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ible threat, even to someone as aware as Rapp. The assassin decided four inches would give him enough range to cover the twenty or so feet in front of the clinic’s main door. He checked his sight line once again and then returned to the question that was chewing on his nerves.
It was possible that his employer was cheap and simply wanted to save himself $1.5 million, but considering the lengths that he’d gone to that was unlikely. The more plausible explanation was that this control freak on the other end of the text messages and envelopes didn’t like loose ends, and the assassin was about to become a loose end. He prided himself on his instincts, and when a hunter realizes he might soon become the hunted it is a feeling that is impossible to ignore. His mind was speeding to calculate his avenues of escape, when a truly frightening thought hit him square in the cerebral cortex. What if his employer had somehow discovered his past with Rapp? Surely there were a handful of people in the U.S. government who knew the details of that catastrophe. The scales in his mind that were trying to weigh his employer’s honesty against the possibility that he was being set up suddenly jerked in favor of the latter as if an anvil had been dropped on that side. There was no longer any doubt in the assassin’s mind. He was being set up.
The front door did not seem like a great option, as both ends of the street were being watched, but the roof gave him even greater concern. It was obviously the avenue of escape that the employer preferred him to take, which likely meant there was a trap waiting for him. He looked down at the phone that had been his link to the employer and had the ominous feeling that it was being used to track his every move. Even worse, the thing could have a small bomb in it. Not enough to kill him unless it was placed next to his ear. Intelligence agencies had used cell phones to assassinate enemies for more than a decade. He decided he wouldn’t be answering any calls.
As if on cue the phone bleeped and the screen lit up. The assassin flinched slightly and was embarrassed. Control of his nerves would be the difference between life and death. The screen told him his target was less than a minute away. It also gave him the make and model of the vehicle. As if by reflex, he picked up the M-4 and snapped the suppressor onto the end of the barrel. His eyes looked over the case, taking a quick inventory. The magazine in the rifle was the only one provided. No spares in the event of a shootout. He let out a deep sigh and the thought occurred to him that the room itself could be wired for sound and image, or worse yet, booby-trapped to explode after he’d completed his mission. That idea more than anything caused him to go through the motions. He placed the tactical sling over his head and stepped a few feet back so that no one on the street could see him. He brought the rifle up and tested the sling as if he was trying to find the right amount of tension. He eased his eye in behind the viewfinder and placed the red dot on the front door of the clinic. His mind was already counting down the seconds to Rapp’s arrival. Everything at this point was natural, pounded into his brain through repetition. Physically he was doing everything that he would normally do, and if he was being watched there would be no reason for his employer to think he was onto him. He lowered the rifle and kept his breathing easy. The shot would happen during a brief window—maybe five seconds as Rapp left the vehicle and made his way to the door.
While all looked normal physically, his mind was behaving quite differently. It was churning through every available option over and over, trying to calculate which avenue would lead to his best chance for survival. Suddenly the money didn’t mean very much. Oh, he’d keep the $1.5 million, and if he made it out of this hellhole alive, he’d do his best to track down this asshole who was setting him up. He wondered if Yuri was in on it. His agent, a former Russian SVR intelligence officer, was more than capable of doing what was best for himself. That was why the assassin had never met him face-to-face and communicated with him almost entirely through email. All of this would have to be dealt with later. For now, he needed to stay focused on saving his own hide.
The Toyota SUV rolled into sight beneath him and stopped at the curb directly in front of the clinic. The assassin brought the rifle up and thanks to the modern technology of his EOTech sight was able to keep both eyes open. He timed his next move perfectly. All four doors of the SUV opened and men piled out, all of them wearing baseball hats. Even though he couldn’t see Rapp’s face, he knew which one he was within a split second. He slid the red dot in the center of the viewfinder onto the middle of Rapp’s back and moved his finger from the trigger guard to the trigger. He watched Rapp cover the ground between the car and the front door, smoothly following him with the weapon.
Suddenly, the assassin’s head jerked toward the door as if he’d heard a noise in the hallway. His finger slid off the trigger and straightened. He moved quickly to the door and listened for any other sound. After a few seconds he returned to the window only to see that Rapp was already in the building. Two of his men were standing on the sidewalk, keeping an eye on the car. He did his best to look disappointed. The assassin picked up the camera, popped out the memory card, and slid it in his pocket. He didn’t want to lug the camera around.
