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“That it was bin Musaid? Not ironclad, but we have a pretty decent photo taken through Wick’s scope.”
“Where is he now?”
“He hasn’t popped back up on our radar yet. We’re watching—”
“I mean Maslick.”
“Oh . . . Somewhere in Europe. He’s afraid to come back. He doesn’t want to face you.”
They drove in silence for a good five minutes before Coleman spoke again. “You keep avoiding the subject, but we can’t anymore. We’ve got to talk about finding a replacement for me until I can get my shit together. You need reliable backup and I guarantee if you put Mas in charge of anything again, he’s going to quit. I don’t want it to be my fault if another op goes south or if you get shot up. I’d never hear the end of it from Irene.”
He was right, Rapp knew. The hope had been that Coleman would bounce back in a few months, but that wasn’t happening. It could easily be another year. Or, as much as no one wanted to face the possibility, it could be never.
“It’s your organization, Scott. Not mine. You can do what you want.”
Coleman seemed to relax a little. “But it’s your ass out there. I need you to be comfortable with who I pick.”
“Do you have any ideas?”
“Mike Nash and I have been doing some spitballing. We’ve turned up a few names and he’s digging a little deeper for me. We’ve also been talking about splitting the job in two. Maybe having a separate field commander and logistics person.”
“So you’d handle logistics, then?”
The former SEAL shook his head. “I’ve got more on my plate than I can deal with right now.”
Rapp felt increasingly uncomfortable with the conversation. The more they talked about a replacement, the more it felt like Coleman wasn’t coming back. They’d been together for years. In many ways they’d grown up together in the business. Beyond the friendship they’d forged, there was a level of trust that he didn’t see being able to rebuild with someone new.
Coleman seemed to read his mind—another facet of their relationship that was going to be hard to replace. “It’s just for a little while, Mitch. I need this, okay? I’m stressing out that you or one of my guys is going to get killed. I don’t need that right now.”
“When’s Mike going to have some recommendations?”
“Next day or two. He’s working on the ops side. I’m dealing with logistics.”
“And?”
Again Coleman didn’t immediately answer, instead focusing on getting around a truck creeping along the rural highway. He seemed to be building up to something, but Rapp had no idea what it could be.
“It’s hard not to think about Claudia,” the former SEAL said finally.
For the second time since he’d gotten in the car, Rapp found himself having to control his anger. Normally he wouldn’t bother, but Coleman was struggling. He’d gone from being one of the best operators in the world to barely being able to roll out of bed in the morning. He felt like he’d abandoned his comrades and was terrified that he might live the rest of his life getting winded buying groceries.
“No,” Rapp said. “She’s already risking enough just being near me.”
“To be clear here, Mitch, I didn’t approach her. She approached me. And we both know that a big part of Louis Gould’s success was her doing most of the thinking for him.”
“We’re done with this subject, Scott.”
Coleman shrugged. “All right. As far as I’m concerned, it’s a dead issue. But I’m not sure Claudia’s going to feel the same way.”
CHAPTER 8
Rabat
Morocco
PRINCE Talal bin Musaid stepped into the Learjet 75’s cool interior and frowned at the pilot bowing to him from the cockpit door. He’d never seen the man before, but it mattered little. The pilots he’d been provided in the past had been adequate and he had no reason to believe that this one would be any different.
“Welcome, Your Highness. All is ready for your return to Riyadh.”
