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ISIS was coming under the control of Saddam Hussein’s former generals, making their command and control structure increasingly sophisticated. Was it possible they’d gotten to the point that they were capable of embarking on something this complicated? The Baathist sons of bitches that the American politicians had prohibited him from killing would like nothing more than to get their hands on a nuke.
His phone chimed and he reached into his pocket, hoping that it was Kennedy with an ETA on his ride and not his decorator with a selection of bathroom tiles. For once he got his wish. The G550 would be at a nearby strip in thirty minutes.
“Time’s up, Ilya.”
“No! I—”
Rapp squeezed the trigger and felt the Glock kick as a bullet tore through the Russian’s leg. He started screaming and Rapp shoved a bloodstained rag in his mouth to muffle the sound.
Gusev managed to spit out the rag just as Rapp was finishing an acknowledgment text to Kennedy.
“You’re a dead man!” the Russian screamed. “Do you hear me? A dead man! You have no idea what you’re dealing with. Grisha is going to come for you and everything you love!”
Rapp set down the gun. Finally, they were getting somewhere.
“Who’s Grisha?”
“You’re going to find out,” Gusev said between clenched teeth.
“Is that who you work for? Not ISIS? A Russian? Why don’t you give me a last name? We can give him a call. Put him on speakerphone while I bandage up that leg.”
Gusev started shouting obscenities at him in Russian and Rapp grabbed hold of his wounded thigh. “Listen to me, you Russian piece of shit. I’ve given you more chances than I’ve given anybody in ten years. But that’s over now. There’s a set of pliers on that tray over there and if you don’t tell me what I want to know, I’m going to start pulling your teeth.”
The rage in Gusev’s eyes was replaced by panic when Rapp clamped a hand around his throat. He had been around too many men in Gusev’s position to be fooled. Hell, he’d been in Gusev’s position a couple times. The Russian still had some fight in him, but it was running out fast.
Gusev’s eyes started to lose focus just as the door leading into the room was thrown open. Rapp spun and saw one of the Arabs Thompson had shot sagging against the jamb. There was an AK-47 in his hands and he pulled the trigger, using what little strength he had left to sweep it across the room.
Rapp dove to the floor, rolling to the table where he’d left his Glock. A barrage of bullets went over his head and a spray of pulverized cinder block hit him in the face, partially blinding him. All he could see was the Arab’s outline and he aimed for the middle of it, firing three rapid shots that hit center of mass. The force of the rounds spun the man around and toppled him over a cart stacked with rusting embalming equipment.
Rapp got to his feet, wiping at his eyes as he approached the man. This time there was no question that he was dead. Two hits in the chest and one in the stomach. A fourth wound could be seen on the right side of his head beneath blood-matted hair. Thompson’s shot.
Rapp turned back toward Gusev and swore under his breath. The man was staring sightlessly at the ceiling with a gaping bullet wound in his side.
The sound of running footsteps became audible in the next room and Rapp lined up on Steve Thompson as he came skidding to a stop in the doorway.
“Whoa! Easy, Mitch!” He raised his hands, one of which held a Beretta 92FS. “What the hell happened?”
“I was going to ask you the same thing.”
Thompson spotted the dead Arab and his eyes widened. “I popped that guy, man. I swear I did. Right in the head.”
“You didn’t check to see if he was dead?”
“It was point-blank range! His fucking hair caught fire!”
Rapp’s finger tightened on the trigger but it was out of anger at the kid’s stupidity, not because he thought Thompson had tried to set him up. Part of the Arab’s head was noticeably concave and the trail of blood he’d left on his walk to the door was obvious. It was the downside of head shots. While they got around the problems posed by body armor, they could be unpredictable.
“Come on, Mitch. I’m sorry. I don’t normally do this kind of close-up work.”
“Get out.”
“So we’re good?”
“As long as I don’t ever see you again.”
“Not a problem, man. I’m a ghost. But hey, could you give me a lift to—”
Rapp adjusted his aim slightly and put a bullet in the wall about a quarter of an inch from Thompson’s ear.