Lethal Agent (Mitch Rapp #18)(62)
Another five minutes or so passed in silence before a second man appeared. He was probably in his mid-forties, with medium-length hair that was a little wild, a gold and diamond watch that looked like it weighed as much as a brick, and clothes that seemed to have been chosen based on the number of digits on the price tag. It was one of the strange things about these cartel bosses. They spent half their time obsessing over accumulating obscene amounts of money and the other half trying to figure out what to do with it.
“We had a bet whether you’d come,” Esparza said in solid English. According to Claudia he’d spent a fair amount of his youth in Arizona.
“Who won?”
The man just smiled and pulled a gold .44 Magnum Desert Eagle from his waistband. He aimed it at Rapp, who began instinctively running through the sequence of moves necessary to survive: Drop the cuffs that he’d picked in the first few minutes of the drive there. Roll forward, letting the round go harmlessly over his head. Get hold of the man, disarm him, pull him in close enough that no one would dare take a shot . . .
That was a good way to kill Esparza and escape into the jungle, but Rapp had to remind himself again that that wasn’t why he was here. He was here to make friends and figure out how to get close to Sayid Halabi.
“Seems like we’ve both gone through a lot of trouble for you to just shoot me,” Rapp said.
“Oh, I’m not going to shoot you. I’m going to torture you. For months. Until there isn’t anything left of you that can even feel pain. Until you don’t even know you’re human anymore. Then I’m going to feed you to my dogs.”
“I feel like that would be a mistake,” Rapp said, slipping the cuffs off and getting to his feet.
The familiar sound of weapons being slammed to shoulders momentarily drowned out the hum of jungle insects. Esparza thrust his weapon out in front of him but wouldn’t allow himself to take a step back in front of the men. His assistant, who was apparently less concerned with machismo, retreated a few feet.
“You’re pulling in what?” Rapp said, dusting off his pants. “Seventy-five million a year on a gross of a hundred and ten?”
Claudia had given him the number, and based on Esparza’s expression she’d gotten pretty close. “You’re heavily extended in pot, but legalization in the U.S. and Canada is starting to bite. So, you’re looking to replace that business with Middle Eastern heroin. You want to take advantage of the crackdown on oxycodone and replace the pharmaceutical industry as the supplier of choice. The bottom line is that you want to move up and you figure this is the play that can get you there.”
Rapp fell silent and was surprised when the next man to speak wasn’t Esparza but the preppy sidekick. His accent was more highbrow.
“And what do you think of that plan?”
“I think you’ve got a good shot,” Rapp responded. “But it’s going to be complicated. Not only because the DEA knows the cartels are going to take this opening, but because working with the Arabs can be . . .” His voice faded for a moment. “Let’s say challenging.”
“I have hundreds of people on my payroll,” Esparza said. “Police, intelligence operatives, judges, military officers. And I have enforcers. You’re not the only man in this business who’s good with a gun.”
Rapp looked around him at Esparza’s guards. “Are you sure? From where I’m standing, your talent pool looks a little shallow.”
Esparza aimed directly between Rapp’s eyes, but again his assistant cut in again.
“I assume you think you have something to offer us?”
“I can provide extensive knowledge of the operations of the U.S. government. CIA, NSA, FBI, and DEA. You name it. Even the White House.”
“I have contacts in these places, too,” Esparza said, not wanting to be upstaged.
“I also have a lifetime of experience dealing with the Middle East and speak native-level Arabic and fluent Dari. Those are pretty dangerous waters, and I know how to navigate them. You’re not just having to get around the Agency and the U.S. military. They’re the least of your problems. You’ve got a hundred different terrorist groups, tribes, and other factions—all of whom are involved in pissing contests that go back a thousand years. And if you manage to cut through all that, then it’s going to be time to deal with the Pakistanis and the Russians.”
“And you expect me to believe that a crooked cop can, as you say, navigate those waters?”
“Better than anyone on the planet.”
“Better than anyone on the planet?” Esparza mocked. “You’re confident for a dead man.”
“What’s your name?” the assistant asked.
“Mitch Rapp.”
It clearly didn’t mean anything to the man, but Esparza’s face went blank for a moment before he burst out laughing.
“This is your story,” he barely managed to choke out. “That Mitch Rapp stole drugs from DEA and then came here to ask me for a job? For a moment, I thought you had balls. But now I see that you’re just crazy.”
He summoned one of his guards, but then held out a hand when Rapp spoke again. Apparently he was finding the whole thing pretty entertaining.
“You say you have highly placed contacts. Use them. My story isn’t going to be hard to confirm. Unless I miss my guess, this is blowing up all over the Beltway right now. And if you find out I’m lying, it’s just as easy to start cutting me up tomorrow as it is today.”