Rapp headed for the safehouse door.
“Where are you going?” Connor Sullivan asked.
“To pay CRANKSHAFT a visit.”
CHAPTER 65
IN an enormous display of willpower, Noreen didn’t look toward the heavy footfalls echoing from the eastern door. Instead, she reached into her knapsack for the cooler containing the vaccine vials.
That was a mistake.
One moment she was head down, rummaging in her backpack.
The next, she was on her back, looking at the sky.
The newcomer, GORDO, had bowled her over with the casual disregard one might show a bug. Noreen had reflexively cradled the serum container to her chest, which meant she had no way to shield herself from the man’s sandaled foot. Turning, she curled into a fetal position, hoping to absorb the blow with her back muscles.
It never came.
Instead, she was treated to the sound of the two men screaming in Arabic. FLACO had interposed himself between her and GORDO, but the second courier had his hands balled into fists.
Fists he looked ready to use on Noreen.
“Are you crazy?” Noreen said.
The emotion in her voice was genuine, as were her tears.
GORDO stopped his Arabic tirade and turned to consider her with hate-filled eyes.
Then, he lunged past FLACO.
CHAPTER 66
RAPP ducked out of the safehouse and ran for the collection of dusty vehicles parked in the walled courtyard. Ignoring the sedan, SUV, and single truck, Rapp approached a dirty van. The words Hazara Electric Supply Company were stenciled on the side panel in bright red Urdu script. Rapp felt beneath the rear bumper and retrieved a key secured in a magnetic holder. He unlocked and opened the driver’s-side door and slid into the worn seat.
After inserting the key, Rapp turned the ignition.
CIA officers were great at collecting intelligence but sometimes faltered at the less glamorous chores associated with their chosen profession. Chores like ensuring that the fleet of vehicles assigned to the safehouse remained in good working order.
The engine coughed and sputtered.
Rapp snarled as he envisioned murdering a fellow Agency employee.
Then the motor caught.
Slamming the transmission into drive, Rapp spun the wheel and stomped on the gas. The V-8 responded as if seeking to atone for its earlier reluctance. Rapp angled the van toward the vehicular gate, paused as the pressure sensor actioned the opening mechanism, and then floored the accelerator before the gate was all the way open. For a moment, he thought his impatience might have gotten the best of him as he jiggered the wheel to avoid dinging the concrete barrier.
Then he was through.
Rapp drove with one hand and snagged the shirt resting in the passenger seat with the other. While he’d intended to monitor the operation from the safehouse, Rapp had also anticipated the need to get a bit closer to the action. Hence the shirt. Switching his grip, he slipped his arms through the sleeves and began buttoning up the front. After fastening the top three buttons, Rapp unmuted his phone.
“This is Ironman,” Rapp said. “Give me a SITREP.”
“Roger that, Ironman,” Sullivan said. “Beighley is in place on the roof, but he has no line of sight into the compound. Our audio tech is working the three mikes, but as best as we can figure someone is dragging Noreen toward the segment of the compound that houses the living quarters. Do you want us to launch a mini-drone?”
“No,” Rapp said, spinning the wheel with his right hand as he finished buttoning the shirt with his left. “We can’t risk spooking the bad guys. Stick with the satellite feed.”
“Okay, but we’re gonna lose it in just under two minutes.”
Rapp resisted the urge to point out that if the situation continued to deteriorate, Noreen would probably be dead much sooner than that. Sullivan was just doing his job.
Now Rapp intended to do his.
“Is Noreen still in the courtyard,” Rapp said.
“Affirmative,” Sullivan said. “They’re dragging her toward the eastern door, but she’s struggling.”
Good girl.
“Okay,” Rapp said, a plan coming together in his mind. “Can Beighley hear me on this channel?”
“That’s a negative, but we can relay.”
“Won’t work,” Rapp said. “This needs to be synchronized. Either find a way to get him on this frequency or head upstairs and sit with him. I’m talking close enough to squeeze his shoulder. Beighley needs to send a round downrange the instant I give the word.”
“Stand by.”
Sullivan was redeeming himself.
