Lethal Agent (Mitch Rapp #18)(26)

“You all are going up the ridge to the north.”

“What do you mean ‘you all’?” Coleman replied. “What are you doing?”

“I’ll head down the slope to the south. They don’t care about you. Their orders are to capture me or die trying.”

“Screw that,” Coleman said, and his men mumbled their agreement with the sentiment. “We’re not leaving you to roll down a canyon with a hundred guys coming in on you.”

“You have your orders.”

“Kiss my ass, Mitch. You don’t give orders anymore. The Agency pays me and you don’t even work there. As far as I can tell, you’re just an unemployed tourist.”

“Then let me put it this way,” Rapp said, starting to gather his gear. “I’m going south and I’m shooting anyone I see behind me. If it’s one of you guys, I probably won’t go for center of mass. But I’m gonna make it hurt.”





CHAPTER 11


WESTERN YEMEN

VICTORIA Schaefer leaned out the window and once again squinted into the sunlight. Nothing had changed. It probably hadn’t for hundreds of years. Three-and four-story buildings rose across from her, separated by narrow dirt and cobble paths. Beyond, she could see the land drop off steeply and the terraced mountains beyond. The splashes of vibrant green created a stark—and strangely beautiful—contrast with the reddish brown that had made up her universe since arriving in Yemen.

For what must have been the thousandth time, she studied the sheer drop from the tower they were locked in and for the thousandth time calculated it at just over fifty feet. The nearest building was only about ten feet away, but instead of the empty arched window frames that dominated the village’s architecture, it presented a blank wall. Signs of humanity were fleeting, and over the past few days she’d become convinced that all were men loyal to Sayid Halabi. What had happened to the original inhabitants, she could only imagine.

Schaefer turned and focused her attention on the room that they were imprisoned in. The entire space was no more than fifteen feet square, with rock walls and two heavy wooden doors. One led to the stairway they’d been brought up and the other was a mystery. The ceiling was supported by beams that had been darkened by what she suspected was centuries of cooking fires. Good for hanging yourself from if it became necessary. And it appeared that it might.

Since their star turn in Halabi’s video three days ago, they’d had no contact with anyone. A water jug, now almost empty, had been provided but no food. The bucket they used for a toilet was in the far corner and was in danger of overflowing. She wanted to dump it on an unsuspecting scumbag who wandered beneath their window, but Otto kept stopping her. Always the voice of reason.

The worst, though, were the nights. The cold wind flowed freely through the windows, and the uninsulated stone turned the room into a meat locker. They slept—probably only a few minutes a night—huddled together in a corner. Gabriel Bertrand had finally gotten his chance to grind up against her but didn’t seem to be enjoying it as much as he’d expected.

She turned her attention to the Frenchman, who was sitting with his back against a wall and knees pulled to his chest. She’d been doing her best to ignore him, and he took her flicker of interest as an invitation to speak.

“They’re going to just leave us here to starve.”

He was already cracking. Hunger, lack of sleep, and uncertainty were potent weapons against anyone. But they were particularly potent against a man who had led a charmed life since the day he was born. The only son of a wealthy Parisian family, he’d been gifted with an exceptional mind and spent his entire adult life coddled by top universities. His research in Yemen had been the hardest thing he’d ever done, and he wouldn’t have lasted an hour if he hadn’t been certain it was his path to blazing academic glory.

Otto Vogel, on the other hand, was an almost perfect counterpoint to the French scientist. He was sprawled on the floor, deftly spinning a twig on the tip of his index finger. As always, his armor seemed impenetrable.

“Anthrax isn’t that dangerous,” Bertrand continued as she turned back to the window. “And they filmed us. Why? So they can put the videos out on the Internet to scare people. But that will backfire, yes? People will be frightened, but they’ll also be wary. If they have symptoms, if they come into contact with some unknown substance, they’ll go to the doctor and get antibiotics. And the governments of the world can’t allow the manufacture of weaponized anthrax. They have to come. They have to rescue us.”

The suggestion that they should build a bioweapon to bring about their rescue prompted Victoria to look at him over her shoulder. He averted his eyes.

“I didn’t mean it like that.”

Vogel stopped spinning the piece of wood, a rare glimmer of anger crossing his face. He’d had enough of the Frenchman within an hour of their first meeting and now he was reaching his limit.

“The Americans were motivated to find Osama bin Laden, too. How long did that take? And even if they are able find us, what is it you think they’re going to do? Send soldiers to assault this mountain in order to save us? Risk their men’s lives and maybe give Halabi a chance to escape to save three people?”

“What are you saying?”

“I’m saying that they’ll blow the entire top of this mountain off. You’ll hear a slight whistle and then you’ll explode into—”