Oath of Loyalty (Mitch Rapp #21)(81)

He almost had the gown on her when Sadie, dressed in a matching paramedic uniform, wheeled the gurney up. They lifted the woman onto it and pulled a sheet up to her neck.

“My god,” Sadie said, looking into her serene face. “She’s so… cute.”

Not a particularly relevant observation, but undeniably accurate. Iranian if Rapp had to guess—a nationality that fit pretty well with the profile they’d worked up. Other than that, all he could say for sure was that she was in her thirties and had a thin, athletic build that made her heavier than she looked. Not someone you’d take for one of the most successful killers of her generation. More like the new kindergarten teacher who got all the husbands to suddenly take interest in student conferences.

Rapp shoved her clothes and the clipboard she’d been carrying under the sheet and then hung another from the side of the gurney. It contained the appropriate hospital transfer paperwork in the unlikely event someone stopped them.

“Ready?”

Sadie nodded and he confirmed that the corridor was clear before they wheeled the gurney out. At a natural pace, it took them about a minute to make the elevator and another five to reach the rear exit. An ambulance was waiting, and they put the woman in the back with Sadie climbing in behind.





CHAPTER 40


CYRAH Jafari opened her eyes to a gloom that for a moment made her think she was still at the hospital. As her surroundings and memories sharpened, though, it became clear that wasn’t the case. With her strength beginning to return, she tried to get into a sitting position but failed.

Letting her head loll to the left, she saw that her arm was straight, secured at a right angle to her body by tape wound around her biceps, forearm, and wrist. A moment later, she confirmed that her right arm had suffered the same fate. An attempt to move her bare feet from what felt like rough-hewn planks produced nothing beyond the sensation of something cutting into her ankles.

She returned her head to a neutral position and stared at the dark ceiling. A metal bar bisected her view, confusing her for a moment but then providing the clue she’d been searching for. A weight bench. She was secured to a weight bench.

In some distant land, Nasrin would be shaking her head angrily. In another, Yasmin would be quietly sobbing. Cyrah had always known she wasn’t destined to die of old age, but she’d hoped to celebrate her fortieth birthday. Why that particular milestone? She had no idea. It was just lodged in her mind for some reason.

Fully conscious now, she lifted her head as far as she could, looking down her naked body and beyond. What little illumination existed in the room was thanks to slivers of sunlight finding their way through a set of double doors. There was a workbench to her left and the tools it contained—some unrecognizable—didn’t bode well for her. She’d been thoroughly trained in what it was like to be interrogated, but there were limits to what even her former commander could do. Whoever was responsible for securing her there had no such limits. And in the end, there would be no revenge like last time. Only a very welcome death.

She closed her eyes and tried to think. The bench was made of heavy steel and felt like it was anchored to the floor. Her ankles were secured tightly—almost certainly with zip ties. The tape holding her arms in multiple places was thick and black. Probably the Gorilla brand that she herself favored for its stickiness and strength. Nothing sharp anywhere near her and even if there was, she couldn’t move much more than her head.

With no real hope of escape, she went back to studying what could optimistically be referred to as her operating environment. A pink bicycle with colorful streamers coming from the handlebars immediately captured her attention because it seemed so out of place. After a moment’s thought, though, she realized that it was Anna’s. This was the outbuilding next to Claudia Gould’s house.

With nothing else to see, Cyrah closed her eyes. When she was a child, she’d had a similar, if somewhat more dilapidated, bicycle her uncle had bought her. She’d loved the sense of freedom it had given her and remembered how resentful she’d been when her father had finally taken it from her. When she’d finally become old enough that such freedoms were forbidden.

No matter what happened in the coming days—or even weeks—she had few regrets. She’d risen above what the men in her country had imposed on her. She’d freely chosen this path and the responsibility was hers and hers alone.



Cyrah didn’t know how long she lay there, but by the time the door opened and the overhead lights came on, her teeth were on the verge of chattering. She felt the warmth flow in with the sun, focusing on how it felt against her skin and glowed beyond her closed eyelids. A memory to turn to while she was enduring what was to come.

“I know you’re awake.” A male voice. Two sets of footfalls, though. She listened to what sounded like him pulling a chair up next to her. Something was placed on her stomach just below her navel, but she didn’t know what. Small. Light. Maybe plastic. Some kind of torture device? She’d soon find out.

“Open your eyes.”

With no compelling reason not to, she obeyed. Mitch Burhan was leaning over her, perched in a folding chair that had been leaned against the wall. Work jeans and an old T-shirt emblazoned with the word Specialized instead of the expected leather apron and rubber gloves. He looked up and down her body with a somewhat enigmatic frown. Not angry or sadistic. If she had to describe it, she’d say it carried a deep sense of irritation.