Page 80 of Denied Access (Mitch Rapp #24)

R APP’S kick was meant to create space between himself and the Russian.

Perhaps bounce the assassin off the elevator’s wall, scramble his thoughts, and maybe even cause Lebedev to drop whatever it was he was trying to draw from his waistband.

It didn’t.

With a fluidity impressive for a man of his size, the assassin eeled around Rapp’s leg.

Pain flared in Rapp’s calf as silver flashed from the Russian’s other hand.

The one that hadn’t been reaching for his waistband.

Rapp cursed his stupidity. He’d fallen for the oldest trick in the book.

Lebedev had baited him into focusing on his moving hand instead of the one holding a knife.

If he didn’t want to die in this dingy elevator, he needed to get his shit together.

Now.

Ignoring the burning sensation in his leg, Rapp planted his foot and launched forward in an awkward right-handed Superman punch.

Electricity shot the length of his wounded leg, suggesting that he didn’t have many flashy moves left.

For the second time, his intended strike caught only air.

Lebedev slipped right, flowing beneath Rapp’s outstretched fist.

Which lined him up perfectly for Rapp’s left hand.

His dominant left hand.

Rapp fired a fist into the man’s chest aiming for just below his left nipple.

He had to take the knife out of play. A strike to the Russian’s bicep was the textbook way to cause Lebedev’s fingers to involuntarily open, but the bicep was a small and moving target.

If he missed, the Russian’s blade would find his ribs or throat.

A blow to the torso could have the same effect, if delivered with enough force.

Or as Hurley liked to say, if you can’t strike accurate, as least strike hard.

Rapp swung with everything he had, and the jarring impact ran the length of his arm.

The Russian grunted, but he didn’t drop the knife.

Instead Lebedev thrust the glittering point at Rapp’s unprotected right side.

Rapp twisted, groping for the assassin’s knife arm.

A line of fire opened across his flank at the same moment his fingers closed on the Russian’s wrist. Ignoring his new wound, he ripped the Russian’s arm toward him and pummeled Lebedev’s torso with three quick hooks, hunting for the liver.

The Russian’s sleeve tore away and Rapp’s knuckles found ribs, not flesh.

Broken ribs were painful, but not fight-ending.

Desperate to stop the next knife thrust, Rapp crashed the Russian’s shoulder with both hands and drove him toward the elevator wall.

If he could smash the assassin against the wall hard enough, Lebedev might drop the knife.

Rather than fight Rapp’s two hands with his one, the assassin cupped the base of Rapp’s neck and brought his skull down in a vicious headbutt.

Rapp tried to turn his head into the blow, but the assassin’s iron grip held him in place.

A constellation of stars exploded across his field of vision.

He tried to hold on to the knife arm.

Tried.

His hands fell away like limp noodles. Rapp bit down on his tongue as the world faded, and the bright flare of pain brought things back into a hazy focus.

Laughter greeted his return to semiconsciousness.

Deep, rolling laughter.

“Not bad. Not bad at all. But nowhere near good enough.”

Thick fingers gripped his hair and yanked his head back, exposing his neck. The knife descended toward his throat in a mesmerizing blur. Rapp tracked the blade’s glittering serrated edge, wondering how much this would hurt. Then he snapped his head downward.

The ties binding the wig to his hair tore free.

Lebedev was left holding a bundle of stringy black curls.

Rapp’s fingers were wrapped around something else.

The Russian’s testicles.

With a ripping twist, Rapp tried to separate flesh from bone.

The assassin’s face contorted as something between a screech and a wail emanated from his lips.

Rapp yanked downward on the man’s distended ball sack like he was pulling a lawn mower’s starter cord.

Then he fired a vicious hook into Lebedev’s throat.

The assassin’s head whiplashed to the right and his mouth opened into a silent O.

Rapp slipped a hand up the man’s body, grabbed a handful of hair, and jerked down while scything his elbow up.

The first blow ruptured the assassin’s nose.

The second cratered his temple.

Lebedev went limp.

Releasing the body, Rapp took a deep, shuddering breath.

Then another.

By the third, the world had regained its focus.

Grabbing the assassin by the shoulders, Rapp dragged him to the still-open elevator doors and draped him across the threshold.

The compartment beyond looked as advertised—small, dark, and dingy.

Perhaps half again as big as the elevator itself.

Rapp patted down the assassin and removed the Makarov pistol holstered at Lebedev’s waist as well as a cylindrical suppressor that he screwed onto the muzzle.

He looked at the body, considering. He’d never fired the weapon and didn’t know how much the suppressor would attenuate the pistol’s report, but he was probably safe.

Probably wasn’t good enough.

Rapp placed the pistol on the ground, picked up Lebedev’s knife, and slit the Russian’s throat.

Then he rolled the assassin into the compartment.

After wiping his fingerprints and blood from the knife on the Russian’s pant leg, he tossed the blade after the man.

Then he used his knuckle to push the button that had opened the compartment what seemed like a lifetime ago.

The doors slid shut with a tired sigh.

After a prolonged shudder, the elevator began tracking upward.

Rapp removed his coat, draped it over the pistol, and retrieved the bundle from the floor. One of the men who’d killed Greta’s grandparents was dead.

The other awaited.