Lethal Agent (Mitch Rapp #18)(96)

“Roger that,” Coleman said before isolating his radio to start coordinating their effort.

Rapp responded to Claudia’s email and then used his binoculars to scan the road again. Traffic was light—probably an average of two hundred yards between cars. The terrain continued to be rolling, with distant mountains now starting to soften in a dusty haze.

Another minute went by before their pilot’s voice came over Rapp’s headphones. “That’s gotta be him at eleven o’clock.”

He banked the chopper east so that Rapp could get a better look. Blue cab towing a yellow trailer with GRUPO AMISTOSO stenciled on the side. Exactly like the pictures.

Attia was staying just below the speed limit, driving smoothly and trying to keep a decent interval between his truck and the other vehicles moving in his direction. The closest was behind, a dilapidated sedan about three hundred yards back.

Rapp plugged his phone into his headset and dialed Kennedy.

“I understand the truck’s been located,” she said by way of greeting.

“Yeah. Southeast of Monterrey, Mexico, so he’s going for one of the East Texas crossings. We’re two and a half hours from the border by car. That can’t be more than a few minutes out by jet. Get one over here.”

“I’m afraid we’re not going to be able to do that.”

“Bullshit, Irene. This is a perfect scenario for us. He’s a sitting duck and there’s no one else close. We can slag that thing with zero civilian casualties and get our plane back across the border before the Mexicans even—”

“It’s not the president, Mitch. He’s authorized the strike.”

“Then what are we waiting for?”

“I’ve had a number of demolitions experts and biologists looking at this. No one knows how much frozen food is in that truck or what kind. We also don’t know what the false chamber those people are in is made of. That makes it impossible to be one hundred percent sure we can incinerate the trailer and its contents with no chance of flinging infected tissue away from the blast site. According to the notes we’ve retrieved from Gabriel Bertrand’s university computer account, this disease likely started in Yemeni bats. That means we don’t know if wild animals in Mexico could be infected and—”

“Have you run this by Gary?”

“Yes and he agrees. Letting the truck cross the border is still our best chance for containment.”

“Shit,” Rapp muttered, but it was lost in the drone of the chopper. Gary Statham was the best in the world at what he did. Questioning his knowledge of biological threats was like questioning Stan Hurley’s knowledge of Southeast Asian hookers.

“Fine,” he said. “I’m out.”

“Wait, Mitch. There’s something else.”

“You’ve got to be kidding. What now?”

“I just got a call from a Mexican intelligence executive who I have a back channel to. His bosses have been asking about the possibility that the CIA is carrying out an illegal operation there. It seems that someone high up in the U.S. government has been calling and asking questions.”

“What the fuck, Irene? You know where these leaks are coming from as well as I do. Shut them down or I’ll fly to Washington and do it for you.”

“Right now, you need to focus on that truck. My concern is that these inquiries could get to someone being paid by Halabi. If that’s the case, things could become very unpredictable very quickly. We can revisit the subject of what to do about the leaks later.” She paused for a moment. “If there is a later.”





CHAPTER 50


EAST OF MONTERREY

MEXICO

THE highway below Rapp was split now, with two lanes running in each direction and a broad dirt median between. Low, scrubby trees extended to the horizon and traffic remained light. The truck driven by Muhammad Attia was little more than a dot in his binocular lenses. Joe Maslick and Charlie Wicker were in separate vehicles about one mile and one and a half miles in front of it, respectively. Bruno McGraw was bringing up the rear, hanging back about three-quarters of a mile.

For one of the first times in his career, things seemed to be going too smoothly. The truck’s last turn had put it on a highway that made only one border crossing practical. Gary Statham was currently loading his team on a transport and he’d guaranteed that they’d be ready when Attia arrived.

“Is he still holding his speed, Fred?”

“Yup. Two kilometers an hour under the limit. Slow and steady.”

As expected. Attia didn’t need to hurry. He just needed to avoid attracting attention.

“Scott. Give me an updated ETA.”

“Some of those hills back there slowed him down a little. We’re around an hour forty-five to Texas. Our guys at the border crossing are reporting light traffic and they’re not anticipating any change to that.”

Rapp glanced down at his phone. No messages. “Maybe we should have brought beer.”

The former SEAL grinned. “Wanna bet? Your Charger would look good in my garage.”

Rapp didn’t respond, sweeping his binoculars east in an attempt to find a threat and again coming up empty.

The wisdom of not accepting Coleman’s bet became clear nineteen minutes later when Claudia’s voice came over the chopper’s comm.