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“Are all of your people familiar with the layout?”
He nodded.
“Electricity?”
“They have generators. Some usage at night, but limited.”
It was more or less what Rapp expected. They’d put the training facility in a building full of kids to give it cover from U.S. bombing raids, but running full lights at night would be pushing it.
“Weapons?”
“All are armed with AK-47s and a single sidearm. The models of those vary.”
“What about you?”
“We have what you see here. A few spare magazines each.”
“Any access to more men or arms?”
“No.”
“Okay,” Rapp said, standing. “Then let’s go.”
They all just stared at him. Mohammed’s brother was the first to speak. “What do you mean? Go where?”
“To attack that facility.”
“We can’t just attack them. We would need to discuss it. To plan. We would—”
“What is there to talk about? Mohammed said you’re all familiar with the facility’s layout. We know the strength of the opposition force and we know where the students are.”
“No. This is—”
“Silence!” Gaffar said, rising to what Rapp estimated to be a full six foot four. “We will not attack that facility.”
“Why?” Rapp said. “Are you afraid?”
In response, he raised the barrel of his SD40, leveling it a few inches from Rapp’s ruined nose. “Because I won’t follow you. Look at your face. At what you let someone do to you. No. You speak as though you’re a great warrior but you smell like a bureaucrat. Like a man who will have piss running down his leg at the first sight of blood.”
Rapp considered trying to talk the man down, but he was clearly not the type to be swayed by conversation. And, frankly, that made him uniquely useful in this group.
Instead, Rapp dodged left, grabbing Gaffar’s wrist and yanking his arm straight. A moderate blow to the Iraqi’s exposed elbow was enough to get him to drop the gun but not enough to do any damage. Rapp had already made that mistake with Mohammed’s brother.
The pistol fell and Rapp caught it as the other men in the room scrambled for their rifles. He drove his foot into the side of the big man’s leg to take him down, simultaneously firing four rounds toward the men reaching for their weapons. Each struck less than an inch from their hands.
After the echo of the shots died, everything went completely still. Gaffar was on his knees and the others were frozen near the back wall. Rapp stuffed the pistol in his waistband and pointed toward the door. “Who’s driving?”
CHAPTER 40
NEAR JIWANI
PAKISTAN
THE man piloting the truck was going too fast, but trying to impose reasonable driving habits on the people of this region was an exercise in futility. Grisha Azarov gripped the wooden crate he was perched atop and tightened the scarf protecting his lungs from the dust.
The young men seated around him seemed to be enjoying their journey through Western Pakistan on the open flatbed. Neither the spine-crushing jolts nor the oppressive heat seemed sufficient to dampen their spirits.
All were members of ISIS, selected by Maxim Krupin for their desirable qualit
