But that didn’t mean he had to like it.
Rapp’s shoulders loosened as he crossed the compound’s threshold and then tightened again when he heard the crunch of footfalls. In all the excitement, he’d neglected to confirm that Beighley had hit his target. If the paramilitary officer had missed, or if his hit hadn’t done a convincing job, this cold war would turn hot in a hurry. Rapp quickened his step, hoping to get to the meters before the couriers so that he could assess the situation and spin an alternative plan if necessary.
His hopes were in vain.
Like the sense of potential energy that saturated the air the instant before lightning struck, Rapp could feel the couriers closing on him. Whatever awaited around the side of the compound, they’d see it together. He rounded the corner of the pockmarked wall and gestured to the section of wall on which the meters were affixed. “See?” he said. “Problem with the meter.”
Problem was a bit of an understatement.
While most dwellings had a single meter, the compound had four, but the meter closest to Rapp had been reduced to splinters.
“What happened?” FLACO said.
The courier went to touch the still-intact housing, but Rapp stayed his hand. “Careful. Those plastic shards can be sharp, and the electronics might still be live. I’d hate for you to get shocked.”
FLACO jerked his hand back from the cratered housing, but his partner wasn’t so easily swayed. “What caused this?” GORDO said, using his front knuckle to sift through the shattered pieces.
Rapp thought it would be too suspicious if he tried to stop the second man’s efforts, but he was still worried. The 7.62mm round Beighley had fired would have hit the meter like a runaway freight train. In all likelihood, the bullet had ricocheted off the concrete, but on the off chance he was wrong, Rapp didn’t want the courier discovering a flattened projectile in the back of the meter.
“Probably kids playing football or cricket nearby,” Rapp said, pulling a cell phone from his pocket. “We get this all the time. Let me take a picture for the office.”
At the word picture GORDO jerked back his hand like a scalded cat.
“Wait,” GORDO said, backing up a step.
Rapp nodded distractedly as he fiddled with his phone. The fact that GORDO didn’t want to be in the picture was another data point, but like the rest of the intelligence he’d collected thus far, it was inconclusive. The answers Rapp needed were inside the compound, not out here.
“All right,” Rapp said, “let’s take a look at the junction boxes inside.”
“Why?” GORDO said.
Rapp gestured toward the shattered meter. “I think this was probably the work of children, but I’m not sure. There’s always a chance the meter could have shattered due to an electricity surge. This can happen when the line’s damaged. Kind of like a kink in a garden hose.”
Rapp had no idea if any of this was true, but since it sounded plausible to him, he was hoping it sounded plausible to the couriers.
“How does the line become kinked?” GORDO said.
Another excellent question.
“Sometimes herd animals step on the lines,” Rap said. “A kinked line can short. Depending on the voltage load, the short can cause a fire or even catastrophically fail.”
GORDO paled and Rapp thought he was in. Then FLACO’s satellite phone vibrated. The courier examined the device and then turned to Rapp.
“We’ll call you if there’s a problem with the line,” FLACO said. “There’s no need to go back inside.”
Though everything in his being desperately wanted to get back in the compound, Rapp shrugged and said, “Suit yourself. Here’s my card.” He fished in his shirt pocket, withdrew a business card, and handed it to FLACO. “Call the number on the bottom if you lose service. I’ll get someone out here to fix the meter in a couple of days.”
“Why can’t you fix it now?”
GORDO again.
“I only triage,” Rapp said. “A repair crew follows behind me. If you give me your number, I’ll have them call before they show.”
“That will not be necessary,” GORDO said, his eyes hardening. “We will be here.”
Of that Rapp had no doubt.
CHAPTER 68
JALALABAD, AFGHANISTAN
“HOW are we doing this?”
The question came from Mas. Coleman suppressed a sigh. Most days, the team of operatives Rapp had assembled over the years functioned like a well-oiled machine.
Today was not one of those days.
“Hearing him explain it again won’t make the answer any better.”
This comment came from Will. That the men on Coleman’s team hailed from different services usually wasn’t an issue.
Usually.
“Here’s the deal,” Coleman said, hissing his answer. “The gunships are gonna take out the lead vehicle with their cannon while Charlie hits the driver of the second vehicle and covers our assault across the objective. The second pair of gunships will have the rear vehicle. We grab the Iranians out of car two, bag-and-tag ’em, and secure the missiles. Then the Black Hawks pick us up. Simple.”
“You’re right,” Mas said. “The plan really isn’t any better when you hear it the second time.”
Will chuckled, but the laugh sounded forced. It probably was. Will had been fine with the make shit happen vibe of this mission, but Mas was less enthused, probably because he understood how difficult it would be to get men out of the vehicle alive without dying in the process.
