Order to Kill

CHAPTER 6

THE Russian crouched and let loose a right hook when Rapp got in range. It wasn’t a bad effort-clearly the man had some training. Based on the speed, though, that training had been a lot of vodka and cigarettes ago.

Rapp ducked and shot an open palm up into the man’s chin. He’d retreated against the cinder-block wall and, as planned, his head snapped back into it. Not with sufficient force to knock him unconscious, but hard enough to make his knees buckle.

Rapp grabbed him by the hair and dragged him to the gurney centered in the room. He shoved the corpse occupying it onto the floor and replaced it with the Russian. He struggled weakly but was too dazed to prevent Rapp from using a roll of duct tape to secure him to the bloodstained metal surface.

“Ilya, right? What’s your last name?” Rapp said, grabbing his phone off the tray and starting to dial.

“I… I wasn’t going to harm you,” the man begged uselessly. “I don’t know anything. I was just hired-”

Rapp slapped a piece of tape over his mouth, silencing him as the phone on the other end of the line began to ring. Irene Kennedy picked up a moment later.

“Are Claudia and Anna all right?” she said by way of greeting. As director of the CIA, the demands on her time got worse every year. She reacted by making everything more efficient, and that had prompted her to do away with meaningless pleasantries. Rapp wholeheartedly agreed. After almost a quarter century of working together, small talk was a waste of limited resources.

“They’re fine. I’m holding a Russian who seemed to be running things. He’s got two Middle Eastern sidekicks that I’m betting are ISIS.”

“That’s an odd combination.”

“I thought so, too.”

“Have you had a chance to question them?”

“The Arabs are dead and I’m just about to have a sit-down with the Russian. What I know at this point, though, is that none of this was about Claudia. It was about getting me out of Pakistan.”

“Are you sure?”

“Ninety percent.”

“There’s only one reason someone would want to do that.”

“Yeah. They’re going to make a move against one of the nukes the army’s moving around.”

“How quickly can you get back to Islamabad?”

Rapp ripped the tape off the Russian’s mouth. “Where are we?”

“I want to-”

He clapped a hand over the man’s mouth, cutting off both his words and his ability to breathe. “It’s a simple question, Ilya. You should answer it.”

He removed his hand and the man spoke in a shaking voice. “Lesotho. Near Maseru.”

“Did you get that, Irene? Maseru. Can you figure out the closest strip that’ll take the G550 and have it brought in? And call Scott. Tell him that someone might be looking to make a move.”

“I’ll do it right away.”

“Can you get in touch with the Pakistani government and tell them what’s happened? See if they’ll dial back the bullshit until we can figure out where the threat’s coming from?”

“As you know, President Chutani’s not our problem. He wants Pakistan’s nuclear arsenal locked down even more than we do. But the army is another matter. General Shirani is willing to take whatever risks are necessary to create an environment for a successful coup.

“Keep me posted,” Rapp said, cutting off the call and looking down at the man taped to the gurney.

“Please,” he begged. “I don’t know anything.”

Rapp silently examined him-the expensive slacks and shoes, the gaudy gold chain nested in a carpet of chest hair, the nose that looked like it had been broken a few times. The guy stank of Russian mafia.

“By the looks of you, I believe that you don’t know much. But nothing at all? I’m not buying it.”

Rapp picked up an embalming needle injector. “This looks like it would do some damage, doesn’t it?”

“Please! I wasn’t told you were involved and I didn’t know who the woman was. I did it for the money. Nothing more.”

“Okay. Then tell me who’s writing the check.”

“I…” he stammered, trying to buy enough time to come up with a plausible lie. “I don’t know. I’m just a criminal. Drugs. Women. Gambling. My name is Ilya Gusev.”

Rapp recognized it. Despite his appearance, Gusev wasn’t just a piece of mindless muscle. He was a high-level criminal with his own outfit. Rapp had become familiar with him when the CIA had incorrectly suspected him of dealing arms in the Middle East.

“Sure,” Rapp said. “I’ve heard of you.”

“Then you know I’m telling the truth!”

“What I know is that you’re not some small-time hustler who takes jobs from anyone with a few rubles to wave around. So either you’re lying about not knowing who you’re working for or you came up with this on your own.”

“No! I’ve told you everything!”

“Look, Ilya. I don’t give a rat’s ass about you. I don’t care if you walk out of here without a scratch or if my people have to scrape what’s left of you off the floor. But I can tell you that if you keep lying to me, it’s going to be the second one. Now let’s start again. Who’s writing the check for this job?”

“I don’t know,” he said, sounding like he was on the verge of breaking into tears.

Rapp looked back at the door, making sure it was closed and trying to assess its thickness. Normally, this would be a simple situation. He’d ask his questions in a way that they would be answered quickly and truthfully. Now, though, he found himself worrying that the sound might carry out to Claudia and Anna. And then there was the matter of blood. He couldn’t walk out of here looking like he’d spent the day working in a slaughterhouse.

Rapp had promised himself that he was going to get a life outside of all this, but he’d forgotten the drawbacks-the constraints that he hadn’t worked under since his wife died.

