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“Whatever you say is between us and no one else.”
Rapp tried to think of the best way to say it, and in the process he was reminded of something he’d said to the previous attorney general. It was at a meeting during the White House hostage crisis. Rapp had overstepped his bounds and allowed his temper to get the best of him. But it was worth it. In the end, he got his way, and a terrorist he had hunted for the better part of a decade was dead.
Rapp looked at Coleman briefly and then said, “I work for no government agency. I want to be very clear about that. I’m what you might call a counterterrorism specialist.”
“Okay…and what, may I ask, does a counterterrorism specialistdo?”
Rapp was not well versed in trying to spin what he did, so he just blurted out the hard, cold truth. “I kill terrorists.”
“Say again?”
“I hunt them down, and I kill them.”
The congressman set his beer down. He was expecting something along this line, but he didn’t expect to hear it in such a blunt way. After he had rebounded from Rapp’s confession, something fell into place for O’Rourke. “Is that how you met Anna? During the hostage crisis?”
“Yep.”
“Were you involved in the takedown?”
“Yep.”
Coleman laughed. “Shit, he was the takedown.”
“What do you mean?” asked O’Rourke.
“He means we’ll have to tell you that story a different time.” Rapp looked at Coleman and shook his head. Then, standing, he approached O’Rourke and stuck out his hand. “Michael, I’m sorry about all of this. Maybe someday after you leave office, I can tell you more, but until then, I’m sorry.”
O’Rourke took his hand and looked into Rapp’s eyes, not sure what to make of the whole thing. “I’d like that.”
“Just remember we’re on the same team.”
“Yeah.”
Coleman looked at his watch and said, “Hurry up and kiss your girlfriend. We have to get back to the ranch and check on the boys.”
Rapp grinned with a mix of embarrassment and anticipation. “Where’s Anna, upstairs?”
“No.” O’Rourke shook his head. “She called just after eight and told Liz she was going to meet you. I thought that was why you were here. I thought she made you come over.”
Peter Cameron flew down Maryland Highway 214 in his silver metallic Lexus coupe with Rimsky-Korsakov’s Scheherazade blaring out of the car’s seven speakers. He had bought the car under one of his assumed names. Cameron was in the process of disobeying Senator Clark’s orders. He simply could not resist going to the house. It was too tempting. The home of Mitch Rapp. He had to see what it was like. He had to be involved in the hit. Senator Clark would not be happy, but if Cameron was careful, his boss would never know. He had called ahead and warned Duser of his arrival. The last thing he needed right now was the former Marine or one of his trigger-happy cronies shooting him by mistake. That was the other reason he needed to visit the house. If this plan was going to work, he couldn’t have those clowns showering the target with bullets.
As Cameron turned off of 214, he looked at his mobile phone and wondered when Rapp would call again. Rapp had called every hour since they had talked this afternoon, and he had intentionally neglected to answer the phone. The last call had been around nine P.M., almost two hours ago. Cameron hadn’t thought of this, but if Rapp didn’t call back, they would have a problem. He decided not to worry about it. Rapp would call him again. If not tonight, he would do it in the morning.
He ran his car through its paces as he zipped down the dark country-road. The senator’s plan was great, but there were some areas where it needed work. Multiple contingencies had to be put into place in case something went wrong, and the odds were good that something would. Cameron had envisioned for months finding Rapp’s head perfectly centered in the cross hairs of one of his high-powered rifle scopes. That dream had been destroyed by the senator. Clark didn’t give him any specifics beyond ruling out a long-distance shot, only that he was adamant that it must look like a murder-suicide. The girl would be easy, but Rapp might pose a problem. He was not a man to be underestimated, and the trick here would be to get close enough to shoot him in the head. With the way forensic science was today, they would have to be very careful how they left the crime scene.
They would have to keep the girl alive and take Rapp first. Cameron had decided on the weapon. He would use a .22-caliber pistol. That way, there would be no exit wound and no blood splatter. They would get Rapp to enter the house alone, hold the girl at gunpoint, and shoot him in the side of the head before he had a chance to do anything. Then they would shoot the girl with the same gun and leave. An anonymous call would be made to the local sheriff and then several more to the TV stations just to make sure the CIA didn’t try to cover it up.
Cameron knew there was one weakness in his plan. It was not going to be easy to get close enough to Rapp to kill him, and do it with only one shot. That would have to be his responsibility. He would have to stay cool right up until the last moment.
Cameron pulled into Rapp’s driveway and parked in front of a sedan. One of Duser’s men was standing on the small front porch. Cameron approached the man and told him to go get his boss. The sky was still overcast, the moon nowhere in sight. Duser came outside a minute later and offered Cameron a cigarette. He declined and watched Duser light up.
“How is she?”
Duser pulle
d the cigarette from his mouth. “She’s all right. A little nervous, but nothing I wouldn’t expect.”
“What’s she doing?”