Oath of Loyalty (Mitch Rapp #21)(10)
Rapp was soaked through by the time he reached an island of dense landscaping on the house’s west lawn. He fought his way through the foliage, struggling to maintain forward momentum as the branches grabbed at him from all sides. Water was running in a thick stream from the bridge of his nose when he reached the center and dropped to his knees. At least it wasn’t cold. Temperatures were still in the high seventies but would drop into the mid-sixties later that night. By that time, though, he’d either be safe and dry or on his way to sunny Guantanamo Bay.
After scooping away a few handfuls of muddy leaves, he found the metal hatch he was looking for. The wheel that opened it was stuck but that was a feature, not a bug. He’d been worried that Anna might happen upon it while searching for the soccer ball that always seemed to get away from her. A little more digging turned up a steel bar that he threaded through the wheel for additional leverage.
Rapp had bitched endlessly about the exorbitant cost of ensuring that his walled property didn’t turn into Virginia’s largest swimming pool in the rain. About halfway through the excavation, his attitude had done a one-eighty. The engineer working on the project had been more than a little surprised when Rapp suddenly demanded a much larger drainage pipe than necessary. When he’d then insisted that it include an access point big enough for a human to get inside, she’d thought he’d completely lost his mind. In the end, though, as long as the checks cleared no one seemed all that interested in complaining.
It took a little more effort than planned, but he finally freed the latching mechanism and pulled back the cover. Leaning into the hole, he used a red penlight to illuminate the moldy walls of the pipe and the two or so inches of water rushing through its bottom. Fantasizing about twisting Anthony Cook’s head off was just enough to motivate him to slip inside and pull the hatch closed behind.
He’d learned to control his claustrophobia, but not the rage he felt at being chased out of his own home. And not by a bunch of ISIS pricks wearing suicide vests or a Russian Spetsnaz team looking to avenge their former leader. No, he was being pursued by the country he’d spent his life defending. Worst-case scenario, maybe even some kids he helped train.
The force of the water and increasing slope of the pipe started to help him along as he inched feetfirst through the confined space. When he reached what he calculated to be the edge of his property, the grade steepened enough to let gravity take over. He could feel himself picking up speed, but in the blackness, it was impossible to tell how much.
It turned out to be more than he bargained for when the pipe finally spit him out about a hundred yards from his property line. He felt himself go airborne, the sensation of the rain again, and finally the impact with the muddy slope. He cartwheeled out of control, finally hanging up in a bush after another twenty-five yards or so. Better than getting stopped by a tree, but still not one of his most graceful or dignified escapes.
He lay there tangled in the branches, completely motionless as he tried to discern whether his reappearance had been noticed. In the end, though, his senses were pretty much useless—overwhelmed by the darkness and crash of the storm. Fortunately, that would go both ways. He’d have had to literally land on a patrol to get picked up.
Rapp waited there for another five minutes before freeing himself from the bush and starting down the mountain. He stayed low, slithering on his stomach, stopping every few seconds to assess. His objective was roughly another four hundred yards downslope and he managed to cross about half of it before the rain started to ease, reducing its effectiveness as cover.
His situation was further complicated by the fact that he was facing an opponent very different from the ones he was accustomed to. The men tracking him were likely military or operators from the Homeland Security branches. Who knew what they’d been told about the mission and the man they were hunting? They would be full of pride and patriotism, willing to do anything to protect their country from the enemies lurking in the shadows. He couldn’t in good conscience kill them, but they’d likely be working under somewhat looser terms of engagement.
The next hundred yards went pretty smoothly, though the rain was now turning intermittent. After another couple of minutes, it stopped completely and a hole opened in the overcast. The haze of starlight was just strong enough for Rapp to discern movement to the west. He laid his cheek in the mud and went still, using only his eyes to track a vague silhouette approaching his position. Details became sharper as the distance closed—fatigues, assault rifle, athletic gait despite boots hunting for traction. Even more concerning was the helmet-mounted night-vision gear. Rapp had used a similar setup in an operation about a year ago. The left eye was light amplification and the right thermal. It created an image that was a little disorienting and blurry in detail, but it did a good job of highlighting body heat. The fact that he was caked with mud and there was a tangle of foliage between them would attenuate the effect, but that advantage couldn’t be counted on. When being hunted with thermal, it was critical to not allow darkness to make you subconsciously complacent. The trick was to pretend you were wearing a bright orange jumpsuit in broad daylight.
Most of the trees around him had trunks too narrow to provide adequate cover, but there was one about twelve feet away that looked viable. He stayed on his stomach, moving steadily and making it to the tree in question with no fireworks.
Timing was now the issue. Once he came into the man’s field of vision, he had to keep his imaginary orange jumpsuit entirely behind the tree. That meant moving around it at the same pace as his pursuer’s advance—a trick that had to be done entirely by feel.