Lethal Agent (Mitch Rapp #18)(13)
Again, Rapp followed, slipping into the hectic kitchen in time to see his old friend lead one of the men to his office. The other stood near the open door, chewing khat and scanning for threats.
Not ready to be identified as yet, Rapp angled toward an employee bathroom at the far end of the kitchen. After pretending to test the door and find it locked, he pressed his back against the wall and lit another cigarette.
It was hard to see into the office but there was just enough light for Rapp to make out Karman opening a small lockbox. The Yemeni started calmly counting bills onto the table as the other man speculated loudly about the success of the restaurant and whether he was being paid fairly. In the end, the calculations proved too taxing and he just snatched a little extra from the box before scooping up the stack Karman had dealt out. A hard shove sent the CIA informant stumbling backward into his chair with enough force that it almost flipped.
The kitchen staff bowed their heads as the two men left, careful to not make eye contact. Rapp didn’t follow suit, instead staring intently at them. Neither noticed. They were too busy arguing about how they were going to split the unexpected bonus cash.
After they disappeared back out into the dining room, Rapp tossed his half-smoked cigarette on the floor and started after them. By the time he stepped into the blinding sun, the men had a twenty-yard lead. He let that extend a bit as he swung by his table and slammed back the rest of what might have been the best cup of coffee he’d ever had.
They led him through the sparsely populated maze of streets, finally arriving at a bustling market. The stench of sweat and raw sewage filled Rapp’s nostrils as he watched the men work their way through the stands, extorting money from each of their cowering proprietors.
The sun was sinking low on the horizon by the time the men finished their rounds through the business district and started toward a more desperate area of town. Rapp was getting hungry and thirsty, but the occasional corpse of a cholera victim awaiting removal kept him from doing anything about it.
The dust caked in his throat and the empty stomach just added to the anger that had been building in him all day. Watching these men steal from people who had virtually nothing was something he’d seen before, but it never got any more pleasant. Rapp had dedicated his life to eradicating this kind of scum from the earth, but there seemed to be an endless supply.
They finally stopped at a house that had been repaired with tarps and other scrounged materials. Rapp assumed they were done for the day and had led him to their base of operations, but he turned out to be wrong.
A halfhearted kick from one of the men knocked in what was left of a wooden door and they disappeared inside. Weak shouts and the screams of children flowed through the empty window frames as Rapp moved into a shadowed position that still gave him a solid line of sight.
The ISIS men reappeared a few minutes later with a girl of about fourteen in tow. She was struggling and screaming, trying futilely to break free and retreat back into the house. A moment later a man Rapp assumed was her father came after her, grabbing one of the men, but then collapsing to the ground. The remaining glow from the sun glistened off his sweat-soaked skin, highlighting its pallor and dark, sunken eyes. Another victim of Al Hudaydah’s nonfunctional sanitation system and lack of medicine. The ISIS men just laughed and continued dragging his daughter up the street.
What followed was easily predicted: the journey to a somewhat more affluent part of town. The dull stares of the people along the route, their lives too close to the edge to interfere. The delivery to a man who paid in cash. Her screams penetrating the walls of the house and echoing up the street.
Rapp followed the men, trying to block out the girl’s cries for help. He’d been in a similar situation in Iraq and it was one of the few episodes in his life that wouldn’t leave him alone. His stride faltered and he considered going back, but knew that it was impossible. She was one of thousands. The mission wasn’t one girl. It couldn’t be.
The night was starting to get cold when the two men led him to a block of commercial buildings that had been spared from bombing. They disappeared into a small warehouse and Rapp came to a stop, staring blankly at the stone structure. What he wanted to do was walk in there and execute every son of a bitch inside.
It would be so easy. Men like that had no real skill or training and they became accustomed to everyone being too afraid or weak to move against them. While they expected to die one day in a battle or a drone strike, the idea of one man acting against them was unfathomable. If Rapp’s experience was any indicator, they’d just sit there like a bunch of idiots while he emptied his Glock into their skulls.
A beautiful fantasy, but like the empty heroism of saving the girl, an impossible one. This was the real world—a dirty, violent place, where wins came at a high price. Even capturing and interrogating them would be of limited value. Far more useful would be figuring out how many men were in there, getting photos that the CIA might be able to connect with names, and compromising their communications.
Halabi was out there and he was going to hunt that bastard down and stick a knife in his eye socket—even if it meant he had to do the thing he hated most in life.
Wait.
CHAPTER 6
CENTRAL YEMEN
THE late afternoon sun cast virtually no shadows because there was little to create them. The terrain here consisted of nothing but blunt ridges, rocky desert soil, and a single, poorly defined road disappearing over the slope ahead. Mullah Sayid Halabi didn’t see any of it, though. Instead, he focused on the sky. The Americans were up there. As were the Saudis. Watching. Analyzing. Waiting for an opportunity to strike.