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“That’s Mitch Rapp’s gate.”
“I’m aware of whose gate it is.”
“Maybe we could call the Agency. They might have a way to get in.”
Wilson just stared at him. ?
?Are you afraid of damaging Rapp’s gate?”
The men all looked at each other. A few actually nodded.
“Sir,” the team leader started again. “Do you see those cameras up on the wall? They’re still filming.” He thumbed behind him. “And have you noticed that?”
Wilson squinted through the darkness toward the barn. It took a moment, but he finally made out a lone human figure leaning on a cane. “Who is he?”
“That’s Rapp’s closest friend, Scott Coleman. He once jumped out of a second-story window onto a suicide bomber and beat the guy to death with a car jack. A fucking car jack, sir. And he’s known as one of the more easygoing people Rapp works with.”
Wilson knew exactly who Coleman was. He was the man who had set up the listening devices that had recorded Wilson’s meeting with Senator Ferris. He was the man who had provided the audio that had destroyed his life.
“Get in the vehicle and take down the gate. That’s an order.”
“With all due respect, sir. Fuck you. Keys are in it.”
Wilson was stunned by the man’s insubordination, but now wasn’t the time to deal with it. They needed to gain access, and if he had to do it himself, so be it. He climbed in and, after a minute of examining the controls, figured out how to get it started. Depressing the accelerator, he aimed the ram at the center of the gate. The cameras on the wall watched silently and he found himself hoping they could see through the windshield. That Rapp would know exactly who had done this.
He hit hard, expecting the enormous vehicle to sail through, but instead the gate flexed, absorbing the impact. He was thrown against the seat belt, his head snapping forward with enough force to momentarily daze him. When he regained his equilibrium, he let out a lengthy string of expletives, reversed fifty yards, and floored it. This time the gate gave way spectacularly and he slammed on the brakes, skidding to a stop in front of a modern structure completely devoid of windows.
He had to wait for the men to come up cautiously behind him, but when they finally did, he leaned out the window. “Take down the front door!”
“Sir, I—”
“Shut up! You’re either taking down the door or I’m taking down the whole wall.”
The SWAT leader thought about that for a few seconds before pulling a ram out of the back. It took a few minutes, but they finally defeated the door and disappeared inside. The lights attached to their weapons flashed haphazardly around the entryway before going dark again as they penetrated deeper. Wilson lit a cigarette. He wouldn’t put it past Rapp to have the place booby-trapped. Not his problem, though. That’s what the SWAT guys got paid for.
What would he find inside this vault of a house? Cash skimmed from government accounts? Souvenirs from illegal assassinations? Materials Rapp used to blackmail government officials into supporting him? If he found the latter, Wilson wondered what he should do with it. Certainly not hand it over. No, he’d hold on to it until he’d built a case so airtight that half of Washington would have to get behind him while the other half threw themselves out of windows. And he’d be there at the center of it all, the media’s new darling.
Finally a voice came over the walkie-talkie on the seat next to him.
“We’re clear.”
Wilson jumped down from the vehicle and entered, walking over the smashed door and flipping a light switch. A tasteful glow grew around him, illuminating expensive woodwork, Asian-inspired furniture, and a bold painting of a flower that looked like it cost more than he made in a year.
“Tear the place apart,” he said, throwing the painting to the floor in search of a hidden safe. Or at least that was what he’d tell anyone who asked. He began yanking drawers out of the sideboard as the sound of similar activity began filtering down the hallway.
When he was finished in the entry, he skirted a glass wall that looked into an interior courtyard and entered what looked to be a child’s room. One of his men was sifting gingerly through the contents of a shelf and Wilson pushed him aside, dumping everything onto the floor. “Move your ass! I don’t have all week.”
The man stared nervously at the mess before following orders and picking up the pace. The reverence they afforded a psychotic CIA thug was both insulting and an impediment to getting anything accomplished. Wilson was looking forward to hearing their mumbled apologies when he shined a bright light into who and what Mitch Rapp really was.
He heard running feet in the hallway and went out to see what was happening. A man with an iPad rushed up and held it out. “I found this in the master bedroom, sir. It’s password protected, but I think you’ll be interested in the wallpaper image.”
Wilson woke it and stared down at three smiling people looking back at him. One was a little girl, laughing as she tapped a croquet ball across the yard of a Cape Dutch house. Standing next to her was a woman in her midthirties, dark hair and eyes, stunningly beautiful. Most interesting, though, was the man sticking his foot out to block the ball from finding its target. Mitch Rapp. A current photo, in living color.
Wilson grinned and looked up, scanning the junction between the wall and ceiling for a security camera. When he found one, he approached it and raised the tablet toward the lens.
CHAPTER 42
Outside of Juba
