Consent To Kill

32

Mitch Rapp ran along the gravel shoulder, pounding out each step. His mood was anything but upbeat. There was a day not long ago when he flew down this road at a clip that would have left all but a few of the world's best athletes gasping for breath and falling to their knees. Even so, Rapp was a realist. He knew it was impossible to maintain the peak performance he'd had in his twenties and early thirties, but that didn't mean he had to like the aging process. He'd dealt with pain his entire life. He knew how to taunt it, suppress it, or just laugh it off. In fact, pain was something he'd actually learned to embrace. It was a welcome ally that propelled him to the finish line while it forced others to quit. The mind controlled the body. It could tell muscles and joints to ignore all kinds of warning signals. The problem, though, was that those warning signs were there for a reason. If they were ignored for too long, the body eventually broke down.

On this warm fall morning, as Rapp took each lengthy stride, he began to wonder if there was something different about this pain. It was his damn left knee again. He'd been trying to work through it for the better part of a month, and he was finally coming to the conclusion that it wasn't going away. No matter how hard he tried to block it out or get past it, no matter how much ice or Advil he used, the pain only worsened. His body was telling him something. It was telling him to stop running.

Only thirty-seven and he was falling apart. It should not have come as a surprise to him, knowing the way he'd pushed and abused his body over the years, but Rapp was the type of man who thought any obstacle surmountable with enough will, determination, and talent. There were the broken bones and cuts from sports as a kid and then in college, there was the inevitable wear and tear that came with competing as a world-class triathlete, and then there were the scars, both mental and physical, of his trade. On the outside were four pucker marks left by bullets that were meant to kill him and two decent-sized scars left by knife blades. On the inside, most of the physical damage done by the bullets had been repaired, but the mental toll his work had left on him was something he simply tried not to think about. His wife liked to tell him his brain was like a basement filling up with years of junk. If you didn't clean it out every year, you were one day sure to be left with one hell of a mess to take care of.

Instinctively, he knew she was right, but the only person who could ever understand what he'd done was someone who had walked in his shoes. And Rapp doubted there was a therapist on the planet who had any practical experience as an assassin. One of Rapp's forms of self-therapy was to never deceive himself. He didn't sugarcoat what he was, even though other people did. In national security circles he was referred to as a counterterrorism operative. He knew it was a nice way of saying he was an assassin. This had never bothered him, but now that Anna was pregnant, it gave him cause to rethink his profession. His days of being self-sufficient, of thinking first and foremost of himself, were receding with each heartbeat of the little baby in his wife's womb. Rapp was not afraid of fatherhood in the least. He was surprised, though, by the feeling of melancholy that accompanied the news. At first he didn't know the source but it came to him soon enough. It was his own unfulfilled relationship with his father. Rapp did not want his child to go through the same agonizing pain of losing a parent that he had. He was suddenly looking at the risks he took on the job in a whole new light. He'd been fighting it since the day he'd fallen in love with Anna, but now there was no more putting it off. He owed it to both her and their unborn child. He would have to step out of the line. Let someone else take the risks.

Half a mile short of the end of his run, it happened. Rapp felt a spike of pain and shifted his weight to his good leg just as his left knee locked up like an engine throwing a rod-metal on metal, no more oil to aid the simple mechanical movement. Bone on bone, no more cartilage to reduce the friction. As he hopped to a stop he muttered a series of curses under his breath. He was the only person out on the road at this early hour, but even so, swearing at the top of his lungs wasn't his style. After a few excruciating steps, he realized how serious the injury was and blurted out a single four-letter curse.

