Page 19 of Denied Access (Mitch Rapp #24)

B ARCELONA , S PAIN

H ALLO?”

“Greta, it’s me.”

“Mitch!”

The instantaneous change in Greta’s tone made Rapp smile. This was no mean feat, since he was currently standing in one of his least favorite places.

An airport.

“You okay?”

“Yes, I’m—”

“Don’t tell me,” Rapp said, turning his back to the pedestrians strolling through the international terminal.

As airports went, Barcelona–El Prat wasn’t bad, at least from Rapp’s perspective.

Then again, his evaluation criteria were a bit different than the average air traveler’s.

Case in point, the custodians who serviced the terminal’s floor-to-ceiling windows did an excellent job of keeping the glass free of smudges.

Presumably, most people took advantage of their hard work by taking in the view of the beautiful Spanish coastline.

Not Rapp.

He was busy studying the reflections of his fellow travelers.

“Why?” Greta said.

“Your grandfather thought it was better if I didn’t know. For now.”

“What does that mean?”

Rapp sighed. “It’s complicated.”

“I think that means you’re about to do something dangerous for my grandfather. I think you don’t want to know where I am because you don’t want to have to worry about saying something to the wrong person if that thing you’re about to do goes wrong.”

Greta was not a covert operative, but she was smart and had a knack for putting two and two together and arriving at five.

Greta acquitted herself well during the chaotic days after the Paris hit went south, but her stubborn streak had also reared its head a time or two.

Stubbornness could look a lot like tenacity under the right circumstances.

Maybe he should start thinking of Greta as tenacious rather than mule-headed.

“What did your grandfather tell you?” Rapp said.

“You first.”

Definitely mule-headed.

“The CliffsNotes version is that you’re in danger—”

“And you’re going to fix things.”

The irritation coming through the phone was unmistakable and Rapp felt his own blood pressure rising in response. “Yes, I’m going to fix things. Why does that make you angry?”

“Because you and my grandfather came up with this plan without even once stopping to consider me.”

“You?”

“Yes, me, you idiot. I understand why he still treats me like a six-year-old with pink ribbons in her hair. I understand, but I don’t like it. But you? You should know better.”

So that’s what this was about.

Rapp shifted slightly so that he had a better view of the terminal’s reflection.

He was standing in a blind spot created by a T-intersection.

The concourse to his right formed the T’s horizonal axis, while the terminal to his left was the vertical leg.

His positioning allowed him to surreptitiously observe passengers as they entered the terminal.

In yet another plus for the airport, his terminal had just four gates.

The even numbers, gates 6 and 8, were on his side of the terminal, while the odds, 5 and 7, were on the far side.

Only gates 7 and 8 featured flights that were scheduled to depart in the next ninety minutes.

This meant that no one had any business entering his section of the terminal unless they were waiting for a departing flight.

Or tailing someone.

A young woman with a travel bag slung over her shoulder hurried by.

Rapp caught a quick glimpse of squinting blue eyes and features scrunched in concentration before she passed his observation post. After reaching the terminal’s end, she checked flight information displayed on the TV screen adjacent to gate 7 and sighed.

Loudly.

With a muttered curse, she retraced her steps to the concourse without so much as a glance in his direction. As performances went, it didn’t get more convincing. He wanted to believe that she was just another frazzled traveler who’d accidentally selected the wrong terminal, but couldn’t.

This was the second time he’d seen her.

“Sorry,” Rapp said, not so much because he felt the emotion as he was convinced it was the correct thing to say.

“I should have consulted you instead of just riding to your rescue. In the meantime, hopefully no one chops off your head, stuffs it in a box, and mails it to your grandfather. My apologies.”

Compassion wasn’t really one of his strong suits.

“What? What did you say?”

“Do I have your attention now? Good. Your grandfather has made an enemy or two over the course of his career. Someone did what I just described to one of his oldest friends. Oh, and they also enclosed a note saying your head would be next.”

“O mein Gott.”

Rapp paused to allow Greta to fully process the barbarity of what he’d relayed.

As he’d suspected, Ohlmeyer had not told his granddaughter about the box.

He’d deliberately remedied that oversight because he wanted the Swiss beauty to understand the stakes, not so that she couldn’t sleep at night, but because he thought a shock of this magnitude might be the only thing capable of overcoming her stubborn streak.

Greta had to do her part if this was to work, and in this case, her part was to willingly remain in the company of the men Ohlmeyer had handpicked to protect her.

“Listen,” Rapp said as he surveyed the crowd, searching for a second familiar face, “the people who are going after your grandfather are good, but they’ve already made one mistake. They neglected to factor in something that is going to completely change the tactical equation.”

“What?”

“Me. The enemies he’s facing have done their homework on him, no doubt.

They know how to strike at his weaknesses.

The things he values the most—his friends and you—but they don’t know about me.

I’m going to pay someone a visit, ask him a few questions, and take care of this issue.

As soon as I do, my first call will be to you.

Until then, I need you to stay with your grandfather’s men. Okay?”

“Why can’t I be with you? You can protect me.”

Rapp sighed. “No, I can’t. I won’t be able to do what I need to do if you’re with me.”

This time the silence that followed his answer had a different feel.

Contemplative. This was a double-edged sword.

Shock and horror meant that Greta would reflexively do what he’d asked, but only so long as it took for those feelings to subside.

Contemplative meant that she’d choose what to do based on her own decision-making criteria, but there was a fifty-fifty chance Greta’s conclusion would not align with his.

Headstrong or tenacious were both too charitable a description.

She was stubborn.

“You’re going to kill someone.”

Greta’s response was more statement than question and a healthy dose of resignation flavored her tone.

Had the words sounded like an accusation they might have provoked a different response, but she might as well have been remarking on the fact that it was raining outside.

The circumstances weren’t what she wanted, but life often reflected circumstances that weren’t what a person wanted.

She was by no means the perfect woman, but she might just be the perfect fit for his jagged pieces.

“I’ll do what needs to be done. You know me. I’m not a nutjob who gets off on violence, but I am a realist. Either I take care of this, or it takes care of you. That’s about as clear-cut as my world gets.”

Left unsaid was that had Rapp not involved Greta in Paris, she would not truly know him or the hard-edged world he inhabited.

But as quickly as the thought came, it vanished.

She might not be of his world, but it had found her anyway through her grandfather.

Her survival might be far less certain without him in her corner.

Perhaps the phone call he’d placed to her after he’d been shot in Paris had saved more than just his life.

“Okay, darling,” Greta said. “I don’t like it, but I get it. I’ll stay with my grandfather’s men like a good girl.”

“I love you, darling.”

“And I you. Mitch—please be careful.”

“Of course.”

Rapp disconnected the call before Greta could respond. This was partly because he didn’t want the Swiss girl to exact promises he didn’t intend to keep.

But only partly.

The woman with the shoulder bag was back.