Lethal Agent (Mitch Rapp #18)(41)

“Did you forget the cheesecake?”

“Of course not. It’s on the lower shelf. Best in the city. Did you want this on Mr. Coleman’s account or on the room?”

“Definitely the room,” Rapp said, reaching for his silverware.

“Anything else I can do?”

“Put a thirty percent tip on there for yourself.”

“Thank you very much, sir.”

Rapp expected him to disappear down the hallway like Coleman had a few hours ago, but instead he just stood there.

“Problem?”

“What are they like?”

Rapp shrugged and cut into the steak.

“Didier’s music makes my ears bleed, but Katy . . .” His voice faded for a moment. “That woman is smoking hot. Wouldn’t it be nice to be in there with her instead of out here?”

Rapp shoved the bite of steak into his mouth and grunted noncommittally. In truth, he had no idea what either one of them looked like. Though it probably wouldn’t be a bad idea to check Google since he was supposed to be protecting them.

The man stared at the doors longingly for another couple of seconds and then started back for the elevator.

Rapp watched him go and then returned his attention to his filet. It was good, but not good enough to distract him from the fact that his life suddenly felt foreign to him. Normally, he savored boredom. It generally went hand in hand with his time between operations, and it gave him a chance to sleep, heal, and plan the next mission. This was different. He wasn’t tired, he didn’t have any injuries, and there was no next mission.

A stream of screamed curse words managed to filter through the door, breaking the hours of silence. He ignored them, taking a thoughtful sip of his Coke.

The fight against Islamic terrorists had been, in many ways, easy. The enemy was a bunch of religious fanatics perpetrating unprovoked attacks on civilians with no real purpose other than to create suffering. There were white hats and there were black hats. And while the tunnel was long, it was also straight. When you killed all the people in the black hats, the job was done.

The muffled crash of shattering glass became audible as he popped another piece of steak in his mouth.

Now the operating environment was changing. More and more, threats seemed to come from within. He’d been dealing with corrupt politicians his entire life, but there had always been the cover of a few good ones. Now they were running for the exits. In a few months, Christine Barnett could be the president of the United States. Kennedy would be out, as would pretty much every other person he respected in Washington.

What then? Comfortable chairs in hotel hallways?

The crash that came next was a hell of a lot louder—like a piece of furniture being thrown through a plate glass window. Had to be something else, though. Architects had gotten wise to celebrities throwing things through penthouse windows and had made them shatterproof.

Rapp leaned back in his chair, chewing thoughtfully.

Where did he fit into a world where the definition of “enemy” was becoming a constantly shifting matter of perspective? Where people were judged by their words and not their actions? Maybe nowhere. Maybe it was time to hand things over to the younger generation.

The next time the woman screamed, it wasn’t to swear. Her voice was filled with fear and pain, and was partially drowned out by an enraged male voice making incoherent accusations. Rapp frowned as he sliced off another piece of steak. It was a perfect example of everything he’d been thinking about. He was happy to risk his ass saving people from ISIS or the Russians or al Qaeda. But when had he signed on to stop people from inflicting wounds on themselves?

Finally, the sobbing started. Terrified and barely audible through the door, it sounded so pathetic, Rapp figured it’d calm things down. Instead, it had the opposite effect.

Listening to that asshole tear around the room made Rapp think about other people he’d tried to protect over the years. And about how many were dead now. The innocent women and children guilty of nothing but being born in the wrong part of the world. The men who just wanted to make a life for themselves and their families but who found themselves conscripted into terrorist groups. The soldiers who did everything they could with the shit sandwich they’d been handed.

And now here he was sitting in some swanky hotel listening to two pampered screwups try to kill each other. They might as well have been spitting on those people’s graves.

When something hit the door hard enough to knock off part of the molding, Rapp finally stood. His preference would have been to let them finish each other off, but one of them ending up dead wasn’t going to reflect particularly well on Coleman’s organization. He owed the man too much to let his company’s name get splashed across every newspaper in the world.

Rapp tapped his key card against the lock and pushed reluctantly through the door. The scene inside was pretty much what he’d expected. Martin was in the middle of the room in his boxer shorts, high as a kite and slurring some nonsense that Rapp didn’t bother to listen to. His pale skin was covered in tattoos and a baseball hat turned sideways completed the impression of a suburban kid playing gangster.

At his feet was a skinny young girl wearing nothing but panties and a cut-off T-shirt. She was beautiful in that over-the-top reality star kind of way, but the blood flowing from her nose and the heavily dilated pupils didn’t enhance the package. When her gaze shifted to Rapp, Martin spun.