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“Don’t patronize me, Mitch. Just don’t.”
Rapp had hoped his relationship with Claudia would achieve the balance and ease he’d been searching for. She was pragmatic and adaptable, lacking both his late wife’s naïveté and Donatella’s violent unpredictability. Unfortunately, it seemed that anyone he got close to was eventually sucked into the chaos and darkness that swirled around him.
And it was time to admit that he was making it worse. He just couldn’t stop testing her. From the standpoint of logistics, she was virtually flawless—one of the best he’d ever worked with. But he was still concerned with how she dealt with the stress of life-and-death situations and how their relationship would affect her judgment.
Or was that just a copout? Maybe he was testing himself. Hell, maybe he was trying to drive her away. The idea of losing someone again constantly lurked at the back of his mind. Thoughts of his own death didn’t concern him all that much, but the idea of another funeral and the emptiness and rage that followed was the one thing that had the power to scare him. On the other hand, one day he’d be forced to look back and assess his life. Was “numbness” the word he’d wanted to use to summarize it?
“Mitch?” she prompted. “You better not have fallen asleep during this conversation.”
Once again he was reminded of how much he missed Scott Coleman. The former SEAL would be sitting silently at the front of the plane, cleaning his weapon and waiting for orders.
“I’m awake.”
“This is too much of a risk for not enough reward. If you want to convince someone of your innocence, it should be the Americans. And even then you should let me set up a neutral meeting place. Somewhere with a back door if things go—”
The wheels hit the ground and the engines reversed, causing her to fall silent. Too late.
Rapp rose to his feet and walked toward the cockpit. The pilot was scanning an empty building to the north as he brought the aircraft to a stop. His hand was white-knuckled on the throttle, waiting to slam it forward again if necessary.
“Take a left after that hangar,” Rapp said, pointing through the windscreen.
“It says that’s a restricted area.”
“Just do it, Paco.”
As he eased the aircraft forward, a military contingent appeared. The pilot began to slow, but Rapp took a seat next to him and pushed the throttle forward again.
“I think they’re serious,” Paco said, pointing at four machine gunners tracking them from the top armored vehicles. “Are you sure about this?”
“I’m sure.”
While there had never been any formal introductions, it was likely he’d figured out who Rapp was by now. And in light of that, he’d decided it was better not to question orders.
“Stop by that building up there,” Rapp said, slipping out of the seat and heading toward the back. He pointed at Claudia. “We’re up.”
“What? What’s that mean?”
The plane came to a stop and he opened the door before lowering the steps. She followed him into the heat and glare of the sun, loo
king around nervously at the soldiers watching them.
Normally, Rapp would have been wearing a hat and sunglasses in an effort to thwart the cameras that had become so ubiquitous in modern society. Today, though, he walked slowly, scanning the airstrip with his face completely exposed.
Claudia put a hand in his back and pushed him forward. “What the hell are you doing? I don’t know where you think you’re going, but could we at least get there?”
He adjusted his trajectory toward a Gulfstream G550. David Graves, wearing a dark suit and seemingly unaffected by the heat, was standing at the base of the steps leading onto the aircraft. He watched them carefully, moving his hand toward the weapon holstered beneath his left arm.
His reaction drove home for Rapp the seriousness of his situation. They’d known each other for years and still got together at the range every month or so, usually grabbing a beer afterward.
By the time they made it to within ten feet, his hand was wrapped around the grip of the SIG P226 that Rapp himself had shot many times. It wasn’t surprising. Word was going around the intelligence community that Joel Wilson was dead and that Rapp was responsible.
“What are you doing here, Mitch?”
“I’m not here, Dave.”
“There are about fifty Saudis behind you who might disagree.”
Graves glanced at Claudia but then pressed a finger to his earpiece, suggesting that he was receiving a transmission.
