapp to one of the interrogation rooms. That was where he had been sitting from roughly one in the morning until now. He was shackled around his wrists and ankles and chained to the metal table. The cinder-block walls were blank. With nothing to look at and nothing to do but wait, Rapp rested his head on the table and tried to sleep. He lost track of time but it felt like he’d been in the room for close to ten hours, which meant it was probably closer to five. Alone with nothing but his thoughts, he wondered how Kennedy was taking things. There was a good chance that she was raising holy hell, but one never really knew in this town.
When the door finally opened, Rapp looked up and saw a man roughly his age, wearing a blue suit and a mint green and blue striped tie. He was handsome, but not in a masculine way. He was too perfect, too deliberate. Like he put a lot of effort into his grooming and appearance. He entered the room holding a cup of coffee, a scone, and a leather briefing folder under one arm. He kicked the door closed and sat down across from Rapp.
After straightening his tie and taking a sip of coffee he said, “You have managed to get yourself into a lot of trouble.”
Rapp stared back at him with his brown eyes that were so dark they were almost black and said nothing.
“Striking an officer of the United States Air Force is a very serious crime.” He glanced at Rapp with his most serious expression and flipped open the briefing folder. “Not to mention this part about you donning the uniform of colonel and sneaking around a United States military installation without authorized access. I would say you’ve finally run out of luck, Mr. Rapp.”
Rapp said nothing. He stared back at the man and wondered if he really thought he was going to somehow scare him.
