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At this point, all important questions were unanswerable. Would they consider it necessary to bind or drug him for the trip? Standard protocol would suggest yes, but the character he was playing didn’t project much of a physical threat. Further, while Russians tended to be violent, they also tended to be poorly trained and arrogant. A bad combination for them, but a potential godsend for him.
If they took him out on the same chopper he’d arrived in, he’d have little choice but to try to disarm the guards and start shooting. The hope would be to create a controlled crash, but that would depend more on luck than skill.
If they took him out by ground, there would be more options, but still a lot of variables. Terrain, number of guards, type of vehicle, chase cars.
In light of that, he closed his eyes again.
The next time Rapp heard scraping metal, it wasn’t the food slot. He didn’t stand when the door opened and two Russians in plainclothes entered. Both were in their late twenties and looked to be a cut above the average Russian soldier. Probably members of Spetsnaz, the country’s elite special forces. They positioned themselves strategically, staring icily at him as Aleksandr Semenov entered. The Russian general looked down at the clipboard now residing on the floor and shook his head sadly.
“If your roles were reversed, would Damian Losa suffer for you, Matthieu? Would he spend his last weeks and months chained naked in a cell waiting for his next session of questioning?”
Rapp didn’t answer. There was nothing to say that would do anything but prolong his time there.
Semenov gave the soldiers a short nod. A moment later, they had scooped Rapp beneath the arms and were dragging him from the cell. He didn’t resist, but purposely fumbled getting his feet beneath him to further enhance his aura of weakness.
They descended a set of stairs to the ground floor and instead of exiting, turned down yet another flight to the left. Rapp suppressed a smile. Not the chopper. They were almost certainly headed to the underground parking area he’d noted on the way in. His chances of survival had just doubled. Only from ten to twenty percent, but at least the needle was moving in the right direction.
They exited into a single-story parking garage supported by crumbling concrete pillars with exposed rebar. There was a long crack in the ceiling and a steel girder had been put in place to support an area where it was bowing badly. Two Tigr military transports were visible at the far end, but they looked like they hadn’t been used in some time. Instead, he was directed toward three men milling around a group of vehicles that included two motorbikes, a decades-old SUV, and an even more ancient sedan. All were properly dusty and beat-up, chosen less for tactical capability than stealth.
The additional men looked roughly similar to the ones on either side of Rapp. The oldest was in his early thirties, all were in street clothes typical of Syria, and all had good tans and dark hair—possibly enhanced by dyes and makeup. None looked quite as fit or watchful as the two who had escorted him there, suggesting they might have been selected less for their skill than their ability to blend in.
His luck was holding. Russian soldiers tended to be second-rate at best. They’d lost a lot of their more experienced people in the war, and even then, the wordexperiencedhad a different meaning than it did in the US. Russia’s mandatory military service was generally accepted as one of the worst jobs on the planet. Runaway corruption, a culture of uncontrolled hazing, and a persistent shortage of competent noncommissioned officers made it a brief, miserable stop for most people.
These guys looked to be a cut above that standard and would have benefited from their time in Syria, but still would be inferior to their NATO counterparts. Further, this assignment was very different from general combat, and they were unlikely to have relevant training.
That assessment was supported by the fact that he was shoved intothe passenger seat of the SUV unbound. One of the soldiers got into the back, while another slid behind the wheel. The driver had a bulge beneath his shirt only a foot or so from Rapp’s left hand. Almost certainly a standard-issue GSh-18. The man in the seat behind had the same, plus an AK-9 that had already been waiting for him there.
They exited the garage via a ramp that passed beneath a raised wooden barrier that looked stuck in that position. The sedan led, with the two bikes bringing up the rear. The gate in the perimeter fence was open and they rolled through, passing over the retractable tire spikes that had been visible from the chopper. Rapp put on his seat belt as they joined a dirt road that tracked southeast, but the other two didn’t bother. The one in back lit a cigarette and no one protested when Rapp rolled his window down. He turned his attention to the side mirror and watched the facility recede in it. Not out of the woods yet, but at least he had some room to maneuver.
After two and a half hours of driving, not much had changed. They were headed west, staying to secondary dirt roads as much as possible. The rocky desert had given way to a somewhat more verdant landscape that supported primitive agriculture and low scrub. In the distance, rocky hills topped with forest suggested they were closing in on the Mediterranean.
Moscow had two military bases in Syria, both on the coast. The first was the air base in Hmeimim and the second, not far to the south, was the naval port of Tartus. There was no way to know which one—if either—was their destination based solely on their direction of travel, but the conversation between the two soldiers had been a bit more enlightening.
Rapp’s Russian was nearly nonexistent, but he did have some tactical vocabulary—compass points, names of weapons, verbs likerun, retreat, andstay. Also a few words relating to military branches and their general activities. So far, he hadn’t heard anything about airstrips, planes, or the air force. What hehadcaught were “ship” and “sea.”
That’s where his luck had finally run into a ditch. Taking over a plane was one thing—they had limited crews and he was a moderately competent pilot. Ships were a completely different animal. Large crews, steel-walled cabins, and lots of water in every direction. He was still a decent swimmer from his triathlon days, but not good enough to make it to Greece.
That meant he had to make his exit before they reached their destination. The more difficult terrain ahead would favor him and reduce the advantage created by the Russians’ superior number. How much remained to be seen.
CHAPTER 30
WESTERNSYRIA
THEterrain had become more rugged, with the dirt road now winding its way up the east side of a forested mountain. The sun was pounding through the windshield and no amount of fiddling by the driver could get the air conditioner working. Russians weren’t known for being at their best in the heat and based on the look of the two men in the vehicle with Rapp, that stereotype existed for a reason.
The lead car slowed to navigate a particularly rough section, allowing them to close a bit. In contrast, the two bikes maintained a fifty-yard gap in order to reduce the amount of dust the riders were eating. They tended to approach only in sections so steep that asphalt had been laid down.
Rapp examined the left side of the road, taking in the lack of a barrier and how it fell away at the edge. A sheer drop of about three feet ended in a steep, rocky slope that extended a good hundred yards before reaching the tree line.
Based on what he’d seen so far, the perfect spot for an escape wasn’t going to materialize. Once they hit the top of the pass, they’d start a fast descent into the coastal area. After that, there was a modern highway leading to the Tartus naval base. He had to make his move soon.
Another fifteen minutes passed before they entered an S-turn steep enough to have been paved. The car ahead slowed enough to allow them to catch up and the bikes closed on the SUV’s rear bumper.
The road narrowed to a single lane, forcing the lead car to slow further as it entered a blind corner. The driver blasted his horn in case there was a vehicle coming the other way, and for Rapp the entire scene seemed to slow. A better opportunity was unlikely to present itself.
He twisted left in his seat, ostensibly to stretch, as he’d already done often enough to desensitize the men in the car to the gesture. This time, though, his hand wrapped around the hand brake and yanked it up. The rear wheels locked, causing the SUV to fishtail wildly and putting the driver’s face into the steering wheel. One of the bikes went directly into the back of them, with the rider’s helmet hitting hard enough to crack the rear window. The other managed to swing wide, but then went down when the right side of his handlebars contacted the road cut.
Rapp released his seat belt and lunged for the driver’s-side door handle. A moment later, they were both tumbling from the vehicle toward the asphalt. As planned, the Russian hit first and Rapp landed on top, cushioning the impact. What he couldn’t control was the momentum carrying them to the unprotected edge. The Russian wasn’t as dazed as Rapp had hoped and proved capable of a struggle as they rolled.
