The Survivor

CHAPTER 27

I can’t believe it was so easy,” Gould said, his gun still trained on Rapp’s head. “Either you’re slipping or your reputation came right out of the CIA’s marketing department.”

Rapp remained completely still, eyes locked on the Glock 17. Tom Lewis’s psychological profile of Gould portrayed him as a narcissistic sociopath. Once again, the shrink’s insights proved correct. The Frenchman had already managed to completely suppress the past, unable to admit that he could ever have been bested. Now he was busy building himself up into the legend he believed he deserved to be.

It was a weakness that could be exploited, but even with that possibility, Rapp recognized that this was about as deadly a situation as he’d ever faced. Nutcase or no, Gould wasn’t going to miss at this or any other range. The merc in Rapp’s peripheral vision had a crimson puddle growing around his left foot but the blood loss and pain weren’t preventing him from holding the MP5 rock steady. Finally, the man who’d shoved Hurley through the door was undoubtedly still standing right on the other side of it.

The old man looked like his head had cleared but that didn’t do anything about the fact that he was well past his sell-by date. Unlike Rapp, though, physical talent and the ability to instantly analyze tactical situations weren’t what had made Stan Hurley one of the most effective killers of his generation. He operated entirely on rage, and based on the expression on his face, the decades hadn’t dimmed it.

“What are you waiting for?” Gould taunted. “You think Scott’s going to rescue you? That knoll’s completely surrounded by Obrecht’s men. If Coleman’s not dead already, he will be soon.”

“Mitch, Stan. If you can hear this, get ready. Things are about to get a lot less subtle.”

Hurley’s fake hearing aid had been taken, making it impossible for him to hear Coleman’s warning.

“Scott might just surprise you,” Rapp said to get the old man’s attention.

He made a subtle motion toward Gould with his thumb. Hurley had the better angle on the Frenchman. That left Rapp tangling with a badly injured, no-name merc while an octogenarian with a freshly replaced hip took on one of the best contractors in the world.

The thermobaric charge worked as advertised, creating an eardrum-splitting explosion and shaking the mansion violently enough to cause Gould’s pistol to dip.

Rapp dove toward the mercenary, hoping to draw both men’s fire. Surprise and blood loss delayed the merc’s reaction, but not Gould’s. His shot struck Rapp’s flak jacket just above his navel, flipping him onto his side next to the Glock still lying on the carpet. Behind, Rapp could hear the muffled sound of Gould’s weapon firing repeatedly. He couldn’t worry about that, though. It was Hurley’s problem.

The MP5 opened up, stitching holes in the floor as it arced toward him. The statue was still blocking his line of sight to the man’s head so Rapp snatched up his Glock and pumped a round into the man’s other foot. This time he went down, losing control of his weapon and cutting through the plaster ceiling. Still lying on his side, Rapp lined up on the underside of the fallen merc’s chin and blew the top of his head off.

Rapp immediately rolled onto his back and aimed at the door. Predictably, it was thrown open by the man who had captured Hurley. Rapp squeezed the trigger and put a round through the man’s mouth, sending brain tissue, teeth, and shards of skull spraying out into the hallway.

It was only then that he could turn his attention to Hurley and Gould.

They were pressed together face-to-face. Gould’s gun was shoved into Hurley’s stomach and he was emptying it into the man. The back of Hurley’s shirt was torn and wet with blood from numerous exit wounds. His face was buried in the side of Gould’s neck but Rapp didn’t understand why until his old friend finally collapsed to the floor.

Gould slapped a hand to the side of his throat but it did no good. Bright red arterial blood was flowing through his fingers and from his mouth. He swung his gun toward Rapp and pulled the trigger, unable to process the fact that it was empty. When the Frenchman finally realized that the weapon was useless, he lurched right, stumbling toward the door. He bounced off the jamb and was gone.

The sound of automatic gunfire was starting outside as Rapp crawled to where Hurley was lying on the blood-soaked carpet. His friend stared up at him and for one of the few times in his life, Rapp’s emotions made it difficult to speak. “What happened to the belt buckle knife you’ve been bragging about for the last twenty years?”

Hurley laughed, ejecting a sizable chunk of Gould’s neck from his mouth. “Got stuck. Can you believe it? I’m gonna get that old bitch who made it for me.”

Rapp stared down at the man, feeling a constriction in his chest that he told himself was the result of Gould’s bullet. “I’m sorry, Stan. This was my op. My failure.”

Hurley managed to press a bloody hand against Rapp’s shoulder. It might have been the first overt display of affection in their long relationship. “No. It was perfect.”

And then Stan Hurley — a man who had survived everything from the Soviets to the rise of Muslim extremism — died.

Rapp stood and slipped through the door with his Glock held out in front of him. The scent of chemical explosive was mixing with the gunpowder haze hanging in the air, creating an environment that he’d become all too familiar with. Outside, it sounded like Obrecht’s men had regrouped and were hitting Coleman’s force hard. The former SEAL would just have to hang on.

The trail wasn’t particularly subtle and Rapp followed it down the hallway until it turned into a bedroom on the right. He found Gould sitting on the floor propped up beneath a window. The Frenchman clawed for the empty gun next to him but didn’t have the strength to pick it up. His other hand was still clamped weakly to his neck but the entire left side of his body was drenched in blood.

Rapp took aim, thinking of Anna and his unborn child as the — assassin struggled to focus. A moment later, he lowered his pistol and went for the door. Even after everything Gould had done to him, this was the old man’s kill.