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Through the open front door, Rapp could see the man standing behind the vehicle, still sweeping in a way that let him take in both the buildings and the land around them.
“Do you want water?” Rapp asked, taking a few steps toward the man in the corner.
His brow knitted in a way that suggested he didn’t understand, and Rapp used that as an excuse to continue his approach while pantomiming taking a drink with his empty hand. The other held the knife tucked out of sight against his forearm.
“Nyet.”
Rapp continued to casually close the distance between them despite the fact that there was now no reason to. The man stiffening noticeably. When his finger started to slide toward the trigger, Rapp used his left hand to thrust the knife and his right to flip the AK’s safety lever.
Frontal assaults tended to be messy, and this was no exception. The knife hit the man in the throat, but didn’t incapacitate him. Very much the opposite. He lunged forward in a spray of blood, yanking the rifle to the left and desperately trying to fire. Rapp extracted the knife, increasing the flow of blood, but it wasn’t enough to generate a quick death. The sight of the arterial flow created a violent physical reaction from the man. His strength multiplied, but his ability to use it intelligently deteriorated.
Rapp managed a foot sweep that put the man on his back beforehe could move into the sight line of the man outside. After that, he focused on keeping him there and staying close enough to diminish the leverage of his blows. The total time before the Russian finally went limp was less than a minute, but it felt like ten. Worse, Rapp ended up looking like he’d just butchered a cow with a chain saw.
Not ideal for part three of his admittedly half-assed plan. He’d hoped to walk casually to the well and get an angle on the man out front before he suspected anything. Casual strolls were definitely off the table and the remaining Russian was positioned in a way that made a kill shot from the house impossible.
Still, the clock was ticking. It wouldn’t take long for the surviving man to notice that his comrades were missing and call out. Rapp didn’t speak enough Russian to credibly respond, leaving him without any other option than another reckless frontal assault.
He picked up the AK and held it at eye level as he swung it around the jamb. His target was faster than he looked, immediately spotting the threat and dropping to the ground as a burst shattered the vehicle’s side windows.
Rapp immediately charged from the house, sprinting toward the low wall to the east. Hopefully, he’d have more luck than the Syrian soldier whose body was stashed behind it.
The Russian started shooting, firing on full auto in generally the right direction, but finding it impossible to aim accurately. A few rounds got close, but by then Rapp was diving over a three-foot section of stacked stone. He hit the ground rolling, immediately coming up on one knee and aiming over the barrier. The Russian flattened himself against the SUV’s door, his face covered in blood from the shards of glass embedded in his forehead.
Lucky, but not decisive. He was slipping toward the back of the vehicle and if he got there, he’d be in a good position to regroup. At that point, the battle could devolve into a stalemate. He’d have time to clear his vision and could keep moving in a way that kept the vehicle between them. Even worse, he might be able to circle to the driver’s sideand get inside. If the keys were in it, he could plausibly escape and leave Rapp with transportation options that consisted of a nearly empty Tigr and a pair of extraordinarily comfortable dress shoes.
With no viable alternative, Rapp leapt back over the wall and ran for a position where he could get a clean shot. The Russian heard the footfalls and panicked, turning to fire instead of continuing to circumnavigate the vehicle.
It was a fatal mistake. Rapp dropped to his stomach, lining up a shot as he skidded through a patch of dry weeds. When he finally came to a halt, he squeezed off a quick burst that hit the man in the center of his ballistic vest. The impact caused him to fall backward against the SUV’s rear fender and his rifle barrel rose, sending rounds harmlessly into the sky.
Rapp steadied his weapon as the man tried to get his feet back under him. The sights had been dialed in nicely and his next shot struck the Russian just under his right eye.
CHAPTER 20
THEhelicopter followed the contours of the arid land below, maintaining a velocity near its limit. General Aleksandr Semenov was its only passenger, sitting in a thick leather seat that would have been more at home in a private jet than the Mil Mi-24 gunship. He’d isolated his headphones from the chatter of the pilots and was instead listening to Tchaikovsky’s Third Symphony at a volume loud enough to nearly drown out the thump of the blades.
Through the widow, he could see the sun sinking toward the horizon and it infuriated him. He should have been in his living quarters enjoying a fine meal and looking forward to another intriguing evening with his new toy, Alea. The fact that he was being forced to involve himself personally in this situation was yet another reminder of how rare competence was in the modern world.
In the distance, two columns of smoke became visible, twisting together and then dispersing in the deepening blue of the sky. Semenov sank a little farther into the leather cradling him and focused on enjoying his last few moments with Pyotr Ilyich. Time to conjure some semblance of calm and remind himself that his influence wasstill limited. Some level of cooperation with the locals—no matter how distasteful and frustrating—was necessary. Until he had the power to clear the board, the game had to be played.
His chopper described a wide arc around the source of the smoke, allowing Semenov to study the scene. Two smoldering buildings, blackened and largely collapsed. A mix of no fewer than ten military and civilian vehicles with a commensurate number of men. Those wearing silver fire suits were sifting through the remains of the structures and operating construction vehicles in close proximity. Others, identifiable by their uniforms as Syrian security forces, were combing the nearby land, occasionally planting flags to denote some discovery. Beyond that, there was no sign of human habitation for kilometers.
They set down at a distance that wouldn’t disturb the operation and a jeep immediately approached. Semenov didn’t return the salute of the Syrian colonel, instead climbing in the back of the vehicle and allowing himself to be whisked to the center of activity.
Kifah Atfeh, the head of the Syrian Intelligence Directorate, had chosen a business suit over his uniform and didn’t seem any happier to be there than Semenov himself. The dust and smoke clung to him as he approached, but he didn’t seem to notice. Not surprising. After all, he’d grown up in this shithole of a country.
“Good afternoon, General,” he said in English.
“What happened here, Kifah?”
A flash in the man’s eyes suggested that he registered Semenov’s dismissiveness, but he was unwilling to further react to the slight. Intelligence directors were the same all over the world. Backstabbers, liars, and bootlickers.
“Our men in Saraqib came under heavy attack, but they managed to get your man out of the city safely. One was killed during the operation, but the other two brought him here to turn him over to your people. It appears they were ambushed.”
“By whom?”
“We’re still investigating. The bodies have been burned beyondrecognition. I think we can say with some confidence that three of them are the men you sent and three are our people. The other three are a matter of speculation and one appears to be a child. Perhaps they were part of the trap or perhaps just bystanders.”
“How did the insurgents know our people were coming?”
