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YOUR MESSAGE HAS BEEN SENT.
Praise be to God.
CHAPTER 55
MITCH, I’m getting really cold and freaked out.”
Marcus Dumond’s voice over his earpiece.
Rapp stayed in the shadows beneath the overhang, unbuckling his boots and sliding along the building’s wall until he reached the door. A gentle twist of the icy knob suggested it was open, but he didn’t immediately enter. The storm had kicked up again and the gusts were coming with a predictable rhythm. He waited a couple of cycles to solidify the timing in his mind and then used the roar to cover his entry.
“Mitch?” Dumond prompted again, the fear in his voice notching higher. “Are you still out there? Are you okay?”
Coleman responded. “Stay off the comm, Marcus. Everything’s fine. Just a few more minutes.”
Rapp crouched and swept his Glock across the room. No movement. Light was flooding down a staircase to his left and he could hear muffled voices at the top. There was no other way up, so he padded toward it in damp socks. The ancient wood looked like it was barely holding together, forcing him to test each step for sound before fully committing his weight.
He paused on the landing, listening for evidence that his approach had been noticed. Nothing.
Rapp swung around the wall and into the room with a single fluid motion. Pavel Katdsyn was trying unsuccessfully to stand, fear and pain etched deeply into his face. The Pakistani was carelessly sitting with his back to the entrance, staring intently at a computer screen in front of him.
Katdsyn spotted him and Rapp put a finger to his lips. Unfortunately, the Russian had been pushed well beyond the point where he could comprehend an instruction that subtle. He reached out with a shaking hand. “Help me!”
The seated man had made an amateur mistake by putting himself in that position, but the speed of his reaction suggested it was an aberration. He leapt to his feet, simultaneously spinning and kicking the wheeled chair backward. Rapp was forced to dodge right, but didn’t lose his line on the head of the Pakistani drawing a pistol from a holster strapped over his bulletproof vest.
Rapp’s fing
er tightened on the trigger but at the last moment he lowered his aim and fired three rapid shots into the man’s sternum. When he jerked backward, Rapp charged, knocking him to the floor and pinning the Beretta beneath his foot.
The man’s eyes and mouth were wide open but he wasn’t making a sound. The rounds Rapp was using hit like a Mack truck. His sternum would be broken, most likely along with a few ribs. Painful as hell, but probably not fatal. On the off chance he was unable to get in a breath and suffocated, at least his face was intact for an ID.
Rapp reached down and relieved him of his weapon, noting the burning hatred in his expression before rolling him over and looping a set of flex cuffs over his wrists.
“I’m clear in here,” Rapp said into his throat mike. “Get those people inside.”
“Roger that,” Coleman responded. “Can I send Wick for Marcus?”
“Yeah. Bring him here.”
A hand closed around Rapp’s ankle and he turned to see Pavel Katdsyn looking up at him. “Thank you.”
In acknowledgment of his gratitude, Rapp brought his silencer to within an inch of the Russian’s forehead. “Good people are dead because of you, you son of a bitch.”
Katdsyn tried to pull back, but Rapp followed with his weapon.
“Please!” he whimpered.
“What did he want?”
“The . . . The encryption key to some files.”
“From a law firm in Rome?”
“Yes.”
“Did you give it to him?”
“He was letting my friends freeze to—”
