Oath of Loyalty (Mitch Rapp #21)(44)

“Hurry! We don’t have much time,” Pistorius said, using a key to open the front door.

Cyrah nodded and passed into the house’s dim interior. The extensive damage was immediately evident, as was a puddle of dried blood outlined in blue tape on the entryway floor.

“You have my money?” he said, making a show of his distaste for her.

“Of course.” She dug a stack of cash from her purse and handed it to him.

“What about your phone?”

“Turned off as we agreed.”

“Let me see.”

She fished it from her pocket and showed him the dark screen.

“No pictures,” he reminded her. “And any specific details you want to print in your article have to be approved by me.”

She shrugged. “I always protect my sources. The people I work for are more interested in blood and sensationalism than fact checking.”

“And who are those people exactly?”

Another shrug. “Whoever’s willing to pay the most.”

He motioned with his head toward the living area. “Don’t touch anything.”

“Can I use my flashlight app if I promise—”

She fell silent when he pulled a light from his belt and offered it to her.

The damage was indeed impressive. A sideboard was shattered on the floor, white walls had been darkened by smoke, and the sofa had been partially consumed by fire, revealing what appeared to be layers of Kevlar. Some walls had been penetrated, while others were intact. Not unusual for an old house—original walls were often constructed of stone or brick while newer partitions would be made from plasterboard. That didn’t seem to be the case here, though. There was no coherent architectural pattern and eventually she found a gouge big enough to confirm the presence of ballistic material.

“He had hidden weapons, too,” Pistorius said. “A lot of them.”

“Really?” she responded, shining the flashlight at the molding near the ceiling. There was something about it that had been bothering her and now she knew what it was. The paint was color coded to indicate the strength of the walls. It wouldn’t have been obvious in normal light, but the powerful LED beam exaggerated the different shades where the corners met.

“You have eight more minutes,” Pistorius said, looking increasingly nervous.

“My understanding is that there’s a safe room?”

He nodded and motioned for her to follow.

It wasn’t particularly elaborate—basically the best that could be retrofitted into the space. A bank of monitors were undoubtedly fed by hidden cameras covering every room from at least one angle. Redundant communications and network equipment was equally sophisticated, including controls for what appeared to be remote door locks.

It seemed almost certain that Mitch Burhan—a former Green Beret—had been fed real-time information on his enemies’ movements from this room. Combined with a truly extraordinary amount of nerve and skill, he’d managed to take down eight heavily armed killers here and two more on the road. Even with his training and background, no small feat.

“Can I go upstairs?”

On the second floor, there was enough sun coming through the windows to make the flashlight unnecessary and she gave it back to Pistorius. The layout was fairly simple—a master bedroom with an en suite bathroom, a second bedroom set up for guests, and a room that was obviously the home of seven-year-old Anna. The latter two shared a bathroom in the hall.

The fight had clearly not reached that level and there was no appreciable damage. Cyrah entered the closet and reached for a drawer but her police shadow immediately protested.

“What are you doing?”

“Just looking for some personal details. These kinds of stories are about human interest. People want to know who these people are. How they—”

“No,” he said firmly. “I told you not to touch anything and I meant it. You have three more minutes.”

“If it’s a matter of money—”

“Two minutes fifty-five seconds.”

She knew men like him and recognized that nothing short of a claw hammer against his skull was going to change his mind. Tempting, but not practical.

She finished her tour of the second floor and then descended again. There was a mangled door lying on the tile behind the entry and she looked down a hallway that led to an exit covered with plywood. Based on the limited damage to the front of the house, this is where the main incursion had likely happened. But it was tight, favoring a single man against a larger force.

“Thirty seconds.”

She would have liked to see the kitchen, but instead headed back toward the front door. There was nothing to be learned there. In the end, the visit had probably been a net negative. She’d revealed her existence to a dishonest policeman and accomplished little beyond confirming what she already knew: the family had been expecting trouble and were prepared for it. What she hadn’t fully understood—fully internalized—was how dangerous the owners of this house were. Claudia in particular piqued her interest and admiration. When those men attacked, she’d gathered her daughter, entered the safe room, and then calmly directed Burhan in his battle.

A formidable woman. It was going to be a shame to kill her.



Cyrah glanced in her rearview mirror but saw only the dirt road and mountains. Pistorius was likely securing the house in a way that would hide the fact that he’d allowed a visit by someone he believed to be a reporter.