“You’ve caught me on a good day,” Rapp said, pressing his silencer to bottom of the man’s left foot. “But now my patience is wearing thin.”

The Russian thrashed wildly, trying to break free of the tape, but he still didn’t offer any employment details. Time for a change in strategy. Rapp moved the weapon from the leather sole of Gusev’s shoe to his thigh, pressing the tip into his soft flesh. It would further dampen the sound.

“Are you partnering with ISIS, Ilya? They’ve knocked over a lot of banks and sold a lot of oil. I’ll bet they have enough money to tempt even a high roller like you.”

“No! I was going to shoot them and leave them for you to find. To give you a trail to follow to the Middle East.”

“Why?”

“Maybe someone there wants to kill you?”

“Everybody there wants to kill me, Ilya. But why go through all this effort? A month doesn’t go by that I don’t show my face in the Middle East at least once. No one has to lure me. More likely, someone wanted me out of Pakistan. You just have to tell me who and why.”

ISIS was coming under the control of Saddam Hussein’s former generals, making their command and control structure increasingly sophisticated. Was it possible they’d gotten to the point that they were capable of embarking on something this complicated? The Baathist sons of bitches that the American politicians had prohibited him from killing would like nothing more than to get their hands on a nuke.

His phone chimed and he reached into his pocket, hoping that it was Kennedy with an ETA on his ride and not his decorator with a selection of bathroom tiles. For once he got his wish. The G550 would be at a nearby strip in thirty minutes.

“Time’s up, Ilya.”

“No! I-”

Rapp squeezed the trigger and felt the Glock kick as a bullet tore through the Russian’s leg. He started screaming and Rapp shoved a bloodstained rag in his mouth to muffle the sound.

Gusev managed to spit out the rag just as Rapp was finishing an acknowledgment text to Kennedy.

“You’re a dead man!” the Russian screamed. “Do you hear me? A dead man! You have no idea what you’re dealing with. Grisha is going to come for you and everything you love!”

Rapp set down the gun. Finally, they were getting somewhere.

“Who’s Grisha?”

“You’re going to find out,” Gusev said between clenched teeth.

“Is that who you work for? Not ISIS? A Russian? Why don’t you give me a last name? We can give him a call. Put him on speakerphone while I bandage up that leg.”

Gusev started shouting obscenities at him in Russian and Rapp grabbed hold of his wounded thigh. “Listen to me, you Russian piece of shit. I’ve given you more chances than I’ve given anybody in ten years. But that’s over now. There’s a set of pliers on that tray over there and if you don’t tell me what I want to know, I’m going to start pulling your teeth.”

The rage in Gusev’s eyes was replaced by panic when Rapp clamped a hand around his throat. He had been around too many men in Gusev’s position to be fooled. Hell, he’d been in Gusev’s position a couple times. The Russian still had some fight in him, but it was running out fast.

Gusev’s eyes started to lose focus just as the door leading into the room was thrown open. Rapp spun and saw one of the Arabs Thompson had shot sagging against the jamb. There was an AK-47 in his hands and he pulled the trigger, using what little strength he had left to sweep it across the room.

Rapp dove to the floor, rolling to the table where he’d left his Glock. A barrage of bullets went over his head and a spray of pulverized cinder block hit him in the face, partially blinding him. All he could see was the Arab’s outline and he aimed for the middle of it, firing three rapid shots that hit center of mass. The force of the rounds spun the man around and toppled him over a cart stacked with rusting embalming equipment.

Rapp got to his feet, wiping at his eyes as he approached the man. This time there was no question that he was dead. Two hits in the chest and one in the stomach. A fourth wound could be seen on the right side of his head beneath blood-matted hair. Thompson’s shot.

Rapp turned back toward Gusev and swore under his breath. The man was staring sightlessly at the ceiling with a gaping bullet wound in his side.

The sound of running footsteps became audible in the next room and Rapp lined up on Steve Thompson as he came skidding to a stop in the doorway.

“Whoa! Easy, Mitch!” He raised his hands, one of which held a Beretta 92FS. “What the hell happened?”

“I was going to ask you the same thing.”

Thompson spotted the dead Arab and his eyes widened. “I popped that guy, man. I swear I did. Right in the head.”

“You didn’t check to see if he was dead?”

“It was point-blank range! His fucking hair caught fire!”

Rapp’s finger tightened on the trigger but it was out of anger at the kid’s stupidity, not because he thought Thompson had tried to set him up. Part of the Arab’s head was noticeably concave and the trail of blood he’d left on his walk to the door was obvious. It was the downside of head shots. While they got around the problems posed by body armor, they could be unpredictable.

“Come on, Mitch. I’m sorry. I don’t normally do this kind of close-up work.”

“Get out.”

“So we’re good?”

“As long as I don’t ever see you again.”

“Not a problem, man. I’m a ghost. But hey, could you give me a lift to-”

Rapp adjusted his aim slightly and put a bullet in the wall about a quarter of an inch from Thompson’s ear.

“Fuck!” the young assassin shouted, ducking and throwing an arm protectively in front of his face. A few seconds later he was out the front door and running up the road.