AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Rapp fired a carefully aimed round into the head of the man crawling toward Wilson, followed by a round to the ribs of one of the men along the east wall. Nassar’s shooters saw him go down, and one broke cover, going for position on Abdo’s last surviving man. The African guerrilla saw him and fired, taking him out before being cut down himself. Then everything went still.
“Joel!” Rapp shouted. “You still alive back there?”
“What? Who is that?”
“It’s Mitch.”
The FBI man didn’t respond immediately. Finally, “What are your intentions?”
It was a good question. The CIA assassin Mitch Rapp would kill him and Nassar’s last man, then leave Irene Kennedy to clean up the mess. The question now was: What would Mitch Rapp the international fugitive do?
“Now that I’ve saved your ass, I’m surrendering,” he called. “I want to go back to the U.S. so I can clear my name.”
“Mitch,” Claudia said over his earpiece. “What are you doing? He isn’t—”
“What do you say, Joel?” Rapp said, cutting her off. It was time to show Wilson whom he was working for. It was a long shot, but maybe the FBI man could be useful.
“Why should I believe you?”
“Because I’ve got the high ground. If I wanted you and your last man dead, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”
A few more seconds passed before Wilson rose slowly into view. He motioned for his man to do the same and, surprisingly, he obeyed.
Rapp slid his weapon down the back of his pants and stood, walking deliberately toward the edge of the balcony. “Does your friend speak English?”
“Yes,” the man answered for himself.
“Then you understand not to shoot. That I’m surrendering.”
“I understand.”
“What the fuck are you doing?” Black said, sharing Claudia’s confusion. “Blast those assholes into the next time zone and let’s get the hell out of here.”
It probably wasn’t bad advice, but Rapp ignored it. He was curious about what would happen. While he was confident that Wilson really did want to march him in front of the cameras in chains, Nassar would be far less excited about the prospect of a bunch of congressional hearings.
Rapp inched into view, ignoring Wilson, who was aiming at him with a shaking hand, and instead focusing on Nassar’s man. His accent and mediocre performance during the fight suggested that he wasn’t one of the Saudi General Intelligence Directorate’s crack operatives. And if that was the case, who was he?
“Okay, everybody, take it easy. I’m coming down.”
Nassar’s man sighted over an AK-47 as Rapp moved toward the ladder. The distance between them was about thirty yards, and that, combined with the angle, would make a clean shot difficult. The Arab looked smart enough to wait, but for how long? Would he take the doable but difficult shot at Rapp when he started down the ladder? Or would he risk letting the CIA man get close enough for a sure thing?
Those questions were answered when Rapp reached for the first rung. The man’s stance suddenly stabilized, and he pulled the butt of his assault rifle more firmly into his shoulder. Rapp jerked back just as a short burst chewed through the ladder an inch from his hand.
“Cease fire!” Wilson shrieked, as Rapp dropped to the floor. “Cease fi—”
The sound
of the rifle changed subtly as the shooter adjusted his aim and squeezed off another burst. Rapp rolled to absorb his impact with the floor and rose to one knee in time to see Wilson throw himself over a pew. Impacts from successive rounds pounded the wood for a few seconds before Nassar’s man began swinging his weapon back in Rapp’s direction.
The CIA man’s position wasn’t ideal, and it took more time than it should have to line up. The shooter was backing away as he fired, going for the cover of the altar. Rapp squeezed off a round and hit him in the stomach, causing him to lose control of his rifle. The barrel rose and rounds started punching holes in the roof as Rapp sprinted across the floor, grabbing the weapon and taking the wounded man’s legs out from under him. He tossed the AK and used a foot to pin the Arab to the ground, ignoring the fact that Wilson was approaching with his pistol held out in front of him.
“I told him not to shoot,” the FBI man stammered. “And then he . . . he tried to kill me.”
Rapp grabbed the injured Arab by the collar and began dragging him toward what was left of the church’s front entrance. “Do you have a phone with a camera, Joel?”
“A phone,” he mumbled. “Yeah. I have one. But I—”
“Get pictures of all of Nassar’s men. Do it now.”
