Oath of Loyalty (Mitch Rapp #21)(98)

“That about covers it,” Rapp said.

“So, if I agree to go back to our truce, you’ll make your men reappear and call off Legion. Is that what I’m to believe? That you’ll forgo any retaliation and just let me continue with my presidency?”

“You seem skeptical.”

“You could just say you’ve called off Legion, but actually do nothing. Then, one day I end up dead. And if Legion fails, you and your men can disappear again and make your own attempt.”

“My guys have nothing to do with this. And I wouldn’t need them anyway.”

“Why not?”

“Because you’re not going to have all this security after you resign.”

Cook stared at him for a moment and then broke into laughter. A little nervous, to be sure, but it seemed heartfelt.

“Did I say something funny?”

“So many things, really. First that you believe you’re in a position to ask for my resignation. But second that you think I’d consider it. You just said it yourself. You’d be able to pick me off any time you wanted.”

“I already can.”

“Really?” Cook responded incredulously.

Rapp motioned with his head, since his hands were out of commission. “Do you really believe that any of this crap is anything more than a waste of tax money? Let me tell you from decades of experience that anyone you can find, you can kill. And in about a thousand different ways.”

“I’m on the edge of my seat. How would you do it, Mitch? How would you kill me?”

“Hard to say, because I’ve been too busy to give it much thought. Your meeting with that group of African leaders a few weeks from now is interesting, though.”

“Is it?”

“Did you know that one of those men—the president of the DRC—got Ebola a couple of years back and recovered? So, he can still get it but would be fairly resistant to becoming symptomatic. Why not pay one of his people to infect him right before he comes? One day you’re shaking hands with him and the next you’re bleeding from your eyeballs. But again, I’m just spitballing. And let’s face it, I’m kind of a Cro-Magnon. My idea of an exotic hit is shooting someone with a SIG instead of a Glock. Legion’s a whole different animal. Did you know they once got a guy stampeded by his own cattle? And another one of their targets got hit by a bolt of lightning that multiple reliable witnesses swear to seeing. The bottom line is that when it comes to security, there are always flaws.”

In truth, he was downplaying what the Secret Service had accomplished, but it seemed to be working. The overhead lights were starting to pick up a glimmer of sweat on Cook’s forehead.

“You’re not making a very good case for your survival, Mitch.”

“No? I thought I was doing great. Like I said, I live up to my agreements. Plus, I’m not in the habit of killing for revenge. I kill to neutralize threats and without the Oval Office, you’re not one.”

“I don’t believe you,” Cook said simply.

“Then we’re both dead, Mr. President. Me today and you over the next year or so.”

“I’m not so sure,” he said thoughtfully. “The CIA seems to think it can bend the odds in my favor.”

“The CIA?” Rapp responded. “You mean Darren Hargrave? If my life was on the line, he wouldn’t be my go-to.”

“Darren’s not my only CIA source.”

“If you say so.”

He pointed at Rapp. “It occurs to me that if I was privy to everything in that head of yours, I’d have quite an advantage. You know everything about your men—how they were trained, where they would run, how they finance their operations. And while you aren’t as familiar with Legion, I doubt you’re so hands-off that you’re completely ignorant about them. I’ll concede that you probably don’t know where they are, but I think you know who they are and probably have some sense of how they’re going to come at me. And while I agree that none of that’s a sure thing, it’s better than walking out of the White House and putting myself at the mercy of a man who famously has none.”

“Or maybe not,” Rapp said. “I’ve been interrogated more times than I care to remember, and I’ve never broken. Plus, I know the people you’d want to use and they’ll refuse—some because we’re friends and others because they’re too smart to risk catching a bullet from Scott.”

“I think you forgot someone,” Cook said, a hint of smugness creeping onto his expression.

“Who’s that?”

“Jane Hornig.”

Rapp kept his expression neutral. Dr. Jane Hornig had advanced degrees in both neurology and biochemistry, as well as having written extensively on the psychology of pain. She’d also produced a thousand-plus-page tome called The Comprehensive Guide to Ancient Torture: Techniques and Devices. Rapp had received a signed copy of the first edition hot off the presses and immediately thrown it away.

Charlie Wicker once remarked that the woman wasn’t just destined for hell, she was destined to run the place. Rapp didn’t disagree but had to admit that she’d never failed to deliver the intel they’d needed—even from the most hardened foreign agents and terrorists.

He’d stopped using her years ago when he’d decided that both she and her methods crossed even his line. After that, he’d forgotten all about her. Or, more accurately, purposely erased their brief association from his mind.