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Scott Coleman stepped inside, and Rapp closed the door behind him.
“But, hey, no worries. This place is nice, too.”
“At least it was a short trip.”
“Don’t try to smooth things over,” he said, removing the light pack and AK-47 he was carrying. “I’m planning on holding a grudge.”
“I’d offer you a drink to ease your suffering but, you know, Muslim country.”
“Outstanding.”
“Where do we stand?” Rapp asked.
“My guys are either already in-country or will be by tomorrow morning. We’ve got another thirteen Arabs coming in from around the region. Might be another day or two before all their boots are on the ground.”
“Reliable?”
“Absolutely. All men I’ve worked with in the past. And they’ll blend in.”
Rapp nodded. Coleman and his men were the best in the business, but between their Caucasian features and questionable language skills, they had a way of attracting attention.
“So, no problems getting in?”
“Piece of cake. Not too hard to get into a country that everyone with half a brain is trying to get out of. The gear is tougher. We’re smuggling it in via existing channels—established criminal gangs from Turkey, Lebanon, and Iraq. Not the sharpest tools in the shed, but they’ll get the job done.”
“Claudia?”
“She’s not involved. Irene has her and Anna on ice somewhere. She didn’t give me a location because, you know, we’re in Syria being targeted by the local government, the Russians, and the Losa Cartel. But she told me to tell you not to worry about them. They’re safe.”
Not an assurance Rapp would have accepted easily from anyone else, but if Kennedy was confident, that was good enough.
“So, what’s the job, Mitch? Seems like a big team.”
Rapp took him upstairs and showed him the information on Semenov’s facility.
“What do you want to do? Level it?”
“Not exactly. I’m interested in getting hold of the guy running the place.”
Coleman let out a long breath. “Destruction’s easy, but snatching someone from a compound like that is a heavy lift. Can we just wait for him to leave and grab him when he’s somewhere less secure?”
“I doubt he leaves very often. And when he does it’s in a Russian gunship.”
“What about just killing him instead?”
“That’s better than nothing, but I want him alive.”
“When you say ‘want,’ is that just a vague preference or more of a deep desire?”
“The second one.”
Coleman dropped onto the mattress, propping the laptop up on his knees and staring at the screen. “How many people are in there?”
“Call it seventy-five. Twenty-five shooters at the most. Maybe as few as seventeen if they’re not replacing their casualties. The rest are either noncombatant personnel or prisoners.”
“So worst-case scenario, eight guys on duty if you figure three shifts a day. Thirteen on twelve-hour shifts. Or as few as six or nine if your low estimate is right. Are they any good?”
“A mix of mercs, Spetsnaz, and regular army.”
