Lethal Agent (Mitch Rapp #18)(31)
CHAPTER 14
WEST OF MANASSAS
VIRGINIA
USA
RAPP accelerated out of the trees and onto a flat summit bisected by a newly paved road. Below he could see the widely spaced dots of porch lights and, in the distance, the glow of Manassas reflecting off low clouds.
Their escape from Yemen had been surprisingly uneventful other than the number of people involved. Predictably, Shamir Karman had become emotionally attached to a number of his employees and had refused to leave them behind. It had taken a little creativity, but they’d managed to cram everyone into a five-vehicle motorcade and avoid getting strafed by the Saudi air force. By now Karman would be installed in a New York condo and the others would be getting fast-tracked through immigration.
Coleman and his men were at Walter Reed getting their wounds checked for the various antibiotic-resistant infections making their way around Yemen. And, of course, grumbling about the fact that Rapp’s two days fighting his way through the desert had left him with nothing more than a moderate sunburn.
Empty lots started to appear on either side of the road, all owned by people loyal to Rapp. Near the center of the private subdivision, he passed a couple of completed foundations and a house surrounded by a yard strewn with toys and sports equipment. With all those kids, Mike Nash’s place was always either descending into anarchy or recovering from it.
Creating a neighborhood full of shooters had been his brother’s idea and, as usual, it had been a solid one. While the fortress of a house Rapp had built was capable of repelling pretty much any attack that didn’t involve artillery, the fact that any fight would be immediately joined by a bunch of former SEALs, Delta, CIA, and FBI added to the deterrent.
And so he finally had a place he could let his guard slip a little bit. Maybe relax and have a couple of beers in a chair that wasn’t backed up to a wall.
Or not.
Sayid Halabi was alive, pissed, and had apparently been doing some deep thinking. His propaganda videos were beautifully produced and perfectly targeted. His men were well trained and well disciplined. His use of technology was cutting-edge.
He seemed to have lost interest in futile attempts to take and hold territory in favor of embracing the concept of modern asymmetrical warfare. He’d identified the internal divisions tearing America apart and was using fear—amplified by Christine Barnett—to widen them.
It was hard not to give the terrorist piece of shit credit. The rage gripping Barnett’s constituency seemed to become more powerful and more deranged every day. Her followers didn’t seem to think Sayid Halabi carried any of the responsibility at all for the bioweapon he was cooking up. They were far more interested in blaming America’s foreign policy for provoking jihad, the president’s party for not anticipating the threat, and the CIA for not making it magically disappear. Trying to find a news program that even touched on the subject of stopping ISIS was an exercise in futility. All they were talking about was how Halabi’s videos were affecting the presidential primaries and how an attack might reshape the general election.
He used the controls on the steering wheel to turn up the stereo, filling the interior of the Dodge Charger with Bruce Springsteen’s “The River.” Not the most uplifting song, but it took him back to a simpler time. A time when America’s enemies were external and could be eradicated with a gun.
A traditional red barn appeared on his left and shortly thereafter the white stucco wall surrounding his house began to emerge. Dim spotlights illuminated the copper gate, but also something else. A lone figure sitting on the ground next to it.
Claudia.
She didn’t seem inclined to get up as he approached, so he stopped and stepped out of the vehicle. Despite the cloud cover, it was a beautiful night. There was a light breeze from the north and temperatures were hovering in the mid-seventies. Even so, she had her arms wrapped around her knees, pulling her thighs to her chest as though she was freezing. His headlights combined with the spots, reflecting off tears running down her cheeks.
He wasn’t sure what to say. She’d been in this business a long time and knew the realities of his world. The likelihood of him living long enough to buy a set of golf clubs and retire to Florida was fairly low.
“You did everything you could,” he said, finally.
“Which was nothing. No one returned our calls, Mitch. And the few who did gave nothing but excuses.”
He pressed his back against the wall and slid down next to her. “At the end of the day, I’m at the sharp end of these operations. And I’m comfortable with that.”
“Comfortable being abandoned by the country you spent your life fighting for?”
He considered her question for almost a minute before speaking again. “It’s nice out there at night. You wouldn’t believe the stars. And the quiet.”
She just stared straight ahead, unable to meet his eye.
“In a way, I like it,” he continued. “Being alone is simple. I like the freedom of knowing that I don’t have anyone to rely on and no one’s relying on me. There’s a clarity to it that you can’t get anywhere else.”
She laughed and wiped at her tears. “You should never tell a psychiatrist that. They’ll lock you up.”
“Probably,” he said. They sat in silence for a few minutes before she spoke again.
“It was a trap, Mitch. Halabi went after you specifically.”