Oath of Loyalty (Mitch Rapp #21)(74)

The announcer became more breathless as the pivotal moment drew closer. The moment that the great Anthony Cook would finally return to the spotlight and bless everyone with his presence. Two more minutes. One more minute. Thirty seconds until he came onstage and made every one of his constituents rich, good-looking, and fulfilled. Fifteen more seconds before he led everyone straight to the fucking promised land.

When the crowd erupted, Maslick looked for somewhere to pull over. The rural road between his home and Washington, DC, was pretty much abandoned, with dense forest on either side. His dashboard suggested that temperatures were hovering in the nineties but he didn’t search for shade, instead selecting a wide spot with no tree cover.

He jumped out and leaned into the truck’s bed, sliding a Nemesis Valkyrie sniper rifle from beneath a tarp and strapping it to the side of his pack. The sound of a motor reached him from the west, but when the vehicle appeared over a low rise, he saw that it wasn’t one of the cars used by the surveillance teams hounding him. Another minute passed before the blue Nissan Murano he was waiting for appeared. When it did, he shouldered the pack, turned in a way that would make the rifle obvious, and then darted into the woods.



President Cook walked briskly across the stage, displaying the strength and energy his supporters had come to expect of him. To need of him. He took a position behind the lectern and raised his hands in the air, drinking in the adulation of the people packed into the small venue.

Cook lowered his arms in a call for quiet, but his followers didn’t obey. Instead, the volume of their cheers increased. This was what made all his sacrifices worthwhile—the almost religious devotion of his supporters. The knowledge that they would believe anything he told them. Do anything he told them. They’d destroy themselves and everything around them to feel the sense of power and belonging only he could give them. He was America. Not Mitch Rapp. Not Irene Kennedy. Him.

The crowd finally calmed down and he began to speak, moving his gaze smoothly from teleprompter to teleprompter. It would provide the illusion of making eye contact with every person in the audience as well as those scattered throughout the country watching through VR technology. The speech itself wasn’t anything special—largely attacks on his political opponents and a healthy dose of flattery for his followers. Public policy was unimportant in modern politics—too remote and complicated to create a connection between leaders and the led. Identity and tribal affiliation were what mattered now.

Out of the corner of his eye, Cook noticed some kind of disturbance offstage. He tried to keep reading his lines but began to falter as the commotion grew. When five Secret Service agents began charging him, he took a hesitant step back. A moment later they had completely surrounded him and he was being pulled toward the exit. Stumbling with feet barely touching the ground, he could hear the screams of his audience, increasingly muffled as he was dragged down a narrow concrete corridor.

When they entered the underground parking area, he saw his limousine speeding toward one of the exits amid an escort of black Yukons. The civilian vehicles crowding the garage were all on the move as well, their screeching tires echoing throughout the space as they abandoned it. He was shoved into the back of a nondescript Ford Explorer and two Secret Service men climbed in on either side of him. The driver joined the fray, melding with the decoys and finally exiting the parking garage to the south.

“What?” Cook finally managed to get out. “What happened?”

The head of his security detail twisted around in the front passenger seat. “Joe Maslick evaded our surveillance on his way to Washington, sir. And when he did, he was carrying a sniper rifle.”





CHAPTER 35


WEST OF MANASSAS

VIRGINIA

USA

THE sun was down, but temperatures were holding in the high eighties. Joe Maslick, now outfitted in Bermuda shorts and a Hawaiian shirt, was in his backyard with a beer in one hand and a spatula in the other. The grill was flaming up around his burger a bit, but better to cook it fast.

His plan when he’d woken up that morning had been pretty mundane. Hit Home Depot to pick up some lumber for Maggie’s gate and then get some ribs on the smoker. Maybe extend a last-minute dinner invitation to Skip McMahon. The retired FBI agent was full of entertaining stories and there was at least a fifty-fifty chance he’d drink too much and fall asleep in his barbecue sauce. Always good for a laugh.

But then Rapp had called with his cryptic request.

Hey, Mas. Would you mind driving toward DC about an hour or so before the president’s rally? Then, when he goes onstage, park your truck by the side of the road and run into the forest with a sniper rifle?

Why?

No reason.

What forest?

Don’t care.

How long do I have to stay out there?

I dunno. Half an hour?

Not that it was the strangest request Rapp had ever made of him. That prize would probably go to the time he’d handed him a suitcase full of cash and told him to purchase—then temporarily manage—a brothel outside of Fez, Morocco.

In retrospect, not the worst job he’d ever had. Not by a long shot.

He grabbed another beer from the refrigerator next to his grill before carefully arranging lettuce, tomato, and a roasted green chili on a bun he’d just finished toasting. After putting a slice of cheddar on the patty, he drained the can in one long pull and went in for another.