Slowly and carefully, he began hobbling his way back to his house on the Chesapeake Bay. The birds were chirping, and the early morning sun cast long shadows across the dewy grass and bathed his face in warmth. All things considered it should have been a glorious morning, but it wasn't. He rounded a slight bend in the road and was surprised to find two people standing on the side of the gravel shoulder another fifty or so yards ahead. The man had his hand on the woman's back and she was bent over. Two mountain bikes lay on the ground next to them. It was not uncommon to encounter someone on this road, but it was almost always someone he knew. There was Mr. and Mrs. Grant, retirees who rose early and walked with their two chocolate Labs. There was Mrs. Randal, the Energizer Bunny, who did her shuffle jog for hours on end, and there were a handful of others who Rapp vaguely knew. He was always polite, but never stopped to talk.

He immediately crossed to the other side of the road placing as little weight as possible on his left leg. His hand reached for his fanny pack. Inside was a FN Five Seven pistol. The weapon carried twenty 5.7 x 28mm armor-piercing rounds. Rapp unzipped the fanny pack and kept his left hand near the opening. Every move was second nature, done almost completely without thought. He checked the couple again. She appeared to be sick, which could either be genuine, or a classic diversionary tactic. He looked at everything he encountered through this prism of primal pessimism.

Ambushes were typically set up in one of three ways. The first, and most common, was to lie in wait and spring the trap on the unsuspecting quarry. The second way was to lure the target in, as could be the case with this couple. Act like you need help and then when that target steps in to offer assistance you have them right where you want them. The third and final way is to distract the target. Get them focused on one thing, and then hit them from somewhere else. At the moment this was what Rapp was most worried about.

In all likelihood the couple was nothing more than a harmless husband and wife out for a bike ride, but Rapp couldn't risk that. He checked over his shoulder and then began looking further afield to his left and right. He knew every inch of this road. He drove on it, ran along its shoulder, and biked on it. His mind was trained to catch anything that was different. He finished his sweep. Everything looked normal. Rapp turned his attention back to the couple. He was close enough now to hear the woman gagging. If this was a trap she was doing a pretty convincing job.

The man glanced over his shoulder. He was wearing a bike helmet and a pair of Oakley sunglasses.

"Everything all right?" asked Rapp. He kept moving, doing his best to mask the fact that his knee was killing him. His left hand stayed poised right above the fold of his fanny pack. Rapp could instantly tell the man was in good shape.

"She's pregnant," the man offered. "Morning sickness."

Rapp gave a slight nod, but didn't respond. He wasn't out to make polite conversation. His eyes scanned the man from head to toe as well as the woman. The man was also wearing a fanny pack, but his was spun around so it sat at the small of his back. There was something about him. A certain lean athletic quality. Broad shoulders, thin waist, developed legs, all three parts in balance. Rapp had worked with guys like him before. His thoughts turned almost immediately to the warning that had been passed along by the Jordanians that there was a price on his head, but they then turned almost as quickly to the new director of National Intelligence, Mark Ross. Could the man be so foolish as to send a couple of his people out here to collect intel on him?

The thought of Ross deciding not to back down got his blood going. Rapp stopped almost directly across the street from the two. His left hand remained poised only an inch from his gun. The weapon was chambered and hot.

"You need any help?" Rapp asked in as friendly a tone as he could muster.

"No, thank you," the man said almost immediately. He glanced at Rapp and then returned his attention to the woman.

"Are you sure?" asked Rapp.

"Yeah. It'll pass in another minute."

"Do you live around here?" Rapp watched the man's every move. He wished he would take his glasses off so he could see his eyes.

"No," the man said. "Just visiting."

"I live nearby. I can get my car and give her a ride."

"No…no…thank you, she'll be fine."

"Where are you staying?"

The man hesitated and then offered, "Not far. A little bed and breakfast just up the way."

As if on cue, the woman stood up and wiped her mouth with the sleeve of her sweatshirt. She took a swig of water from her bottle and spit it out. She repeated the process three more times and then announced, "Oh, what we do for you men!"

Rapp smiled. He detected a slight French accent from the woman. If she was acting, she was doing a damn good job. Her skin was an awful pale shade of green. Rapp decided they didn't work for Ross.

