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A gust struck from the south, kicking up an opaque cloud of sand that blasted the skin on Azarov’s hands and face. When it cleared, the man was gone.
CHAPTER 55
RAPP dropped to his stomach, ignoring the searing heat of the sand beneath him. There was still no sign of opposition, but he now had a solid view of the north side of the facility. Azarov would hang back—sacrifice any pawns he had in hopes of getting lucky or at the very least wearing Rapp out.
Those pawns would likely be handpicked from ISIS. Even if they had military experience and additional spec ops training, these weren’t SAS or Delta. In his experience, they would lack any capacity for subtlety or out-of-the-box thinking. They’d take the most obvious positions and attack at the first opportunity. No matter what the job, jihadists could always be counted on to reach for the hammer.
When the next gust hit, he sprinted through the opaque dust cloud it created. The soft sand gave way to concrete and he slowed, squeezing between two upright pipes and keeping to where the tangle of machinery was most dense. It robbed him of his ability to see much more than five feet in a straight line, but that limitation would go both ways.
Rapp pulled his Glock and started weaving through the steel maze. There was an obvious vantage point on the second level, about fifteen yards to his right. He himself might have been attracted to it in his younger days. The position would provide an unobstructed view north, as well as reasonable protection from the wind. Even more advantageous, practical access from below was blocked by a massive cylindrical tank.
Rapp spotted a drift that went almost to a catwalk ten feet above and began climbing it. At the top, he had to dig to widen the gap between the sand and the metal grid, but managed to get through without making a sound loud enough to rise above the wind.
He inched forward through the dangerously confined space. After a few feet, he spotted a boot protruding from behind a steel plate. Rapp looked at the Glock in his hand and then reluctantly holstered it. Without a silencer, using the gun would be too much of a risk.
He found a broken pipe and quietly dug it from the sand. While not exactly sharp, one end looked jagged enough for his purposes. He kept moving forward, slipping from beneath the catwalk and continuing along the drift as it climbed toward a hard ceiling of electrical conduits.
After about a minute, he had a full view of his target: Middle Eastern male, lying prone, searching the desert through a scope mounted to an AK-47.
The angle of the sun was going to be a problem. Rapp had it at his back, which was normally an advantage, but in this case it would cause him to throw a shadow. He stayed low to minimize the problem, but there was no way to change the laws of physics. His shadow moved steadily up the man’s back and finally entered his peripheral vision when Rapp was still almost ten feet out.
The terrorist rolled, desperately trying to swing the AK with him. The confined space that was slowing Rapp’s approach had a similar effect on his target. The rifle’s barrel caught on the edge of a drain lever and a moment later Rapp drove the broken end of the pipe into the man’s sternum. He threw his full weight behind it and managed to drive the steel down until it hit concrete.
Rapp immediately retreated, suspecting that the dead man was working as part of a two-man team. That suspicion was confirmed when automatic fire erupted from below and rounds began sparking off a storage tank to his right.
Rapp vaulted a railing and sprinted for a set of stairs to the west, unable to see the man firing. The steps were solid steel plate and he could feel the vibration of bullet impacts as he took them three at a time.
The shooter was still invisible below, but it was clear that he was firing from the left. Ahead, the stairs dead-ended into a T. To the right, they continued up and eventually disappeared into the glare of the sun. To the left was a low gate blocking access to a steel mesh catwalk.
When he reached the T, Rapp feinted right and then went left, leaping over the gate and landing on the catwalk. The shooter had anticipated him continuing up the stairs, and the rounds pounded along them as Rapp drew his Glock.
Through the open weave beneath his feet, he immediately spotted his target: a single man in the process of adjusting his aim from the stairs to the American standing above him.
There was no clear angle, so Rapp just aimed through the steel mesh and began firing. He stayed on target, pumping five rounds into the catwalk before a bullet finally got through clean. It hit the man in the collarbone, causing him to lose control of his weapon and spray a girder above him. A moment later, the right side of his head was torn away. He’d been taken out by one of his own ricochets.
Rapp jumped the guardrail and dropped ten feet into the soft sand next to the body. A quick search turned up a throat mike and he removed it, closing it around his own neck and inserting the earpiece. No one was on the comm, so he activated the microphone and jabbered breathlessly in Arabic.
“I killed him! I’m the only survivor, but I won. The man is dead!”
The voice that responded had a distinct Russian inflection. Not unexpected, but the sound of it still made Rapp grip his Glock a little tighter.
“Hassan. Calm down. Speak in English.”
Rapp repeated the sentiment in the requested language but with a distinct Arab accent.
There was a good five seconds of silence before the voice came back on. “My compliments on the speed and stealth of your approach, Mr. Rapp. And with how efficiently you were able to deal with my men. But Hassan was Dutch.”
“Sometimes you have to play the percentages,” Rapp said.
“It’s what I would have done.”
“You’ve lost, Grisha. Why not just surrender? You don’t owe Maxim Krupin anything. Sure as hell not your life.”
“What you say is true. But I suspect that the future you have planned for me isn’t one I would enjoy.”
“Maybe we can work something out.”
“You would never agree to my demands.”