Lethal Agent (Mitch Rapp #18)(86)

Esparza climbed inside the vehicle, retrieving the key from a hidden compartment beneath the dashboard. The garage door was closed and it would take too much time to raise. While he was confident in the Humvee’s armor, it made no sense to gamble his life on it. Better to just ram the door, spin the wheel, and present Rapp with nothing but a set of receding taillights. He twisted the key in the ignition and hovered his foot over the accelerator.

Nothing.

A second twist produced a similar result and he suddenly realized that the interior lights hadn’t come on when he’d opened the door. He toggled the switch that controlled them to no avail.

His emotional state swung violently back to terror when he popped the hood and went around to look at the engine. The workings of car engines were a complete mystery to him, but the problem was still immediately evident. The battery was missing.

Esparza sank down behind the driver’s-side tire, losing control of his breathing again. It was Rapp. The CIA man was toying with him, trying to make him panic. Trying to make him do something to reveal where he was in the sprawling compound.

Esparza left through the same door he’d entered, holding the gun shaking in his hands. He thought he saw movement in the wavering firelight but managed to keep from squeezing the trigger. Stealth was his only hope now. The slightest sound could lead to his death.

He crept into the jungle, moving through the wet leaves in search of the service vehicles parked seventy-five meters to the east. The darkness deepened and his eyes hunted for human shapes in the trees. Every few seconds he was forced to freeze when his mind tricked him: Rapp coming up from behind. Rapp in a tree waiting to drop. Rapp’s mud-streaked hand snaking out from beneath a bush.

He made it to the access road and stayed near its edge, watching silently for movement. All but one of the vehicles—an open Jeep—was gone. Fucking cowards. The surviving guards had taken them and fled.

He remained perfectly still, scrutinizing the vehicle. Normally the keys were left in it, but were they there now? Rapp had no reason to have ever come back there. Would he even be aware that this vehicle storage area existed? No, Esparza tried to convince himself. The CIA man would focus on the compound and the more obvious escape routes.

He tried to stay put but with every passing second he became more impatient. The Jeep was right there. Only a few meters away. He’d drive it up the poorly maintained but passable dirt road that would eventually lead him to civilization. There he could gather his forces and plan his next move.

Finally, he jogged silently across the road and leapt into the lone vehicle. When he reached for the ignition, instead of finding the key he was hoping for, he felt something smooth and wet. Leaning forward, he was able to make out its vague outline. A severed hand still clinging to the key.

Esparza’s ability to think abandoned him and he jumped from the Jeep, running up the road away from the compound. After less than twenty-five meters, a searing pain flared in his right leg and he collapsed in a shallow puddle. His mind was struggling to comprehend what had happened and he ran a hand down his leg, stopping at the shattered kneecap.

He screamed and tried to stand, but just went down in the puddle again. A moment later, something got hold of his ankle and began dragging him into the trees.





CHAPTER 44


NORTH OF HARGEISA

SOMALIA

“WE’RE safe.”

The words coming over Sayid Halabi’s headset were badly distorted but still intelligible. He let out a long, relieved breath, leaning back against the cavern wall and staring blankly into the semidarkness.

He had more than a hundred people throughout the world monitoring the news twenty-four hours a day. Thank Allah they’d discovered the mention of the anthrax interception within minutes of its first posting and he’d been able to get through to Muhammad Attia.

“Esparza’s guards didn’t try to stop you?”

“We were scheduled to leave around sunrise. The fact that we left early didn’t seem to concern them.”

“Where are you now?”

“We’re in the van on the 307 west of Juncaná. Our GPS says we’re approximately nine hours from the warehouse where we’re to pick up the truck. What are your orders?”

The plan was for them to drive to Córdoba, where they’d transfer to a semitruck with a hidden compartment designed to smuggle them over the border. The question was how much had their situation changed? Was it necessary to radically alter his plans in light of this leak from the U.S. government? He could have Attia drop off individuals in various towns on the route north, but what would that accomplish? They didn’t speak Spanish, they had no safe haven in or paperwork for Mexico, and they had only ten thousand dollars in cash among them. The disease would spread, but slowly and through a sparsely populated region thousands of kilometers from America’s southern border. The world would recognize what was happening and would have time to stop it like they had SARS in Asia.

“What is the condition of your people?”

“Two are showing minor symptoms. One is fairly sick, but still able to function.”

“Do you foresee a problem getting to the truck?”

“No. We have good roads and dry weather. Traffic is virtually nonexistent this time of the morning and we’ve seen no police. My only concern is that Esparza might have contacted his people. That his cartel might be working against us now.”