"I hope you feel better." With that he started on his way again. His knee was getting worse with each step, and he wondered briefly if it wasn't he who would need a ride. He checked back over his shoulder and caught the man quickly looking away. He probably recognized him from some of the unwanted media attention he'd received a few years ago. The couple got back on their bikes and started off, while Rapp hobbled along the shoulder with increasing difficulty.

By the time he reached the front porch, he was no longer able to bend or straighten his knee out of its slightly crooked position. Rapp grabbed the house key from the fanny pack. He glanced over both shoulders and then stuck the key in the first of two deadbolt locks. When the two locks were opened he grabbed the door handle and pulled. Rapp had personally reversed the house's three door frames so they opened out instead of in. The front door, service door, and the frames were made out of steel and covered with a wood veneer. Anyone trying to break in would have to pack a lunch. All of the windows on the first floor were bulletproof. This was his first line of defense. It was what allowed him to decompress and sleep at night. It was a safe house in the literal sense of the word.

Rapp stepped into the foyer, and Shirley was right there with her tail wagging. He gave her a quick pat on the head before disarming the security system. After locking the door he turned the security system back on and limped into the kitchen where he found his wife sitting in her robe, reading the Post and sipping a cup of coffee.

Anna looked up at him, noticed the unusual pained expression on his face, and dropped the paper. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing." Rapp deflected her question with a shake of his head and continued to the sink.

"It sure the hell doesn't look like nothing," she said.

Rapp clutched the kitchen sink with one hand and poured himself a glass of water. "It's my knee. It's a little stiff…that's all."

Anna set her mug of coffee on the table. "A little stiff? Honey, remember who you're talking to here. You look worse than when you were shot in the ass that time."

Rapp took several gulps of water and then went fishing in a drawer near the sink for some Advil. "Yeah…well, you saw me two days after the fact. You should have been there when I was rolling around in the mud screaming like a little girl."

Somehow she doubted he had acted anything less than manly. "Nice try. Tell me what's wrong with your knee."

"It's nothing." Rapp wrestled with the childproof cap and practically tore the bottle in half. "It's just a little stiff," he lied. "A couple of pills and some ice, and I'll be fine."

Anna folded her arms across her chest, offering Rapp an unintentional show of cleavage. She studied him for a moment and then asked, "What's on your schedule today?"

Rapp succeeded in separating the cap from the bottle and threw three of the pills in his mouth. He chased it with water and steadied himself one more time. "Same old crap. I've got a few meetings at Langley and something I might have to do tonight…but I haven't decided on that yet." Knowing his wife's reporter instincts, he knew he had to ask her a question before she fired another one at him. "How about you? How's your day look?"

"I have a real slow morning." She tilted her head and studied him.

Rapp watched as she shook her shoulder-length auburn hair off to one side and lowered her cute little chin. She locked in on him with her seductive emerald eyes and smiled. The warning bells started to sound as she walked toward him loosening the belt of her robe. Rapp stood frozen while two conflicting parts of his brain wrestled with the whole pain-pleasure principle.

Anna pressed her body up against his and pinned him to the counter. She wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed his ear. "Why don't we go upstairs and have a little fun? I think being pregnant makes me frisky."

Rapp wavered for a second as the pleasure part of his brain scrambled to come up with a position that might work. The pain part of his brain screamed at him to ignore any such thought. The knee simply hurt too much so Rapp smiled awkwardly and gently pushed her away. "I don't think I have time. I've got to shower and get moving."

Anna took another step back and closed her robe. "You're a liar, Mitchell." Flashing a fake smile, she asked, "Do you want me to call a doctor and make an appointment, or will you be man enough to do it yourself?"

He hesitated, trapped in his lie. "I'll take care of it," he offered weakly.

"No, you won't," she said as she finished tying her robe. "I'll call Liz. She and Michael know the best orthopedic surgeon in town." Anna grabbed the phone to call her best friend. "Morning or afternoon?"

Rapp looked down at his knee. It was starting to swell. "You'd better see if he can get me in this morning."