Not knowing what he would find in the hallway, he unslung the M-4 and then pulled the cord on the backpack that converted it into a tactical vest. He wanted quick access to one of his stun grenades if anyone was waiting for him in the hall. After grabbing the M-4, he moved to the door and did not hesitate. He yanked it open and took a quick look. The hallway was empty, so he moved with speed to the stairs and down one flight. As he pushed through the main door onto the sidewalk he was fully committed. The M-4 was slung with the butt just under his right armpit and the suppressor down by his left thigh. His right hand gripped the handle but his finger was clearly visible and off the trigger. As he moved onto the street he looked to his left and then his right and all his fears were validated. Parked at the end of each block were police trucks filled with officers in full combat gear. When he looked across the street at Rapp’s men he saw that they had also noticed the men. The one with the beard noticed him first. He casually changed his stance and brought his rifle into a position where he could quickly dispatch this potential threat.
The assassin let his weapon hang from his neck, raising both hands to shoulder height, his palms out. When he was twenty feet away, he kept moving and said, “I need to speak to Mitch.” The familiarity in his voice seemed to relax the two watchdogs a bit. The assassin closed the distance to within six feet and then stopped. He looked to his right and then to his left. One of the men whom he had seen earlier was talking on a cell phone and began yelling and motioning at the police officers to get out of the truck. A second truck with six more men raced to a stop behind the first. The assassin resisted the urge to raise his rifle and shoot the spotter with the cell phone.
Instead, he turned to the two big Americans and in near flawless English said, “I think you guys better call for some backup.”
CHAPTER 16
THE sparse waiting area held four people, a dog, three cats, and a bird. The bird was in a cage behind the receptionist’s counter as well as the two cats that were sleeping in wicker baskets. A little boy not more than eight held the leash of a small pooch while his mother sat protectively next to him. An elderly man with a cigarette dangling from his mouth cradled a sickly-looking black cat that was missing large clumps of hair. The old man looked depressed. Neither adult made eye contact, but the little boy gave Rapp a friendly smile. Rapp returned the gesture with a nod of thanks. Most of the people in Kabul tried to ignore foreigners, and Rapp didn’t blame them one bit. Their country had been at near constant war for thirty years. There were others who stared you down as if they wanted to kill you, and a small minority who would smile and maybe even say hello.
Rapp approached the blue Formica reception desk. A nice young woman in a black hijab looked up at him and asked in English, “How may I help you?”
“Do I look that American?” Rapp asked, trying to seem offended.
“No, but he does.” She pointed over Rapp’s shoulder at Coleman.
Rapp turned around and looked at his friend’s blond hair and blue eyes. Coleman’s Northern European ethnicity made it nearly impossible for him to blend in on ops like this. “Yeah,” Rapp said, “he works for the United Nations. I think he’s Swedish or something like that. I can’t understand a thing he says. At any rate, we were hoping to speak with Dr. Amin.”
“I’m sorry, but he’s at the university right now.”
“Do you expect him back this afternoon?”
“Normally not, but if we’re busy he stops by on his way home. May I ask what you need to discuss with him?”
Rapp hesitated. He was not used to sharing information, but this woman seemed nice enough, and she might be able to save him a step. “It’s a rather important matter.” Rapp retrieved his Joe Cox credentials emblazoned in gold with the seal of the United States and the all-important, somewhat vague words Federal Officer, raised and embossed. “We’re trying to track down a missing person. We were told that he brought his dog to your clinic about a month ago. He was an American and his dog was a Rottweiler. Do you remember anyone like that?”
She shook her head. “No, but I’m only here part-time. Do you have a name?”
Rickman had more than a few aliases as well. Rapp had no idea if he had used one, so he started with Rickman’s real name. The receptionist spun her chair around and crab-walked the chair over to a row of file cabinets. Rapp looked over his shoulder to find Coleman with his arms folded across his chest and shaking his head.
“Swedish? What in the hell is wrong with you?”
Rapp started to laugh, and then his eyes caught something beyond the glass doors. His left hand slid between the folds of his jacket and around the grip of his 9mm Glock. The change in Rapp’s demeanor didn’t go unnoticed by Coleman, who did a c
asual 180-degree turn to see what was going on. Rapp could scarcely believe his eyes. It was as if a ghost had walked out of his not-so-distant past. Nearly four years ago, to be exact. He watched the man walk past Reavers and Maslick, stopping briefly to point at something down the street. In Rapp’s mind it was a move to distract them, but Rapp could not be distracted. Not by this man. He drew his gun and lined the sights up on the head of the man who had killed his wife.
The receptionist said something, but Rapp didn’t hear her. He was too intent on the man coming through the door. The only thing that prevented Rapp from shooting him on the spot was that he had his hands in the air in what seemed to be a genuine posture of surrender.
Coleman said, “Is that who I think it is?”
“Yes.”
One of the glass doors opened and the assassin stepped slowly into the lobby. He glanced at Coleman and then focused on Rapp. “We need to talk and we must do it quickly.”
“Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t shoot you.”
