Oath of Loyalty (Mitch Rapp #21)(13)

Rapp stripped, using the bottled water and some baby wipes to clean off mud, sweat, and the stench of excrement. The process took a little longer than he’d hoped and would have benefited from a Brillo pad and some bleach, but he finally managed to make himself presentable.

The clothes were designed to make him look like a hiker—semitechnical and accompanied by a backpack large enough to carry essentials but not so large that he couldn’t move quickly. A subtle pocket had been added to the bottom right that housed his Glock and allowed for an awkward but functional cross draw.

He tossed his dirty clothes and empty containers back through the hatch before closing and covering it with dirt. After another quick check of his surroundings, he started straight downslope. There was a trail that cut across the base of the mountain, mostly used by hunters so vacant this time of year. If Claudia had done her job—and she always did—he’d reach his escape vehicle a half an hour before sunrise. With a little luck, he’d be out of US airspace by early afternoon and back in Africa by tomorrow.

Assuming that’s where he wanted to go.

He weaved through the trees, sometimes taking the path of least resistance and other times embarking on random detours. There was no sign he was being tracked, but that didn’t mean much. He’d made some formidable enemies over the years: al-Qaeda. ISIS. Half of Congress and two-thirds of the Saudi royalty. But no one quite like the president of the United States. Cook controlled the most powerful military and intelligence apparatus in history as well as the loyalties of world leaders across the globe. In light of that, things were starting to feel pretty lonely.

Of course, he still had Coleman and the guys, but how far did he want to drag them into this shit show? Nicholas Ward had a genuine distaste for the Cooks and enough power that they’d think twice about coming up against him, but there was a limit to the debt he owed Rapp for saving his life.

And, finally, there was Irene Kennedy. A woman who had been there for him since the beginning, but who now had problems that rivaled his own.

It seemed to come down to him, Claudia, and Anna now. But was that fair? He’d made himself so toxic that no one with half a brain would want to stand within a blast radius from him. He’d already been through this with his late wife. And that wasn’t a cross that got any lighter with time. Very much to the contrary.

He had bug-out plans formed decades ago and updated every six months. A plastic surgeon in Argentina. Money. Identities. But the secret to a successful disappearing act wasn’t the sexy stuff. It was leaving everything behind. Not just friends and family, but in many ways yourself. No more endurance racing. No more security operations of any kind. No travel to places where he’d lived or worked in the past. If he really wanted to get lost and stay lost, he’d have to gain forty pounds, move to Panama, and spend the rest of his life getting drunk on the golf course.

Not a pretty picture, but what was the alternative? Cook would assume that Rapp had killed Mike Nash and that he knew the White House was behind his betrayal. After that, Rapp’s reputation would work against him. Cook would assume that they were in a death match. In one corner, the president of the United States backed by the military, Homeland Security, and virtually every intelligence agency on the planet. In the other corner, Mitch Rapp and his Glock 19. Winner take all.



The Ford F-150 was probably five years old, with evidence of its hard life visible even in the predawn twilight. Virginia plates were current, and the filthy bed was scattered with the general detritus of rural life. Most important, it was parked right where it was supposed to be: a rutted dirt road that was all but abandoned during the summer.

The keys were buried beneath a rock near the front bumper and he used them to gain access. After starting the engine, Rapp dug a brand-new satphone from the glove box. Installing the battery, he used an encrypted protocol to connect to Claudia in Cape Town, South Africa.

“Are you all right?” she said by way of greeting.

“Fine.”

“Were you in the pipe all this time?”

“Yeah.”

“Did you ever install the latrine?”

“Let’s not talk about that,” he said, accelerating down the road.

“I had to move the plane to its tertiary location. You’ll be flying the first leg yourself. The weather looks good and it’s an aircraft you’re familiar with, but be careful.”

He frowned at the thinly veiled—but admittedly deserved—insult to his piloting skills.

“Understood.”

“When you get to the second plane, tell the pilot where you want to go. Fair warning: I’m being watched.”

It was to be expected. The Cooks would be covering all bases.

“How much effort are they putting into it?”

“One, maybe two people. No electronic surveillance on the property—I’m sweeping regularly—but they probably have some capability outside the walls. I doubt they think you’ll show up here. Too obvious.”

“Anything else I should know?”

“A mutual friend of ours lost her job.”

She was clearly referring to Kennedy but wanted to avoid keywords that the NSA’s artificial intelligence might flag for further attention.

“The end of an era,” Rapp said, uncertain how to feel about it. Anger? Resignation? The desire to open a good bottle of tequila and toss the cap in the trash?