While he was a little irritated that he’d missed one of men who’d perpetrated the vicious assault against Irene, Rapp was pleased with the Iranian’s comparison. Over his long and storied career, Rapp had been called many things, but this was the first time he’d been likened to a viper.
On the negative side of the equation, the Iranian sounded convincing.
Very convincing.
Ignoring the Iranian, Rapp walked to the edge of the depression. Then he pulled down his trousers and began to piss. Hours of accumulated urine sprayed into the depression. Rapp hadn’t had to pee this bad in… well… ever. He aimed most of his stream toward the rock chimney.
Most, but not all.
Offering a silent prayer for forgiveness, Rapp pissed across the soldier’s shackled form.
The Ranger reacted predictably.
“Come down here and try that,” Saxton bellowed. “I’ll rip your pecker off and shove it down your throat.”
Rapp had always liked Army Rangers.
While the soldiers didn’t have the suave, surfer-boy reputation of their naval commando brethren, Rangers were the brawlers of the special operations community. If you needed a bunch of human wrecking balls to breach an enemy compound and punch the ticket of every Taliban shitbag inside, Army Rangers were the men for the job.
Rapp gave his pecker a final shake and then turned back to his astonished audience. “I’m here to rescue him?” Rapp said with a laugh. “I don’t think so.” Rapp locked gazes with CYCLONE. “You brought me here, not the other way around. I am interested in this American. Several of the jihadi groups we service would pay handsomely for the opportunity to execute him, but smuggling the soldier to Iraq won’t be easy. I’m willing to pay two million. Not a penny more. Doesn’t matter to me if you take it or leave it, but if that kalb doesn’t lower his pistol by the time I count to five, I’m going to feed it to him.”
Rapp stepped closer to the Iranian, positioning himself just behind and to the right of Fence Post. The bodyguard registered Rapp’s presence with a slight shift of his head, but the rifleman’s attention remained focused on the room’s primary threat.
As did his AK-47.
“My Iraqi friend is correct,” CYCLONE said to the Iranian. “Lower your pistol and—”
“One hundred million,” the Iranian said. “I will pay you one hundred million US dollars.”
“For the American?” CYCLONE said.
“For both Americans,” the Iranian said. “Fifty million for the one in the pit and fifty more for the one standing behind you.”
CYCLONE didn’t answer.
He didn’t have to.
Rapp felt the room’s energy shift.
The thing about criminals is they’re criminals.
CHAPTER 30
JALALABAD, AFGHANISTAN
“HOW did you say you knew this asset again?”
“I didn’t,” Scott Coleman said, staring at the UAV feed.
“Come on, Scott. Frogman to frogman—what are we looking at here?”
Coleman sighed, trying to settle on an answer. Fortunately, this was an area in which he had considerable expertise. Hang around with Mitch Rapp long enough and you were sure to find yourself in an uncomfortable situation.
Or two.
This part of the conversation was nothing new, but Coleman’s tap dancing act usually didn’t involve misleading a fellow SEAL.
Especially one of Justin Garza’s caliber.
Beneath his laid-back Texas vibe, Justin was a SEAL’s SEAL. Though he and Coleman had served together early in Justin’s career, the assaulter had spent the last decade as a SEAL Team 6 operator. While this achievement was more than enough to set Justin apart from the herd, the unassuming man with the soft Texas accent was also the Naval Special Warfare Command’s subject matter expert on combatives. In nonmilitaryspeak, Justin was responsible for developing the hand-to-hand combat curriculum taught to every Navy SEAL. In furtherance of this goal, Justin had traveled the world to immerse himself in martial arts styles as varied as Israeli Krav Maga, Okinawan Kenpo, and Filipino Kali.
Justin was the real deal.
He was also the SEAL Team 6 liaison officer to the CIA in Afghanistan. Since there were currently no SEAL Team 6 operators in-country, Justin’s current role centered more on providing a commando’s viewpoint on all Agency and JSOC operations.
Technically, Justin was not read into Mitch’s operation.
Technically.
But in Scott’s experience, it was always better to have another frogman at your back.
Coleman took a quick look around the room before responding. The Agency’s B-hut had become much busier since he’d first arrived in country. The chief of base, Steve, was sequestered in his office, probably updating the chief of station in Kabul on the operation’s progress for the fiftieth time. The Ranger company commander, Mark Garner, was standing in front of a flat-screen TV with one of his lieutenants. The pair were studying a computer-rendered topographical map of the Spin Ghar mountains, no doubt plotting likely enemy locations. The sound of radios breaking squelch competed with murmured conversations from the bullpen as the agency analysts and case officers coordinated in real time with the pilot, sensor operator, and mission intelligence coordinator who were directing the orbiting UAV from half a world away.
The B-hut was a controlled-access building on a controlled-access compound. Coleman couldn’t think of too many areas more secure than this one. Even so, he was reluctant to reveal too much about the operation. When he’d been in Justin’s shoes, he’d hated the need-to-know bullshit. Now that he was on the other side of the table, the security didn’t seem quite so unreasonable.
Especially considering what Rapp was attempting. Mitch was known for pushing the envelope, but this was some crazy shit even by his standards.
“Here’s the deal,” Coleman said, catching his voice low enough that the other SEAL had to lean closer. “That’s not an Afghan asset. He’s American.”
