Oath of Loyalty (Mitch Rapp #21)(79)
In her younger years, she had been the FBI’s most valued surveillance asset. Later, as her mental state deteriorated, she’d become a liability. Her husband—a wonderful man—had finally been forced to leave as she began to combat her issues with ever-more-compulsive behavior. Her friends had drifted away for the same reason. Finally, the Bureau had forced her into early retirement. If Mitch Rapp hadn’t offered her the job with Coleman’s company, she didn’t know what she would have done.
After three deep breaths, Bebe finally stepped out of the vehicle and started toward the store. After selecting a cart, she pretended to browse the vegetable department, but really focused on the people around her. Whoever Legion were, they were good. Anyone she’d seen more than once on her journeys outside the walls had been confirmed as a longtime local or tourist with a background that checked out.
She used her customary dispenser to get a plastic glove but was forced to pause on her way to the romaine lettuce. A young woman she’d never seen before was standing in front of the display. Probably early thirties, Middle Eastern descent, pretty in a pixyish kind of way. Bebe filed her face away—she was incapable of doing otherwise—and waited for her to move on before approaching the display.
She used her gloved hand to pick through what turned out to be an extremely disappointing selection. The situation took a turn for the better when she dug down a layer and spotted some crisp leaves peeking through. A moment later, she was holding a head blessed with beautiful sheen and graced by leaves that undulated in uniform waves along their length. After easing it into a bag, she started in the direction of the meat counter.
CHAPTER 39
NEAR FRANSCHHOEK
SOUTH AFRICA
BEBE Kincaid paced in front of the gate, her sneakers barely making a sound against the flagstones. She was sweating profusely despite the cold temperatures and her lack of a jacket. The house behind her was completely dark, adhering to Rapp’s blackout protocols and forcing her to count on the starlight to keep her from tripping.
She was counting silently to herself, trying to quiet her mind. At 2,312, it still hadn’t done the job. She felt terrified and alone. The first sensation was well justified, but the second probably less so. Legion was out there. Waiting. Maybe in the vines. Maybe just on the other side of the wall.
A motor became audible in the distance, and she looked down at the security camera feed on her phone. Nothing for a few seconds and then the glare of headlights followed by the vague outline of an ambulance. They tended not to run their emergency lights in an effort to not attract attention. And at this time of night, there was little traffic to contend with anyway.
Bebe swiped to another app and used it to open the gate. A few moments later, she waved the vehicle inside and jogged along behind as it went for the front door.
“What’s happening?” the woman who stepped from the passenger side asked. She was in her early forties, with dusty blond hair and a heavy South African accent. Based on a thorough investigation of the paramedics serving the area, Bebe immediately recognized her as Aileen De Jager. Originally from Durban, she’d been on the job for more than a decade.
“They’re upstairs,” Bebe said. “Both of them are really sick. You have to hurry.”
The driver jumped out and went straight to the back of the ambulance. His profile flashed in the light bouncing off the house, allowing Bebe to identify him as Gatik Patel—an eight-year veteran. She managed to relax just a bit. Not Legion. Not yet.
They were both extremely professional, getting the gurney up the stairs without even bumping a wall and then following Bebe into the master bedroom. The acrid smell of vomit preceded their entry, but neither seemed to notice. They headed straight for Sadie, who was sprawled motionless on the bed in a stained sleepshirt. Rapp was still moving, dry-heaving over the toilet clad only in sweatpants. Beneath a patchwork of scars, his sharply defined muscles contracted a few more times before he finally slid to the floor.
“Let’s get him first,” De Jager said, pointing to the bathroom. “Then we can come back for the woman.”
The quiet ping brought Cyrah Jafari fully awake. She retrieved a cell phone from the nightstand and looked down at a three-letter text on-screen. A paradoxical mix of excitement and calm overtook her, and she savored it as she walked barefoot to the kitchen. The endgame was finally in play.
She took the SIM card out of the phone and put it in the microwave. Dull sparks lit up the room as she wrapped the handset in a dish towel and smashed it with a kitchen hammer. When the level of destruction was satisfactory, she retrieved another phone, loaded another SIM, and turned it on.
A proprietary app streamed video time-stamped seventeen minutes ago. It had been taken by a drone operated by Nasrin from some unknown location—likely the other side of the world.
An ambulance was visible in the glare of its lights splashing against a whitewashed Cape Dutch house. The front door was open, but the angle made it impossible to see inside. She fast-forwarded to a moment when two paramedics rolled a gurney onto the porch. Mitch Burhan was motionless on it, his bearded face the only thing extending beyond the sheet covering him. He was slipped efficiently into the back of the vehicle before the two responders grabbed a stretcher and headed back inside.
When they reappeared again, it was with Claudia Gould. She appeared to be in equally bad shape, the lower half of her face darkened by what was presumably vomit. Cyrah’s lips curved into a smile that faltered when Bebe Davis appeared. She looked completely healthy as she began a frantic, hand-waving exchange with the female paramedic. Finally, she retreated inside and the ambulance headed toward the open gate.