The Survivor

CHAPTER 47

Mitch Rapp eased his Dodge Charger into the trees at the side of the dead-end road. He grabbed a pizza box and a six-pack of Coke from the passenger seat but then couldn’t bring himself to open the door. There was a reason he never came here. A lot of them.

He wasn’t sure how long he sat there but finally he reached for the handle. Not so much because he was ready but because it was about time for Mrs. Randall to start her afternoon walk. She was a nice old lady, but the last thing he needed was a woman in a tracksuit cooing sympathetically at him.

Seven years of wind and rain had cleared out the loose ash, leaving only the blackened skeleton of what had once been his and Anna’s home. The second floor was gone, as was most of one side, but there were still enough upright two-by-fours to conjure memories of what it had once been.

Rapp headed for the only intact structure — a sooty brick fireplace standing against the cloudless sky. He chose a place behind it that would obscure him from the street, then unscrewed the top of a Coke and sat. Beer — maybe a whole case — would have been more appropriate but it was time for him to give that up until he pulled his life together.

The afternoon sun reflected off the water of Chesapeake Bay, and he squinted at the dock extending into the water. It looked like one of his neighbors had cleaned it up and taken over maintenance duties.

He used to run off the end of it in the early mornings and pound out a three-mile training swim. When he returned, he’d inevitably find Anna drinking coffee and reading through a teetering stack of newspapers. She’d feign surprise at how fast he was and then offer a less than heartfelt apology for not having started breakfast. That was usually followed by compliments about his cooking that were actually a thinly veiled effort to get him to whip up a couple of omelets.

Rapp grabbed a piece of pizza and took a bite. Before Anna died, they’d started building a new house on a secluded lot outside the Beltway. The foundations were poured and a few walls were framed, but that was all that had been done before he shut the project down.

The general contractor had been calling, offering to finish it for cost. He was a decent guy who was hit hard by Anna’s death and had been having a great time figuring out how to integrate all of Rapp’s security measures. Maybe it was time to return his calls.

The years had begun to run together in Rapp’s mind. One crisis after another. Lost friends. Dead enemies. A lengthening list of wounds and injuries. Every day had become similar to the last. Every scenario a familiar twist on one of the horrors that preceded it.

But that might be about to change.

President Alexander was a pragmatist, which made him easier to work with than the ideologues on either side of the aisle. But he was also a politician. If he saw the CIA becoming a threat to him, he’d move to deal with that threat. It was entirely possible that Kennedy would be out by the end of the day.

If that happened, Rapp had decided that he would deal with the Rickman mess and then get out. Without her to insulate him from politics, he would have killed half of Washington by now.

That left a long and uncomfortably empty road ahead of him. What reason would he have to get out of bed in the morning? Thanks to his brother’s investment skills, Rapp had more money than he could ever spend, and his resume wasn’t one you took to an employment agency.

There was no way he was going to hire himself out to one of the foreign governments that would undoubtedly come calling, and he couldn’t picture himself protecting some celebrity or billionaire whom he’d just as soon shoot in the back of the head. While he didn’t necessarily like what he did every day, at least it was quasi-legal and made a difference.

Going back to triathlons would be an interesting challenge, but he had to be realistic. The years and bullet holes would make it impossible for him to return to the top level. And that was less a life than it was a time killer.

The phone in his jacket began to vibrate and he pulled it out. Mike Nash. Rapp let out a long breath and picked up.

“Yeah.”

“She’s out of her meeting with the president.”

“And?”

“Rumor has it that we’re still gainfully employed.”

A sailboat came into view and Rapp followed it with his eyes. “I guess that’s good news.”

“Might not last long.”

He and Kennedy had decided not to tell Nash about his role in their succession plans. He had enough pressure bearing down on him and they weren’t sure how he’d handle more. There weren’t many people better in combat, but running the Agency was different. Having someone shooting at you was, in many ways, the simplest of problems. You knew who the enemy was and you knew the issue was going to be quickly resolved in either your favor or the other guy’s. Once you sat down in the DCI’s chair, the shit came at you from every direction and it never stopped.

“Anything new with Rickman?”

“Maybe. A high-level asset disappeared in Venezuela.”

“No gloating?”

“No email, no video. Rick would keep changing things up to keep us guessing. We think that’s what we’re seeing here.”

It seemed like a good bet. Rickman had been well connected in Venezuela through its membership in OPEC. Not that it mattered. He seemed to have had the ability to shine a light into any dark corner he wanted.

“What about Marcus’s phishing emails?”

“They’ve been sent, but we haven’t gotten any responses yet.”

“Do you think they’re on to us?”

“Not likely. Marcus is monitoring the chatter and there hasn’t been any mention of the emails. Hackers are a pretty secretive bunch, and for now that’s working in our favor.”

“Yeah, but we’re running out of time. Maybe Irene didn’t get her walking papers today but she will next week. Or the week after that.”

“I understand, but there’s nothing we can do but wait. This is our shot, Mitch. If it doesn’t work…” His voice faded and Rapp understood why. They’d have to shut down virtually their entire network and walk away. In all likelihood, Congress would gut the CIA and piece out its duties to everyone from the FBI to the Park Service. All while America’s enemies danced on the Agency’s grave.