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Rapp stayed behind the Russian as they cut through an incongruously modern kitchen and entered a pantry lined with canned food and baking supplies. It doubled as an elevator, and a click of the key chain in Rapp’s pocket caused the floor to begin dropping. A moment later, they were in a long cinder-block room lined with doors—all bare steel with a single hatch just big enough to pass a food tray through. Rapp opened the first one and shoved the Russian inside.
“Wait!” he said, stumbling, but catching himself before he fell. “What are you going to do with me? I told you what you wanted to know. You said you’d send me home.”
“What are you complaining about?” Rapp said. “This is the presidential suite.”
There were six cells in total. They ranged in comfort from this one, which boasted a sofa bed and big-screen TV, to a concrete cube with dripping pipes and a bucket for a toilet.
“Stop!” Yenotin said as Rapp began closing the door. “I demand that you let me talk to my embassy.”
“Consider yourself lucky, Vadim. If it weren’t for Irene Kennedy, you’d be spending the week in my trunk.”
The door clanged shut, and Rapp took a step back but made no move to leave. Instead he turned and stared at the door to the left of the one he’d just closed. The cell beyond contained Louis Gould, the professional assassin who had blown up Rapp’s home, killing his family and leaving him in the hospital with multiple broken bones and swelling on the brain.
He was suddenly aware of the weight of the Glock hanging beneath his right shoulder. It could be over in a few seconds. All he had to do was open the door, aim, and pull the trigger. Normally, killing affected him very little, but how would it feel to end Gould’s life? To rip him away from his own wife and daughter? Would it finally put Anna’s ghost to rest? Or would it just leave him with nothing to cling to?
“Vodka’s on the pool table.” Hurley’s voice behind him. He hadn’t even noticed the elevator go up to get the man.
“Yeah,” Rapp said, trance broken.
The door opposite the holding cells led to the bar—another thing that got more elaborate with every iteration of the CIA’s clandestine training facility. Hurley seemed to have plucked this one directly from his memory. With the exception of the contemporary pool table centered in it, the space felt like a mid-seventies Morocco dive. The far wall was exposed stone framing an antique mahogany bar imported from France. Asian-style lamps, a few antique ceiling fans, and Hurley’s collection of framed World War II–era photos completed the illusion. As the old man’s life came to a close, he seemed more and more comfortable in the past.
Rapp picked up the vodka and took a healthy slug before grabbing a cue and slamming the six ball into the side pocket. His thoughts turned to their situation, and once again the anger began to burn in the pit of his stomach. What had Rickman been thinking? Why would a man turn on his country? On his comrades in arms?
It was a question Rapp doubted he’d ever be able to answer. At his core, he was a soldier. A man who located and killed the enemies of his country and who would give his life to protect any member of his team. That was it. Simple.
When Irene Kennedy finally walked in, she was looking a bit haggard. Most people would have seen only what she wanted them to—the neatly pressed skirt, the impeccable white blouse, and the brown hair carefully pulled back. There was something around her eyes, though. Something that said this wasn’t business as usual.
“Two Russians dead, Mitch. Two.”
Rapp fired the one ball into the corner but didn’t otherwise respond.
“Are you telling me there was absolutely no other way to handle that situation?”
He turned his head and stared at her. They locked eyes for a few seconds before Hurley intervened.
“Come on, Irene. The driver tried to run him down and then another guy jumped out with a 9A-91. What did you want Mitch to use? Harsh language? Those Russian pricks were a day late and a dollar short and they knew it. They should have just crawled back under the rock they came from. It was a tactical mistake on their part and now they’re dead.”
She walked to the bar and poured herself a glass of red wine, using it to wash down two pills. Tylenol, Rapp knew. Ever since the Rickman thing had blown up, she’d been getting headaches.
He put down the cue and leaned back against the table. As much as he despised being second-guessed on operational details, he felt a pang of guilt. She’d become like a sister to him and he was worried about her.
“What Stan left out was that the 9A-91 wasn’t even suppressed. That guy was about to do a spray-and-pray in the middle of a city full of fourteen million people, Irene. He had to be dealt with.”
She drained half the glass and then put it down on the bar. “I know. But I have five messages from the head of the FSB literally screaming into my voice mail.”
Hurley shook his head in disgust. “Mikhail’s just playing the victim so he can work you over for two men he doesn’t give a rat’s ass about.”
She shook her head slowly. “A few years ago, this would be a career-defining crisis. Now it feels like a mild distraction. How sure are you that Yenotin is telling the truth, Mitch? That the Russians got the email after Rick’s death?”
“Ninety-nine percent. He wasn’t in a lying mood.”
“I was afraid of this.”
“What?” Hurley asked.
“Akhtar Durrani has a reputation for killing people who are no longer useful to him. And Rick was terrified of Mitch. If I’d been in his position, I’d have had an insurance policy.”
“What kind of insurance policy?”
