Page 11 of Denied Access (Mitch Rapp #24)

Joe stumbled as the man’s weight seemed to double.

Peering down the length of the casualty’s body, Joe saw that the patron’s pant leg was caught on a bit of debris.

The logical solution would be to set the man on the floor and try to work the fabric free, but if he did this Joe was afraid he’d never summon the strength to lift him again.

While in Ranger School, an instructor had told Joe that Rangers came in two types—strong or smart.

Joe had always believed it was better to be part of the second category, but today he was praying to be counted among the first. Bending his knees, Joe lowered his center of gravity while worming his arms deep beneath the man’s armpits.

Then he clasped his hands in the Gable grip he’d first learned as a high school wrestler.

The modified bear hug better distributed the bulk of the man’s weight and Joe extended his legs, trying to pull the man free.

On the fourth step, Joe heard the gonging in his ears that announced his oxygen-starved brain was about to call it quits.

He had no doubt that if his eyes were open, his vision would be wavery with the bright starburst that signaled a pending loss of consciousness.

His eyes were not open because he didn’t need to see.

He just needed to keep moving.

His legs wobbled and he sank to his knees, still holding the wounded man to his chest. The air was no longer just warm.

Heat radiated across his skin, bringing to mind the time he’d almost stumbled into his grandfather’s woodburning stove.

The old man’s gnarled hand had been surprisingly strong that day, grabbing him by the shirt collar before Joe’s face had pushed through the open grate into the waiting flames.

There was no one to save him now.

“Razreshite.”

The Russian phrase seemed to drift at the edge of Joe’s consciousness as he struggled to render the word into English. Something about getting moving maybe? He tried to formulate a response, but the required rejoinder flitted about like dandelion fuzz, just out of reach.

“Razreshite.”

This time the word came with more force.

Force and action. Rough hands grabbed the man he was dragging and struggled to tear him from Joe’s grasp.

For a confused instant, Joe fought the attacker.

Then he understood. Relinquishing his grip, Joe allowed the newcomer to bear the dead weight.

Without the burden of the injured man, he was able to find his feet and continue moving.

The first step almost brought him to his knees, but by the second, his muscles were able to compensate.

Joe sucked in a breath, coughed, and opened his eyes.

His savior was a man dressed in business casual with a pair of readers perched on the end of his nose.

Fantastic.

Joe, a former Ranger and Green Beret, had just been rescued by an accountant.

In that moment he was both pissed that David had left him to be burned alive and grateful that the newbie operator hadn’t been there to witness his shame.

The Unit was primarily staffed with Army veterans, but a few Navy SEALs had also joined the ranks.

When it came to his frogmen rivals, Joe would rather be dead than embarrassed.

A ball of fire erupted from behind the bar, peppering Joe’s face with something sharp. The shrapnel missed his eyes, but judging by the sudden stickiness dripping down his forehead, not by much.

The accountant hadn’t been so lucky.

The man screamed and began clawing at the jagged chunk of glass sprouting from his right eye socket.

Reaching deep inside, Joe summoned his final reserves of strength.

He looped his arms beneath the bar patron’s armpits and began dragging him toward the door as he called to the accountant.

He thought he was telling the man to follow his voice, but his raw throat made the words largely unintelligible.

Two agonizing steps later, he was out the door and into the refreshingly crisp air.

Joe resisted the urge to drop the man on the street, choosing instead to drag him to the far curb.

The sound of sirens cut through the air and he didn’t want the wounded man to be accidentally run over by responding emergency vehicles.

As if summoned by his thoughts, headlights played over him accompanied by the roar of an approaching engine.

Setting the bar patron on the ground, Joe was turning toward the vehicle when his world went white.

He woke up facedown on the street to someone whispering into his ear.

In English.

“Get up, Joe. Get up, we’ve got to move.”

Joe wasn’t so sure about that. The pavement felt delightfully cool against his cheek, and while the cobblestones weren’t exactly soft, he’d slept on worse. Unfortunately, whoever was whispering in his ear was pretty damn insistent.

“Get your ass moving.”

Joe jerked, wondering for a moment if his grandfather was somehow speaking to him from beyond the grave. Then he realized the truth—Ulysses Dieck would have never stooped to using profanity.

Especially profanity spoken with a Bronx accent.

“Where… were… you?” Joe said, huffing between each word.

“Getting the car. Get up and get in. Now.”

Joe turned to see the open door to their rented Lada sedan beckoning. His pounding head and rolling stomach suggested he’d been concussed, but his foggy thoughts struggled to make sense of what was happening. Something about leaving didn’t feel right.

“What—” Joe said.

Or at least he tried to.

The contents of his stomach came rushing up right about the time he was searching for the next word. Turning his head, he vomited.

Definitely a concussion.

“I thought you Army guys could hold your liquor. Up you go.”

Once again, strong hands grabbed Joe beneath the armpits, but this time they propelled him into the car. None too gently. Joe kept his pulsing head from crashing into the door, but his face bounced off the dashboard.

“What the—”

A slamming door drowned out his question.

Then David was in the driver’s seat next to him.

A moment later, the Lada’s little engine revved and Joe smashed into the upholstery as the car accelerated forward.

He couldn’t say whether it was a surge of adrenaline or just good old-fashioned anger that cleared the cobwebs, but the result was the same.

He found his way through the mental fog.

“What the hell are you doing?” Joe said.

That he’d finally completed the sentence he’d tried three times to voice seemed like a major victory. So did the fact that his shaking hands managed to find and buckle the seat belt.

Progress.

“Chasing Russians,” David said.

“What Russians?”

“The ones who planted the bomb.”