“Shut the door, Noreen,” the man said. “You’re letting in mosquitoes.”
The man’s American-accented English was sharply at odds with his appearance. Though he wasn’t Pakistani, he could have passed for half a dozen nationalities, none of which would garner attention in Abbottabad. His olive skin, dark hair, and full beard screamed Arab, but Noreen wasn’t sure.
For one, his English was too good.
As someone who spoke three languages, Noreen knew how hard it was to master a particular region’s syntax and accent. Then there was his appearance. The attributes that would pass over the head of a casual observer stood out like red flags to Noreen. His shirt disguised his build, but judging by the man’s rippling forearms, the fabric probably covered a chiseled physique. His sun-darkened face spoke of a life spent outdoors, but his skin didn’t have the premature aging of someone who had regularly weathered the elements.
His eyes were the deciding factor.
Hard pieces of obsidian that reflected the single light illuminated above the stove.
With exaggeration motions, Noreen took another step into the apartment and closed the door behind her. If the man was part of a team, she had just limited their ability to influence what happened next. If he was a lone operative, she would rather have him in front of her than at her back.
“Don’t hurt me,” Noreen said, stammering over her words. “I’m just a—”
Noreen tossed her backpack at the man.
Most people believed they could multitask. This wasn’t true. A human was capable of switching their attention from one subject to another at impressively quick rates, but the mind could only concentrate on one thing at a time. Between her words and the visual and audio stimulation provided by the backpack as it crashed to the wooden floor, she was hoping that her visitor would focus on something besides her. The distraction need only be good for an instant.
With silky motions sharply at odds with her earlier performance, she palmed the space beneath the coffee table and ripped away the baby Glock secured beneath. The sound of Velcro tearing filled the air, but Noreen didn’t care. She had a pistol in her hands and its stubby front sight post was bisecting the man’s forehead.
Things were looking up.
“Not bad,” the man said. “Now put the pistol down so we can talk.”
“Who are you?” Noreen said.
Her heart was hammering, but her voice was level. Better still, the front sight post never wavered. Maybe she’d been too hard on herself earlier.
“It’s not loaded.”
Noreen knew she’d chambered a round in the Glock before securing the pistol to the Velcro. She also knew that the tell outside her apartment’s only entrance was still intact. The dwelling should be empty.
It was not.
Without taking her eyes from the man, she racked the Glock’s slide with the smooth, economical movements her Ground Branch instructor had drilled into her head on the Farm’s pistol range. The muzzle was back on target in a microsecond. If the man had been lying and there had been a round in the chamber, it would have sailed across the room, but there were still plenty more in the magazine. If he wasn’t lying, Noreen had just remedied her problem.
Simple.
Or not.
Instead of shuttling a fresh 9mm round into the Glock’s chamber, the slide locked to the rear. Not only was the bullet she’d loaded no longer present, the magazine was empty. Without breaking eye contact, the seated man opened his left hand. A deluge of bullets cascaded onto the table in a silver waterfall.
Shit.
“Put the pistol down,” the man said. “We’ve got work to do.”
Noreen slowly lowered the pistol.
“Who are you?”
“Mitch Rapp.”
Shit.
CHAPTER 59
“YOU did well by the way.”
Noreen eyed Rapp as she chewed, trying to decide if he was patronizing her.
“I’m serious,” Rapp said, taking an orange from the bowl on the table and peeling it. “Operatives way more senior than you would have lost their head. You kept your cool.”
“Do you get off on scaring the shit out of people?” Noreen said.
Rapp stopped with an orange slice midway to his mouth. “Do you know who I am?”
Noreen nodded.
She did know who Rapp was.
Everyone at the Agency knew who Rapp was.
Perhaps not by sight, but anyone who worked as a case officer had heard rumors about the Agency’s top counterterrorism operative even if they took the form of whispers exchanged at the water cooler. While Mitch Rapp certainly wasn’t a feature at Langley like many of the other career-focused bureaucrats, he’d pulled off some of the most storied operations in the CIA’s recent history. She knew who Rapp was and now Noreen was pissed that her introduction to the living legend had begun with her pointing a gun at him.
An unloaded gun.
“Then you should know better than to ask such a stupid question,” Rapp said. “Why do you think I did what I did?”
