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Gusev took an unusually small sip of his vodka, cognizant that he needed to keep his wits about him. In the end, the woman’s identity was irrelevant and he was undoubtedly better off not knowing. All he needed to do was succeed at the task given to him. If everything went as planned, the rewards would be limitless. Unfortunately, failure would be punished just as lavishly.
The scope image shook and the Russian focused on it again. The mercenary behind it, a young American, was one of a new generation of assassins. Not terribly experienced, but well trained and possessing the technological skills necessary to operate in a world that transformed itself almost hourly.
What had drawn Gusev’s attention was less the image itself and more the sudden violent shake of it. Kent Black was nothing if not disciplined. His uncanny ability to lie completely motionless for hours on end was one of the reasons he’d been selected for this mission.
The dark feed from the body cam the American was lying on began to move as he slowly rolled over. Gusev felt a surge of adrenaline when a pair of boots came into focus. Black wasn’t alone on the ledge. Someone had managed to climb to his position unnoticed and come up behind him. The camera swept upward, displaying the shadowed outline of a Glock and then a face that was lit just well enough to be recognizable.
Mitch Rapp.
Gusev stumbled backward, nearly pitching over his chair. He knew the face from years ago. It had been burned into his mind from a hazy black-and-white photo taken just after Rapp had executed seven Russians involved in selling arms to Hamas. What the fuck was the CIA man doing here? What connection could he possibly have to a young French woman living in South Africa? Gusev tried to calm himself but found it impossible. What should he do? Was it possible to call off the operation? Would the ISIS people that had been forced on him even follow that order? What if Rapp simply took Black’s weapon and position? He could take out the entire team with no difficulty at all.
Fear quickly turned to panic. Gusev wondered frantically if Rapp knew of his involvement. Or the identity of his employer. Was the CIA man alone or did he have a team?
The Russian spun toward the door, his instinct for self-preservation overwhelming him. After a few jerky steps, though, he stopped. It was impossible. Where would he go? It wouldn’t matter. He would be a hunted man. Better to fall into the hands of the Americans—even Rapp—than into the hands of the man who would come for him if he ran.
Gusev went for the secure phone next to the monitor and began to dial, a sense of dread descending on him. He couldn’t be blamed for this, he told himself. He hadn’t been involved in any of the planning. In fact, he knew very little about the operation and its goals beyond the specific set of tasks he’d been charged with. His responsibilities were a relatively simple matter. No one had even hinted at the possibility that there would be resistance that amounted to anything more serious than the child throwing a tantrum.
He was nearly finished dialing when the on-screen image shook again—this time even more violently. His thumb stopped, hovering over the last digit. The video feed had turned cloudy in a way that couldn’t be explained by the encroaching darkness, and Gusev leaned in a little closer. After a few moments, the haze that appeared to be dust began to clear. What was revealed caused his breath to catch in his chest.
Mitch Rapp was lying motionless in the dirt with Black’s knee in his back and a pistol pressed to his head.
The radio on Gusev’s desk crackled to life and he heard the mercenary’s voice come over it.
“Eagle to base.”
The Russian didn’t respond. He found it impossible to process what was happening. Mitch Rapp, feared by even the most powerful men in the world, had been taken by a thirty-year-old contract killer.
“Eagle to base,” Black repeated.
“This is base,” Gusev responded with a shaking voice. “What is your situation?”
“An armed man came up on my position. I’ve subdued him.”
Gusev watched as Black grabbed the CIA man by the hair and twisted his head so that it would display on the monitor. “Can you identify him?
Gusev fell into a chair, his legs suddenly too weak to support his considerable weight. The young American didn’t know who he was dealing with. That he had unwittingly done what so many men before him had died trying to accomplish.
“What happened?” Gusev aske
d numbly.
“Whoever he is, he’s quiet as hell and can obviously climb. The cliff face behind my position is loose and I put a remote charge in it for just this kind of situation. He was standing right in front of it when I triggered it.”
“Is he . . .” Gusev’s mouth went dry for a moment and he wet it with a quick swig of vodka. “Is he dead?”
“Nah. Just unconscious. You want me to finish him?”
The Russian considered the question for a moment. “Would it be possible to get him down alive?”
“This wasn’t part of our deal.”
“I’ll provide compensation that you’ll find more than generous.”
“In that case, yes. If he wakes up and can walk. There’s no way to carry him, though. Are we continuing with the op? Seems like we’ve been compromised.”
“We’re moving forward,” Gusev said, trying to contain his excitement. Rapp dead would be an enormous prize. But alive? The man’s knowledge of CIA operations was second only to that of Irene Kennedy. There was no way to overestimate his value to Gusev’s employer. What rewards would he reap for succeeding beyond anyone’s wildest imagination? For capturing the man that everyone considered invincible?
“He is extraordinarily dangerous,” Gusev said into the radio. “If you can get him down without taking any risks, do so. If there is any sign of a problem, kill him immediately.”
