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Rapp moved into a position behind the man, initially hanging back to reduce the chance of being spotted. Eventually, he started to close the gap, lifting his pace only when he had a clear understanding of his surroundings and a solid view of his still-dangerous opponent.
Azarov was bleeding enough to leave a visible trail and his movements were becoming increasingly labored. Further, he was heading into territory that would put him at a significant tactical disadvantage. The terrain got physically more demanding and he was going to hit the edge of the facility in a position that would make it easy for Rapp to get above him. Pain, blood loss, and desperation could do terrible things to a man’s judgment—particularly one so talented that he might never have been faced with those challenges. He was checkmating himself.
Or was he? Rapp stopped at the bottom of a set of steps.
While it looked like Azarov was barely putting one foot in front of the other now, he’d made pretty good time in that pipe. And the blood trail was heavy enough to follow but not heavy enough to suggest the man was bleeding out.
The Russian had wanted to force this confrontation when he believed he had the tactical advantage. Now, though, that advantage had been lost. He was smart enough to know that. And if that was the case, he was probably also smart enough to be looking for a way out.
Rapp spun and started sprinting in the opposite direction, dropping his weapon and launching across a ten-foot gap to a ladder. He gripped the sides with his hands and feet, dropping down it in a near free fall before hitting the catwalk below. The east edge of the facility was visible ahead and he ran toward it, taking every opportunity to drop down to lower levels. He was only a few yards away when the blast hit him.
The force of it threw him over the guardrail and he didn’t bother fighting it. The sand and sky looked pretty much identical as he went end over end through the air, making it necessary for him to use the rising flames to orient himself. He cleared the concrete slab and landed feetfirst in the sand, immediately pitching forward and trying to roll with the impact.
Dazed, it took him a few seconds to realize that his hair was on fire. Once he’d patted it out, he just lay there staring up at the debris arcing through the sky. Azarov would have dropped off the north side before triggering the explosion and would now be following the wind into a radioactive no-man’s-land intended to discourage a chase.
Rapp considered defying the man’s expectations and going after him, but the idea faded quickly. He’d had enough of Grisha Azarov for one day.
CHAPTER 57
“JUST keep holding the ice bag to it,” the camouflage-clad nurse said.
“That’s it?” Rapp responded. “That’s your expert advice?”
His nose had started bleeding again after the explosion and despite every effort by him and the army’s medical team, it wouldn’t stop.
“I’ve seen a lot of stuff, sir. But that nose . . . how did it happen?”
“Angry woman.”
She let out a hesitant laugh but then fell silent when he didn’t smile. “Sir, I’d suggest you get stateside as soon as possible and find the best plastic surgeon you can.”
Since no one in the medical tent seemed to be in danger of telling him anything he didn’t know, Rapp wandered out into the night.
Lights had been set up to illuminate the temporary American base, their powerful beams extending into the desert well past the two-hundred-yard perimeter. He stopped to let a truck carrying hazmat suits roll by and then crossed a section of compacted sand that functioned as road.
Two choppers passed overhead, angling north toward the radiation zone Grisha Azarov had created. Surprisingly, it was the only one. Bazzi and his men had managed to take out all the ISIS teams without giving any of them time to detonate. That left Rapp owning the only failure.
When he got home, Kennedy would casually mention—repeatedly—that backing Azarov into a corner had been a mistake. Of course, Rapp would passionately defend his actions and there would be no clear winner. There never was. In this case, though, she was more right than wrong. In the heat of the moment he hadn’t been able to see that it was a contest that could only have losers. Chalk it up to too many years of examining problems through a set of gun sights.
“Mitch!”
Rapp turned and saw Mike Nash jogging toward him. When he pulled alongside, he was a noticeably out of breath. The muscle weight he’d added apparently helped his back but wasn’t doing much for his stamina.
“I know I’ve already told you this today but I want to make sure I drive home the point. You really look like shit.”
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“Thanks.”
“Can’t they get that thing to stop bleeding?”
“They tell me I should see a doctor.”
“Your tax dollars at work.”
“Where do we stand?”
Nash shoved his hands in his pockets against the cool desert evening. “So far the Saudis are letting us take the lead. The royals are still cowering in Europe and it’s thrown a wrench into their chain of command.”
