The Survivor

CHAPTER 22

Stan Hurley had chosen a hard, straight-backed chair in the corner over the more comfortable furniture placed throughout the parlor. Its position made a shot at him through the reportedly bulletproof windows impossible while allowing him to keep his back to the wall. Those were only side benefits, though.

In a life that had been lived with no compromises, now compromises were all he had. If he stayed on his feet and walked around the room, his recently replaced hip would start to ache. If he sat in one of the heavily cushioned chairs, he was in danger of falling asleep. And if he sat too long where he was, his knees would start to stiffen up.

Despite the fact that the main purpose of the CIA was gathering intelligence, no one there knew exactly how old he was. His birth on his parents’ kitchen table had left no written record, and the last witness to that event — his older brother — had died earlier that year. In fact, Hurley had just turned eighty.

The things he’d experienced over his lifetime astounded even him. Horse-drawn carts in the streets of Bowling Green, Kentucky. Collecting scrap metal with the other kids to support the war effort in Europe. The rise of the Soviet Union. His old friend Neil Armstrong planting an American flag on the moon.

And Mitch Rapp.

Hurley had done everything in his power — and a few things that were most definitely not — to wash the kid out. In the end, the only thing he succeeded in doing was burning out a bunch of the top — special ops guys that made up the rest of Rapp’s training class. Things that would have killed the average Army Ranger just made that little pissant stick his middle finger in the air.

On one hand, Rapp still had a way of getting under his skin like no one else. On the other, it was comforting to know that he was leaving Kennedy with someone who would always protect her. Always protect the country that had given them so much.

Hurley stood, subconsciously running through the list of physical ailments that could compromise the op if it got hot. After fifteen or so, he gave up and pulled a Camel from the pack in his jacket. He held a lighter to the innocent-looking white cylinder and inhaled a lungful of smoke. Over the years, he’d been shot, stabbed, garroted, thrown from a ship a hundred miles from shore, and poisoned. The last by a cute little Czech woman he was screwing. Kind of funny that the Grim Reaper had ditched his scythe and snuck up behind him with a tobacco leaf. Just another limp dick in a robe.

He started looking around the room again, getting the blood flowing as he walked. No update from Rapp yet. He was probably still in the tunnel. When he got out and found that the target hadn’t been located, he wasn’t going to be happy. Not that anyone would blame Hurley, but that didn’t matter. This wasn’t a business of excuses. You either got the job done or you didn’t.

So, what now?

The guard would be standing just outside the closed door, making it impossible for Hurley to simply wander out and play the befuddled old man if he came across anyone. He might be able to bash the man’s head in with one of the room’s antique knickknacks, but the chance of that compromising the op was nearly one hundred percent.

Hurley felt an all-too-familiar constriction in his lungs and put a handkerchief to his mouth, coughing uncontrollably into it. About halfway through his fit, the door opened and the guard who had led him there appeared. The good news was the desperate hacking would play into his cover as a helpless geriatric. The bad news was that it wasn’t an act. Hurley really was struggling to keep from collapsing and the handkerchief really was spattered with bloody specks of what had once been his lungs.

“Mr. Obrecht will see you now,” the guard said, apparently unconcerned about the man choking in front of him.

Hurley wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and walked unsteadily toward the door. “Thank you.”

“Second floor,” the guard said, falling in a pace behind.

Hurley suppressed a smile as he headed for a broad set of steps supported by marble pillars. The timing would be perfect. When Rapp and the frog came out of that tunnel, he’d already have Obrecht wrapped up like a birthday present.

A skylight in the domed ceiling threw a shadow and Hurley kept his eye on the guard’s as they began to ascend. The man was three steps back with his assault rifle held against his chest. The image got increasingly dim as they ascended, but not so dim that Hurley didn’t see the rifle suddenly begin to rise. He spun, lunging for the man just as the plastic butt caught him in the side of the head. The blow dazed him, but his momentum was still sufficient to send them both toppling down the steps.

When they hit the landing, Hurley’s head was swimming, and it felt like someone had jammed a hot knife in his hip joint. The other man had come through the fall in much better condition. Protected from the steps by his body armor and youth, he was on his feet before Hurley could even get to his knees.

This time when the rifle butt came down, there was nothing he could do.