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The hum of a motorbike began to separate itself from the sound of wind and he grabbed a night-vision scope from the truck’s glove box. Climbing the ten or so yards to the top of the rocky hill, he dropped to his stomach and scanned the road to the north. It was only a few seconds before he spotted a bike with a single rider, traveling fast with no headlight.
Right on time.
Charlie Wicker was the best sniper Rapp had ever worked with. He was a man of few words who preferred to spend his time in a remote corner of his native Wyoming, but when active he was one of the deadliest men in the world. No complaints, no mistakes, no questions. The perfect operative.
Tonight, though, they wouldn’t actually connect. Wick would stop some five hundred yards away and find a strategic vantage point to set up his gear. After that, he’d disappear back the way he’d come.
By the time he returned to his truck, headlights were approaching from the south. The power and height of them looked to be right, but still Rapp stayed hidden until the Russian transport left the asphalt and came to a stop next to his pickup. Joe Maslick killed the motor and jumped out, squinting into the sudden darkness.
“Mitch?”
“Right here. Any problems? Did you get everything?”
“Smooth as silk. It was all where you said it would be and no one loading me up seemed bothered.”
Rapp nodded in the darkness. Having Maslick driving around in a Russian army uniform was less than ideal, but the risks were manageable. The Syrian smugglers he’d been dealing with wouldn’t be anxious to fuck with a two-hundred-and-fifty-pound man wearing Spetsnaz insignia. And to the degree that communication was necessary, it could be done in broken English. The fact that Maslick’s Russian accent had a bit of aSaturday Night Livevibe to it would be lost on the average Arabic speaker.
They opened the back of the truck in order to unload a set of tires that were a hell of a lot heavier than they looked. Once on the ground, they rolled them into holes dug to match their size. After that, Rapp concentrated on the more delicate gear, while the big man lugged the heavy stuff.
“How are things going with Kadir?” Rapp asked, dumping a couple of garbage bags into a hole.
“That guy’s about ten sandwiches short of a picnic,” the former Delta operator replied. “But he’s kind of growing on me, you know?”
They were on their way back to the truck, when Charlie Wicker’s motorbike engine started up in the distance. Maslick froze. “What’s that?”
“Nothing,” Rapp said, glancing at his phone. The sniper had been even faster than he’d anticipated.
“Right. Nothing.”
“Just one more load, Mas. Then you can get out of here. I’ll cover everything up.”
“And then what?”
“We wait. But be ready. When things start up again, they’ll start fast.”
CHAPTER 41
AL-QUTAYFAH
SYRIA
“IGOTTAget out of here,” Rapp said. “I’m going nuts.”
“You’regoing nuts?” Bruno McGraw countered. “I haven’t set foot outside this shithole for almost three weeks andyou’regoing nuts?”
“What are you complaining about? You charge by the day and no one’s shooting at you.”
McGraw grumbled something unintelligible before continuing to pace in front of the third-floor flat’s only window.
The entire space was no more than three hundred square feet, but with a functioning hot plate, electricity that was on more than off, and water that was reassuringly transparent when poured into one of the two available glasses. A virtual palace by this neighborhood’s standards. Once again, Irene Kennedy had come through.
“We have to eat,” Rapp pointed out.
That caloric reality, combined with the dwelling’s lack of a refrigerator, gave him an excuse to get out into the city every couple of days.McGraw wasn’t so lucky. He was a top-notch shooter, but also about as American as someone could get—voice, gait, mannerisms. You could dress the guy up like Lawrence of Arabia and he’d still be the personification of a Bruce Springsteen song. Not a man who could easily move around a city that hadn’t seen much in the way of tourism in more than a decade.
“Get that fish thing you got last time, Mitch. The spicy one.”
“Samaka Harra.”
