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“Understood.”
Azarov sat with his back against the thick steel plate that made up one side of an enclosure that was one of the most defensible in the complex. After that, time started to pass with almost supernatural slowness. He was accustomed to the mind-numbing lulls of combat, but this one was intensified by the fact that it would likely be his last. He allowed his mind to drift forward—to enjoy the luxury of considering something beyond being victorious on the day. What would it be like to wake up in his home and have no mission to prepare for? No training schedule to obsessively follow or physical test to complete?
Would he . . . fish? It was something he hadn’t done since sawing through the frozen lakes of Russia with his father. Or perhaps surfing lessons would be in order. Cara had offered a free introduction to the sport on a number of occasions. Was it time to consider accepting that offer?
A shrill alarm sounded in his remaining earpiece and he looked down at his phone. One of the ISIS teams had gone offline. He assumed it was just a communications problem that would quickly correct itself. Instead, a second alarm sounded and another of the tiny onscreen dots flashed out of existence. The intensifying storm? Or something else?
Azarov connected to the operation’s open frequency. “All teams report.”
Static.
“All teams report,” he repeated.
Still no response.
It was more than could be explained by the storm. The images on his phone were being transmitted by a satellite link, while voice communications were being handled by a radio-based system. The chance that both were failing at the same time was remote in the extreme. Much more likely, the ISIS teams had been discovered and either succumbed to attack or detonated without his authorization.
The next sound that came over his earpiece wasn’t an alarm but a notification of another call from Maxim Krupin. He was monitoring the operation from the comfort of his office in the Kremlin and would be concerned by what he was seeing.
Azarov ignored the call. If the other teams had been discovered, then this place would likely be known to the enemy as well. Attacking the large, complex facility, though, would be significantly more difficult. Did he still have time to escape? The storm would provide cover and if necessary he could—
“Contact north.”
The English coming over the radio was excellent, tainted only by a moderate Dutch accent. Hassan was the son of Syrians who had settled in Amsterdam—a store clerk who had become bored with his life and joined ISIS.
“Details?”
“It appears to be a single man. Approaching on foot.”
Azarov closed his eyes and let out a long breath. The mental image of his home in Costa Rica, so vivid a few minutes before, began to lose focus.
“Did you say a single man? Confirm.”
“Affirmative.”
“Keep eyes on the target.”
The Russian moved from his protected position and navigated the convoluted collection of ladders, catwalks, and ramps that led to the northern edge of the facility. He crawled the last ten meters, setting up in a well-camouflaged position with a gap wide enough to get a sp
otting scope through.
He had to admit to being impressed by Hassan’s attentiveness. With the blowing sand, it took Azarov almost ten seconds to spot the figure running down the back of a dune some one hundred fifty meters away.
The most immediate impression was that the man was extremely fast. While perhaps not as powerful as he himself was, this lone attacker’s skill at negotiating the soft desert surface was unquestionably superior.
Finer details became apparent as the distance between them narrowed. He was wearing the uniform of a Saudi soldier but with no visible insignias. Weaponry appeared to be limited to a single handgun holstered on his hip. Much more interesting, though, was his face. At first Azarov assumed it was just heat distortion but he could now see that this assumption was in error. The man’s nose was badly broken and both eyes were blackened. Partially hidden by a thick beard, his lips were split and distorted, complementing similarly swollen cheekbones.
In another world, watching this man charging their position alone would have been almost comical. But this wasn’t another world and there was only one man with this combination of speed and audacity.
“Rohab,” Azarov said, connecting to his men again, “join Hassan on the north end of the facility. Engage and kill the man approaching.”
“I understand,” came the reply.
If this was indeed Mitch Rapp, the tactical situation presented some interesting opportunities. The American was clearly injured, had run an undetermined distance in the oppressive heat, and was unlikely to be familiar with the structure that he was approaching.
While escaping and luring Rapp to northern Russia still had benefits, it also had a number of drawbacks. Rapp would have the full resources of the CIA behind him while Azarov would be alone. With no urgency on the American’s part, he would have significant control over the time of their next meeting and would use that time to heal and plan.
The more Azarov considered the situation, the more it became obvious that the moment for this confrontation was now. After he killed Rapp, he would contact Irene Kennedy and propose a truce. She had the reputation of being an eminently reasonable woman and would see no profit in risking more of her men in a pointless quest for revenge.