Page 57 of Denied Access (Mitch Rapp #24)

G IVE me your money.”

Or at least that’s what Rapp assumed the hood said. Words aside, the tough’s body language spoke volumes. As did his folding blade.

“Not today,” Rapp replied.

He responded in Arabic.

This was not lost on the would-be robber.

Though the knife was just as tightly clenched in his right hand, the hood’s scornful expression lost some of its certainty.

To blend in with his European counterparts, Rapp was wearing slacks and a button-down shirt.

But upon closer examination, his dark complexion didn’t match the Germanic stock common to this Austrian city.

Sure, this was a rougher part of town, but a mugging attempt in broad daylight at a busy intersection suggested that what was happening was more shakedown than violent crime.

Rapp’s gut told him that the thugs were opportunistic scavengers looking to prey upon well-heeled Viennese who take a wrong turn.

Hyenas rather than lions.

Unslinging his backpack, Rapp tossed the satchel at the knifeman. The bundle smacked into the man’s chest. He reflexively grabbed at the nylon strap with his left hand while cupping the bottom with his right.

Rapp followed the backpack’s flight path.

Without breaking stride, he launched a vicious uppercut with his right elbow while pinning the knife arm against the hood’s chest with his left hand. Elbow connected with jaw in a satisfying crunch.

The mugger crumpled.

Rapp stripped away the blade in one fluid movement. Then he stomped on the prone man’s wrist. The bones crunched. Spinning, he dropped into a knife fighter’s crouch and faced the remaining toughs. “Are we done?”

Again, the question was asked in Arabic.

Again, Rapp’s choice in languages seemed to register.

Or maybe it was the sight of their comrade splayed across the concrete moaning through the blood streaming from his broken jaw while cradling his wrist. Both men raised their hands palms facing upward and backed away.

Slowly. Rapp gave each a hard glare. Then he picked up his backpack, slipped it over his shoulders, and continued on his way.

The men did not follow.

A hundred yards and a world apart from the earlier violence, Rapp emerged from the alley and found himself at the park. Forgoing the first two cabs idling at the curb, he opened the back door to the third and climbed inside.

“Aéroport, s’il vous pla?t.”

If the cabdriver was at all irritated that his new passenger had broken protocol by ignoring the line of cabs, the wad of schillings Rapp pushed across the divider seemed to do the trick.

The Volvo accelerated in a smooth purr as the cabbie studiously ignored the angry gestures and shouts from the drivers lounging outside the first two cars.

Rapp had found that a liberal enough application of currency could smooth over most misunderstandings.

“You’re bleeding, monsieur.”

“ Merci ,” Rapp, said noticing the splotch of crimson on his elbow. “I took a fall back there.”

The cabbie nodded, but his grim expression suggested that Rapp wasn’t the first passenger who had emerged from the Reumannplatz after experiencing a fall. All the better. He preferred to remain unnoticed. The cabbie passed back a stack of napkins, and Rapp padded his elbow dry.

The blood wasn’t his.

This time.