The keening turned to wheezing.
The knifeman’s blade clattered off the concrete as he instinctively reached for his throat.
Sometimes a person’s instincts saved their life.
Not today.
Using the wobbling man’s body for cover, Rapp crouched, scooped up the knife, and flung the blade at the gunman. The weapon smashed against the gunman’s chest hilt-first. He flinched and the pistol barked, sending a bullet sparking off concrete. Rapp followed the blade’s flight path. He stepped past the still-choking knifeman and caught the second thug’s arm as the gunman tried to bring the revolver onto target. Rapp fired a hook into the man’s liver.
He folded in half.
Stripping the pistol from his grasp, Rapp thrust it beneath his jaw and pulled the trigger. A red mist exploded from the back of the man’s head. Ignoring the crumpling body, Rapp shifted to the knifeman, catching the man by the back of his shirt as he tried to stumble toward the alley’s mouth. In a single, smooth motion, Rapp shoved the revolver into the base of the knifeman’s skull and fired.
The thug collapsed.
Rapp paused, taking in his surroundings like a wolf sniffing the wind.
The altercation had been louder than he would have liked, but the revolver’s small caliber combined with Rapp’s use of contact shots had done much to mask the gun’s report.
More importantly, his assailants were dead and he was not.
By Stan Hurley’s standards, this constituted success.
Shoving the pistol into the back of his pants, Rapp searched the dead men with quick, efficient motions. He found what he was looking for in the knifeman’s front pocket. Extracting a mobile phone, Rapp dialed and held the cell to his ear.
A familiar voice answered on the third ring.
“Hello?”
“It’s me,” Rapp said. “We have a problem.”
CHAPTER 8
“I’M listening,” Irene Kennedy said.
Rapp skirted a puddle as he quickened his stride.
Like a dead carcass drawing flies, murder scenes attract attention. Though Islamabad wasn’t Vienna, the capital of Pakistan still had an image to maintain. A few months ago, a CIA contractor in Lahore, Pakistan, had killed two armed men who had attempted to rob him. The Pakistanis responded by arresting the American and throwing him in jail.
Rapp had no intention of spending a single minute in a Pakistani prison.
He had unfinished business with FAIRBANKS.
“This line is not secure,” Rapp said, “but I’ve got something time-sensitive.”
“Okay.”
After almost two decades together, Rapp’s relationship with his onetime handler was a bit like marriage. The good kind of marriage. Each person knew who their partner was and who they weren’t. Was Irene irritated that Rapp had ditched communications with the Agency team tasked with monitoring the FAIRBANKS hit?
Probably.
Was she surprised?
Probably not.
Rapp’s actions would require an explanation, but that would come later. He was still the guy you called to do impossible tasks, and Irene had learned not to second-guess his tactical decisions. If Rapp rang her on an unsecure line with news of a problem, she listened.
Rapp passed through the alley and paused at the far end. A parking lot beckoned, the spaces filled with dinged-up sedans and questionable-looking motor scooters. While this section of Islamabad featured many of the more well-to-do neighborhoods, no motorist escaped the capital city’s traffic unscathed.
Rapp eyed the collection of cars, checking for a surveillance or interdiction team.
A high-end jewelry store with the requisite surveillance cameras occupied the far side of the parking lot. A pedestrian area flanked by wooden slat benches and a collection of trees waited to his left while a series of trendy shops stretched to his right in strip mall fashion.
Careful to remain in the shadows, Rapp studied the shops.
Most were brightly lit, but the space two down from where he was standing was vacant. Its exposed storefront was open to the elements like a gap in an otherwise full smile. Piles of brick, a rickety ladder, and rusty scaffolding suggested that the space was being renovated.
Perfect.
“Gimme a sec,” Rapp said.
He left the alley and headed right.
After sliding past the darkened windows of a perfume shop, Rapp slunk into the abandoned storefront. He edged past a wheelbarrow, buckets of drywall mud, and piles of trash, seeking the space’s darkest corner. The dim lighting revealed what Rapp had hoped to see—a rear exit. Easing the door open, he peered into another dark alley. Unlike the one from which he’d emerged, this one ran north and south. North meant heading back toward School Road, but south led deeper into the sprawling commercial zone composed of shops, restaurants, and the like.
Perfect.
“Okay,” Rapp said, easing the door shut. “I have reporting that suggests a US operation in the vicinity of the Spin Ghar mountains has been compromised. Specifically, helicopters loaded with American commandos are en route to hit a compound housing a high-value target as we speak. It’s a trap.”
