Page 116

By the time the sound of the splash reached him, he had taken cover behind the grill and was reaching for the pistol hidden beneath it. He’d barely wrapped his hand around the grip when the cold metal of a silencer touched the back of his ear.
“Grisha!” He heard Cara cough as she surfaced. “What—”
“Be silent and stay still!”
He had never spoken to her in that tone and it seemed to work. All sound coming from her direction faded. Azarov wanted to turn his head to look at her but decided it would be unwise until he determined who he was dealing with. If it was one of Krupin’s men, they would undoubtedly delay killing him until the Russian
president could phone him and gloat about the limitlessness of his power. It would inevitably be a long and grandiose speech that would give Azarov time to gain the upper hand. And then he would go to Russia and kill Krupin, his political allies, his family, and everyone he’d ever known.
“Nice and easy, Grisha.”
The breath went out of him at the sound of the American accent. He rose with comic slowness, finally turning to face the man aiming a Glock 19 between his eyes.
“You look better than the last time I saw you, Mr. Rapp.”
“Three different plastic surgeries and I didn’t even bother to keep track of the time in the dentist’s chair. How about you? Were you actually hit or was the blood just for show?”
“Biceps. In and out.”
“Grisha!” Cara said, unable to contain herself any longer. “Who is he? Do you know him? What does he want?”
Azarov eased his face left until he could see her out of the corner of his eye. The hair had matted across her face but it wasn’t enough to obscure the terror etched there. It was unfair. A woman like her should never have to feel fear.
“Please, Cara. It’s going to be fine. Just stay in the pool.”
Rapp motioned with his gun. “Let’s take a walk.”
The Russian did as he was told, crossing his large patio and starting up the trail that led to his training facility. In doing so, the tactical advantage swung in his direction. The unseen shooter was undoubtedly Charles Wicker, one of the finest combat snipers alive. The jungle at the edges of the trail was extremely dense, though, making it virtually impossible to maintain an unbroken line of sight. Further, Azarov was intimately familiar with the terrain from years of training there.
It was an advantage similar to the one he’d counted on in Saudi Arabia, the Russian reminded himself. And this wasn’t a lone, injured Mitch Rapp fresh off a run through the sweltering desert. The CIA man was healthy, rested, and had backup.
The only relevant question Azarov needed to ask himself was how he wanted to die. On his knees or fighting? Oddly, he found that he didn’t care. Instead, his mind wandered to the past few months of his life. The time had been agonizingly short, but a gift nonetheless.
They reached the gym and Azarov stopped in front of the glass doors.
“Inside,” Rapp said.
He obeyed and Rapp indicated toward a chair next to the squat rack. Azarov sat while the American slid onto a table just over a meter away.
“I’m surprised you made it so easy, Grisha. You’re too comfortable here.”
“Isn’t that the way you’re supposed to feel in your home? Comfortable?”
“Not us.”
Azarov nodded. “And so you’ve come to kill me.”
“That was the plan. But now I’m not sure.”
“What’s changed?”
“You jumped on the surfer girl. The smart money would have been to keep her in front of you when you went for cover. Or at least to just leave her standing there as a distraction. It makes me wonder if Irene Kennedy’s right and you’re not a complete waste of skin.”
“She thinks that?”
Rapp put his gun on table next to him and Azarov focused on it in his peripheral vision. The short distance between them could be easily covered if it had been anyone else. With Rapp, though, it would be suicide.
“We can’t find a record of you contacting anyone in Russia since you got back. Even your company doesn’t know where you are. They figure you’re dead.”