Sunrise Café was situated in a cluster of shops that were separated from a collection of residences by School Road. Though the grassy median bisecting the thoroughfare often served as a gathering place for groups of men, the patch was empty tonight. Perhaps because the pedestrians were all on the western side with Rapp, patronizing the restaurants, clothing vendors, and rug stores surrounding the café.
Rapp meandered through several alleys that cut deeper into the urban area heading generally west as two urges battled for primacy. Like a homing pigeon, he could feel FAIRBANKS lurking just out of reach. As expected, the sight of armed men in his favorite café had scared off the businessman, but Rapp still had a reasonably good idea where the terror financier was heading.
After his nightcap, FAIRBANKS habitually closed out the evening at his favorite hookah lounge five blocks away. FAIRBANKS was an enemy combatant, but his weapons were spreadsheets and bank transfers rather than guns or knives. The financier was not an intelligence operative, so his reaction to the commotion at Sunrise Café would be very different than Rapp’s. Odds were that he would seek comfort in his routine rather than alter it. Rapp had missed his first opportunity to bring the man to justice, though the secondary option was still there for the taking.
But for the bit of news Ruyintan had just delivered.
At this moment, American special operations forces were flying into an ambush.
If the Iranian was telling the truth.
Rapp could think of many reasons why this might not be the case, chief of them being that this entire overture was nothing but a dangle. The Quds Force officer had been adept enough to suss out Rapp’s Saeed persona and track him to a random café in Islamabad. Who was to say that the intelligence operative’s penetration hadn’t gone a step further? Perhaps the entire point of the meeting was to attempt to determine whether the former Iraqi army officer who was posing as a Frenchman was actually an American CIA operative?
Too many questions and not enough time to answer them.
Rapp angled left, away from the jostling pedestrians, toward a trash-strewn opening between two adjacent buildings. The pockmarked concrete was less alley than a gap in construction between a chocolate store to the left and a bookstore to the right. A dumping ground for refuse and a repository for stagnant rainwater. Rapp reached into his pocket, withdrew his mobile, touched a series of keystrokes to sanitize the call log and contact list, and then tossed the device into the garbage pile overflowing the mouth of the alley.
Cell phone theft was a cottage industry in Islamabad, and he was confident that the mobile wouldn’t lie unattended for long. He hadn’t detected any overt surveillance, but his meeting with Ruyintan hadn’t been a random encounter. Mitch Rapp might still be clean, but Farid Saeed assuredly was not. Until he determined how and why he’d been compromised, tradecraft dictated that his cell needed to go. This made warning the appropriate person about the coming ambush more difficult.
Fortunately, Rapp had a plan.
As did the pair of thugs waiting at the far end of the alley.
CHAPTER 7
THE pair of men did not seem surprised to see Rapp any more than a moray eel lurking in a cave is surprised to see a fat fish swim by. In a series of moves much too choreographed to be spontaneous, the duo edged out of the darkness and flanked Rapp. And just in case their intentions weren’t clear, the man to Rapp’s left deployed a folding knife with a smooth whisk while his partner produced a snub-nosed revolver from the back of his pants. The gunman spoke something unintelligible, and while Rapp’s Urdu wasn’t anywhere near as good as his Arabic, the command wasn’t difficult to intuit.
Give me your money.
For a moment, Rapp considered doing just that.
The men weren’t jittery from drugs and didn’t seem nervous, suggesting that this was not a crime of opportunity. The alley was a shortcut for a confluence of shops, a hookah bar, and at least one house of ill repute.
The pair weren’t here by happenstance.
The thugs were probably under the protection of the Sakhakot gang or one of the other numerous organized crime entities. Entities that had undoubtedly reached an understanding with the ISI, the Islamabad Police, or both. They were professionals who understood the rules of the road. The occasional beating might be overlooked, but outright murder would be frowned upon. If Rapp handed over the contents of his pockets, he would probably be allowed to pass.
Probably.
But Rapp was in a hurry.
A man needed killing and a piece of intelligence that might save American lives had to reach the right pair of ears. Rapp didn’t have time for bullshit and was in no mood to play the role of meek victim.
The two would-be muggers had just rolled snake eyes.
Now it was time to see if they intended to walk away from the table or double down.
“Move.”
Rapp gave the command in Arabic and then added his best Urdu translation for good measure. His choice in languages communicated a subtle but unmistakable message—the robbers had miscalculated. The man standing before them spoke Arabic with an Iraqi accent. He was not a tourist or some other easy mark. The thugs had set a trap for a mouse and mistakenly snared a lion. The prudent course of action would be to acknowledge their mistake and move on.
The men were not prudent.
The gunman extended the pistol one-handed and thumbed back the hammer with an ominous click. The knifeman turned his wrist, aiming the blade at Rapp’s midsection while stepping closer. His placement was perfect. Near enough to lunge but positioned so as not to foul his partner’s gunline.
The textbook way to maximize a two-on-one advantage.
Textbook when not facing someone named Rapp.
A competent knife fighter in close was usually more dangerous than a gunman, but in this instance, Rapp’s calculus said differently. The gunman’s pistol was a double-action revolver, and the hammer was cocked. A minuscule amount of pressure applied to the trigger would send a bullet tearing through Rapp’s midsection.
This wouldn’t do.
“Okay,” Rapp said in Arabic, “okay.”
Rapp reached into his pocket, snared his billfold, and offered it to the knifeman with his right hand.
Rapp was not right-handed.
The knifeman stepped closer, extending his hand to accept the wallet. An instant before their fingers touched, Rapp dropped the billfold and lunged. Snaring the knifeman’s wrist, Rapp ripped the thug toward him. The unorthodox move accomplished three things: One, the knifeman stumbled forward, obscuring his partner’s gunline. Two, the right side of the thug’s body now shielded Rapp from the knife in his left hand. Three, the knifeman’s elbow joint locked.
The joint did not remain locked.
Rapp brought his dominant left forearm down in a murderous strike, hammering the extended elbow.
The joint ruptured with a wet-sounding pop.
The knifeman didn’t scream as much as shriek. A high keening sound more reminiscent of beast than man. Releasing the shattered elbow, Mitch fired a short, brutal punch toward the knifeman’s throat. He missed the thug’s Adam’s apple but still connected with his neck. Rapp torqued his hips into the blow, sinking his front two knuckles deep into the man’s flesh.
