Oath of Loyalty (Mitch Rapp #21)(4)

“All dead?”

“All but the one we left alive to interrogate. They were solid operators. Too dangerous to play around with.”

Rapp nodded and the silence in the clearing began to stretch out. Finally, he broke it.

“I’m giving you a five-minute head start, Mike. For old times’ sake.”



Rapp took not-so-careful aim and fired a single round into the trees. The sound of the shot was deafening and the snap of the bullet as it cut through the foliage would be terrifying. Which was the goal.

Thirty minutes into the chase, the grade of the forested slope had increased to probably five percent. Barely noticeable to him, but a significant obstacle for Nash. Things would have been different during his time as a Marine, but those days were long past. He’d largely abandoned his cardio workouts for weightlifting and ballooned to a solid two hundred and ten pounds. Good for stabilizing the damage done to his spine back when he’d still been a man of honor, but not so great for uphill running.

Rapp adjusted his aim a few degrees to the left and fired another round. He’d herd Nash up the incline for as long as possible. Even after years of kissing political ass and polishing desk chairs, the man wasn’t to be underestimated.

Rapp started forward again, making some effort to be quiet but not going overboard. The same explosion that damaged Nash’s back had also damaged his hearing. It was unlikely that he’d be able to separate the rhythm of human movement from the sound created by the intermittent breeze.

This would be a historically satisfying end for the son of a bitch. Humans had evolved not that far from where they were now with very few physical advantages. They weren’t fast. Or strong. They lacked sharp claws or big teeth. Their only talent was an ability to keep going, wearing down prey until they finally stopped, stunned and unable to defend themselves.

Rapp wasn’t going to involve himself in hand-to-hand combat with a desperate former Marine who outweighed him by almost forty pounds. No, Nash would end up on his fucking knees—gasping for air and waiting for the bullet that would kill him. Or maybe that wasn’t entirely accurate. The truth was that the loyal soldier Rapp had known for so long was already dead. He had been for some time. The bullet would just make it official.

As he weaved through the trees, Rapp couldn’t help thinking about how it had happened. He remembered the battles they’d fought, some against America’s enemies and others between the two of them. He remembered shouting matches about strategy, tactics, and personnel. He remembered drinking on Nash’s deck with Maggie and the kids and teaching their oldest son lacrosse.

Rapp slowed as his white-hot rage faded to dull red.

A few years back, he’d forced Nash to take credit for something Rapp himself had done, turning him into a hero. He’d received the Distinguished Intelligence Cross, the fawning attention of Washington’s elites, and an enormous amount of media coverage. The unexpected celebrity had made it impossible for him to continue as a clandestine operative. Through no fault of his own, Nash suddenly found himself shut out of the career he’d spent his life building.

He’d been pissed as hell and, in retrospect, probably with good reason. At the time, Rapp had told himself he’d done it for the man’s own good. That he was losing his edge and had a family that needed him. He’d convinced himself that he was protecting his old friend. But was that really his decision to make? And were his motivations really so pure? It had been clear that someone was going to have to take credit for what had been done and Rapp didn’t want it to be him. The problem was that he hadn’t just fled the spotlight, he’d shoved his friend into it in his place.

Rapp came to a stop, listening to the forest around him for any indication of his target. But there wasn’t anything. When properly motivated, Nash could apparently still move his fat ass up a hill.

He started forward again but found that his pace had slowed even more. He thought back to a particularly ugly fight he and Nash had years ago. It ended up with Rapp leaving the man lying on the shoulder of the road.

Now he couldn’t even remember what they were arguing about.

He tried to refocus on the task at hand, reminding himself that the penalty for taking Mike Nash for just another manicured bureaucrat could very well be death. But the focus wouldn’t come. Only the memories.

The hard-to-face truth was that he’d made Nash the man he was today. He’d sent the Marine to the executive floor kicking and screaming. Once there, what had he expected him to do? Nash always excelled. In school. In sports. In combat. Why wouldn’t he examine his new battlefield and calculate how to win on it? Why wouldn’t he recognize that Washington was an operating environment that didn’t reward loyalty and courage. It rewarded treachery and self-interest.

Adapt or die.

As Rapp slipped through the trees, he reflected on the things Nash had said to him back in that clearing. Was it possible there was a kernel of truth in it? Over the course of their relationship, they’d probably disagreed more than they agreed, but Rapp had always taken the man seriously. Sometimes more seriously than he was willing to admit.

Son of a bitch.

Rapp hated doubt. It was almost as bad as regret on his scale of bullshit wastes of time. But there he was. Walking through the forest wallowing in it. Setting a pace designed to ensure that he never caught his target.

By God, he’d make Nash suffer, though. He’d keep running him up this hill until the forest opened onto farmland and forced the man to double back. He’d keep shooting at random, suspending Nash at the edge of panic. Then, eventually, he’d collect Coleman and the guys and drive away. Nash would stay hidden in the woods for days, starving his ass off, getting chewed on by bugs, and hopefully ingesting an amoeba that would cause truly catastrophic diarrhea. Eventually he’d emerge, filthy, unshaven, and dehydrated. Separated from his Agency support and family. Not knowing who he could trust.