Oath of Loyalty (Mitch Rapp #21)(96)

“I know you better than that.”

“Are you sure?”

“I think you’re taking this position because you don’t see it as a real possibility. You think she’ll serve eight years and leave the country damaged but fundamentally unchanged.”

“You don’t?”

“If Anthony Cook dies over the course of the next year, I think that there’s a good chance that America’s democracy will fail. I think we’ll see an explosion of political violence, states attempting to break away from constitutional mandates, and eventually a shattered country with a government that isn’t much different than Russia’s or Venezuela’s.”

“That seems kind of alarmist to me.”

“It’s not.”

He swore quietly under his breath. An entire life spent trying to keep the world at a slow boil and the Cooks were blowing the lid off.

“What are you saying I should do about it?” he said finally.

“Deliver our terms.”

“Send a letter.”

“What I have to say can’t be done in writing or over a phone line. And frankly, it can’t come from me. As you well know, threats have to come from a position of confidence and strength. They’re something you make eye to eye, not from hiding.”

He didn’t respond.

“Mitch? Are you still there?”

“Yeah, I’m still here.”

“Will you do it?”

“I honestly don’t know, Irene. They could be luring me in there to put a bullet in my head. And I wouldn’t be able to do anything about it. Even if I got my hands on a weapon, who would I shoot at? Those aren’t a bunch of terrorists protecting him. They’re Secret Service. You’re not just asking me to go in there and potentially die. You’re asking me to go in there and potentially die on my knees.”





CHAPTER 48


OUTSIDE THE WHITE HOUSE

WASHINGTON, DC

USA

MITCH Rapp looked through the limousine’s open window and saw something that resembled a checkpoint in an active war zone. In this case, though, the war zone was sunny Pennsylvania Avenue. Barricades and combat vehicles had been positioned to divert traffic away from the White House and the Secret Service had been augmented by operators on loan from the armed forces. Barbed wire, dogs, and lazily camouflaged antiaircraft systems added to the disruption.

He had been aware that the president was afraid of him, but seeing the result of that fear firsthand was a bit disorienting. It looked like America was under siege. And maybe it was, but by him? When had he gone from defending the gates to standing outside them with a Molotov cocktail?

The driver eased to a stop and Rapp held out an item that hadn’t gotten much action over the years: his real passport. A camo-clad soldier flipped through the largely empty pages and then compared the photo to the man in front of him. Finally, he handed it back.

“Thank you, sir. Have a nice day.”

And then they were off again. Rapp closed the window and his thoughts went to the knock-down, drag-out fight he’d had with Claudia over this operation. Even worse than her anger with him, though, was her fury at Kennedy. The former CIA director was lucky that the security protocols they’d set up made it impossible for Claudia to call her. She’d have learned every swear word in the French language before suffering a burst eardrum.

Coleman and the guys tended to side with Claudia. In fact, they’d started an office pool as to how long Rapp would survive after clearing the White House’s gate. Thirty-eight minutes was the longest anyone had been willing to put money on. Rapp had thought that was a little optimistic and bet fifty bucks on eleven minutes, fifteen seconds.

But while this was likely the stupidest thing he’d ever done—a high bar based on his career so far—what choice did he have? While he wasn’t convinced Kennedy’s plan to get America to step back from the brink was going to work, he owed her his life. And not just his survival. His life. The man he’d become. The things he’d accomplished. The lifelong friendships he’d made. Where would the young, angry Mitch Rapp have ended up without her? Probably dead or in prison.

They weaved through a set of concrete barriers designed to slow approaching vehicles and then submitted to a third bomb check. After that, they finally entered the White House grounds. Security was even heavier inside and included a blast-proof structure that was clearly a kill box. Was it just part of the recent upgrades or had it been constructed specifically for him?

Rapp stepped from the limo, stopping to allow a dog to give him a good sniff. Shooters had been distributed in a way that was as innocuous as possible, but he could still feel their scopes on him.

Once the beagle was satisfied, he submitted to his second and most thorough frisking before being led to the kill box. When the door behind him closed, he half-expected to be cut to pieces by automatic fire. But it didn’t happen. Not yet.

“Please strip and put your clothes on the shelf in front of you,” a disembodied voice said. “Then put on the jumpsuit on the shelf behind you.”

He did as he was told, ending up in a bright orange prison uniform and a pair of socks that would make it difficult to run on any surface other than carpet.

“Please move to your left and stand on the yellow footprints.”

When he arrived at the indicated position, a different voice boomed in the tight space. “Look straight ahead and raise your arms out from your sides.”