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Finally, he selected a grenade. It was reported to have a seven-second delay and he wondered how accurate that was. The Americans were normally quite precise about such things but it didn’t really matter. He didn’t own a watch.
Hotaki pulled the pin and began counting. What was the word the Americans used when they did this? It was one of their states. Mississippi. Yes, that was it.
When he got to seven, he held the grenade out the window and let go.
Allah, in his infinite mercy, decided to smile on him. The explosive detonated just after Hotaki withdrew his hand behind the safety of the wall. It sent shrapnel raining down on the vehicle and the men in it, as well as disintegrating part of the window’s upper frame in a cloud of eye-stinging dust and smoke. Beyond being entirely deaf—a relatively trivial problem since it was unlikely he would survive another five minutes—Hotaki was completely unharmed.
He heard the spinning of tires on the south side of the street and threw himself out of the window. It was a three-meter drop, but the bodies in the truck’s bed provided a comfortable landing. He immediately leapt to the ground, pulling open the driver’s door and dragging the man from behind the wheel. He was bleeding badly from his head and neck as a result of shrapnel that had penetrated the roof. Hotaki slid into the seat and shoved the accelerator to the floor. The vehicle fishtailed into the road as the other pickup closed from behind.
The man in the passenger seat next to him suddenly regained consciousness and began asking what had happened in a panicked voice. He’d been blinded by the grenade and had no idea that his comrade was choking to death in the road behind them.
Hotaki leaned across and threw open the passenger-side door. He swung close to a cart full of hand-hewn cooking utensils and pushed the Taliban fighter out as they passed. The door caught the edge of the cart and nearly severed the man’s legs as he fell to the street. The door was ruined, so Hotaki used the side of a building to shear it the rest of the way off.
Automatic gunfire started behind him, and Hotaki swerved around a tight corner before skidding to a stop. He adjusted the mirror and pressed himself back into the seat, bracing himself as he waited.
A few seconds later, the pickup chasing him came drifting around the corner. The driver, focused on aiming a submachine gun through his open window, realized too late that Hotaki was stopped in the road.
The impact felt less powerful than expected, probably due to the considerable weight of the bodies in the back. His vehicle was propelled forward a few meters, and he gripped the wheel as two men flew over the top of him and landed in the road.
Hotaki depressed the accelerator again, swerving in a lazy S pattern to run over the men as they tried to shake off the impact and rise to their feet. He hoped Allah would forgive him the intense pleasure he felt as they were pulled beneath his wheels.
CHAPTER 43
CIA HEADQUARTERS
LANGLEY, VIRGINIA
U.S.A.
IRENE Kennedy followed as Nash weaved confidently through the maze of cubicles. She’d never been in this part of the building and its inhabitants’ faces reflected that. At first, expressions ranged from mild shock to outright fear. By the time she neared the back wall, though, word had spread. Every head was down, focused on computer screens, phones, or whatever documents were at hand.
Apparently Marcus Dumond was starting to be affected by the pressure of the job he’d been tasked with and Nash felt that dragging him up to the seventh floor would make matters worse. The hope was that Dumond would be more relaxed on his home turf.
The office was what she’d expected—indeed what he’d asked for when he’d signed on. Nearly as big as hers but windowless, it looked a bit like a garage sale right before the doors opened. There was nothing that even vaguely resembled office furniture. Paper files and books were stacked on a sagging Ping-Pong table, vintage La-Z-Boys provided seating, and there was an unmade twin bed beneath a Washington Redskins poster in the corner. Mitch Rapp was sitting on a threadbare sofa next to what appeared to be a week’s worth of dirty clothes.
He didn’t look up from the Sports Illustrated he was reading when they entered. Dumond, on the other hand, jumped to attention and began tossing stuff off a recliner centered in the room.
“That’s all right,” Kennedy said. “I can stand.”
“Are you sure?”
She nodded. “I’m told you’ve come up with a plan, Marcus.”
“I guess. I mean, yes . . . I have.”
She was glad she hadn’t insisted on him coming upstairs. Nash was right. She’d seen the young computer genius nervous before, but the deer-in-the-headlights look in his eyes was new.
“I’m anxious to hear it. You know we have nothing but confidence in you, right, Marcus?”
“Yeah. . . . Thanks,” he said before falling silent.
“Come on, big guy,” Nash prompted. “It’s a great idea. Tell Irene just like you told me.”
“Okay. I still have friends who are . . . well, hackers. I mean, I don’t do any of that stuff anymore. No way. But I’ve stayed in touch with a few people from back in the day.” His gaze fell to the floor. “You know. Here and there.”
Kennedy just smiled blandly. It was an outrageous lie. Just last week, Dumond and a few of these friends had broken into the Walt Disney Studios site and replaced the new Star Wars trailer with a vulgar—but beautifully produced—interpretation of their own.
As long as it was harmless fun and he covered his tracks, Kennedy wasn’t inclined to intervene. In a way, the competition and cooperation with other hackers helped keep his skills sharp. While people on her end of the spy business tended to benefit from their years of experience, time worked against the tech gurus.
