“The Ranger raid into Pakistan has caused us some headaches, but those are nothing compared to the shit storm that sending SEAL Team 6 to Abbottabad might unleash. We’re not talking about a minor incursion into Pakistan. Our helicopters would have to cross almost the entire country to fly from J-Bad to the targeted compound. This isn’t a simple raid. It’s an invasion.”
“I understand, sir,” Irene said. “That’s why it’s vital that our officer confirms who’s in the compound.”
“You misunderstand me, Irene,” Alexander said. “When it comes to getting proof, I’m in violent agreement with you. You can send your officer, but I want to add someone to the mission.”
At first Irene didn’t understand.
Then, she did.
“Mitch.”
Alexander nodded. “This isn’t a slight against you or your NOC. You know how much faith I put in your word. But if I get this wrong, I could be taking us to the brink of war. I want Rapp in Abbottabad. That’s nonnegotiable.”
Irene sighed. “Then we have a bit of a problem, sir.”
Alexander frowned. “What do you mean?”
Irene pointed to the TV. Alexander’s features narrowed in confusion as he glanced at the video streaming from the still-loitering Reaper.
Then his eyes widened.
“That?” Alexander said, stabbing an index finger toward the display. “That’s Rapp?”
“Who else?” Irene said.
“Anyone else,” Alexander said, his voice thundering. “I thought you were inserting an agent. Some jihadi you’d flipped.”
“Which is exactly what I wanted you and everyone else at the table to think,” Irene said, holding firm against the president’s anger. “No one but Rapp could pull this off. No one.”
“I thought Rapp was chasing down the Iranian link to those killer missiles?”
“He is,” Irene said. “The HIG warlord from the compound the Rangers hit was the second man in the Reaper video. The one Rapp was carrying over his shoulder.”
“Holy hell,” Alexander said. “You want to run that by me again?”
“The raid the Rangers executed against the HIG commander’s compound was ambushed,” Irene said, “and Colonel Dariush Ruyintan, an Iranian Quds Force operative, somehow knew the ambush was going to happen. The HIG warlord, CYCLONE, is the only link between Ruyintan, the missiles used to shoot down our Chinook, and maybe our missing Ranger. Rapp is going to pull on that thread.”
“You said he was going to meet with Ashani in Kabul.”
“He is,” Irene said. “As soon as he finds Sergeant Saxton.”
The words sounded ridiculous as she said them, but Irene was hoping that she was just overreacting.
Judging by the president’s gobsmacked expression, she was not.
“Are you serious?”
“Absolutely,” Irene said. “Rapp isn’t scheduled to meet with Ashani for another six or seven hours. That should be plenty of time.”
Only her years of running agents allowed Irene to make that statement with a straight face. She put all the conviction she could muster into her voice and hoped it would be enough to convince the leader of the free world that neither she nor her top counterterrorism agent was crazy. If the president believed her assurances, maybe she would too.
“I think you’re both out of your minds, but I’m not questioning your judgment,” Alexander said, lifting his hands in surrender. “By the same token, I don’t expect you to question mine. I’m not sending our SEALs into Pakistan without ironclad proof of who is living in that compound, and I’m not sending a CIA NOC to knock on the compound’s front door unless Rapp is there too. Understood?”
“Yes, sir,” Irene said.
With a final nod, Alexander got to his feet.
As the president left the room, Irene found herself wondering how it was that the most powerful nation in the world was yet again placing its fate on the shoulders of just one man.
CHAPTER 27
UNDISCLOSED LOCATION, AFGHANISTAN
“WHO are you truly, Abu al-Iraqi?”
Rapp had been anticipating some version of this question, but hearing it voiced so bluntly was still unsettling. Or maybe the source of his discomfort could be traced to the pair of bodyguards flanking CYCLONE. The gunmen were not the type of high-priced talent a minor Saudi prince would hire or the former Spetsnaz thugs that a Russian oligarch would employ. Their weather-beaten faces could have been crafted from leather, their beards were long and unkempt, and their clothes were worn and bleached by the sun. These were not the sort of men who watched over tech billionaires or babysat heirs to family fortunes.
The gunmen were killers, plain and simple.
And Rapp did not care for the way they were staring at him. The bodyguards looked less like a protective detail evaluating a potential threat and more like feral dogs assessing their chances against a cornered sheep.
Rapp finished chewing his mouthful of Afghan flatbread and sighed. “Who I am is none of your concern. You promised to help me if I freed you. I did. Now I’m beginning to think that you aren’t going to honor your side of the bargain. This makes me upset, which should make you terrified.”
Though he was speaking Arabic, Rapp’s words appeared to register with the mangy dogs.
Or maybe it was his tone.
Either way, both men took a step nearer to CYCLONE.
