Lethal Agent (Mitch Rapp #18)(77)
Rapp nodded and further relaxed his gun hand. While it wasn’t Sayid Halabi’s home address and a spare cruise missile, it was enough to work with. Esparza and Rossi had just earned themselves a temporary reprieve.
? ? ?
Esparza pulled into a gap in the foliage that looked like it had been recently cut. Beyond there was a small clearing with three men visible in the shade of its northern edge.
“That’s him,” Esparza said, without looking. “In the middle.”
Damian Losa looked to be in his mid-fifties, with a trim waist, nice but not over-the-top clothing, and immaculate gray hair. The men on either side of him were just muscle, but even at a distance it was clear they were high-class muscle. Probably Eastern European. Almost certainly former spec ops. Whether there were a hundred more like them in the trees was yet to be seen. Relying on Esparza’s surveillance team wasn’t all that comforting but there wasn’t a choice at this point.
They got out of the vehicle and Esparza indicated for him and Rossi to hang back while he started for the center of the clearing. Losa began to do the same but then one of his men grabbed his arm. Rapp moved a hand closer to his weapon, but it seemed that all he wanted to do was whisper in his boss’s ear. He gave a brief response before walking to meet Esparza.
The conversation seemed to go about the way Rapp had imagined. Esparza was animated, waving his hands around and speaking in a loud voice, while Losa nodded and answered too quietly to be heard at a distance.
More interesting was that one of Losa’s guards had broken away from his companion and was edging around the clearing. Again, Rapp moved a hand toward his weapon, but then the man got close enough to make out his features.
“How’ve you been, Andra??”
“Good, Mitch. Mr. Losa would like a word with you after he’s finished.”
“Why?”
He just shrugged and started back the way he’d come.
The discussion between the two cartel leaders went on for another fifteen minutes before Esparza spun and began stalking back in their direction. Losa, on the other hand, stayed put and turned his gaze toward Rapp.
Screw it. Why not?
He started forward and Esparza waved him off. “We’re leaving.”
Rapp ignored him and passed by without speaking. When he got close to Losa the man offered a hand and he took it.
“Andra? recognized you,” he said in lightly accented English. “I heard about your problems in America but I’m surprised to see you here. Can I assume that the drugs you stole belonged to Carlos?”
“Yeah,” Rapp said, glancing back to see Esparza glaring at him and questioning Rossi in a low voice.
“And what exactly is your interest in all this?”
“I don’t understand the question.”
“I think you do.”
Clearly Losa wasn’t buying the legend Rapp had created to explain his sudden entry into the narcotics business.
When he stayed silent on the subject, Losa just smiled. “Even if everything you’ve done recently is a smoke screen, I believe that Christine Barnett’s animosity toward you is real. You’re going to have a hard time going back.”
“Are you coming to a point?”
The man pulled out a business card and slipped it into Rapp’s shirt pocket. “When you’ve killed Carlos—and I assume that will be in the next week or two—call me. I think you’d find working for my organization very rewarding.”
Rapp nodded and turned, but then paused when Losa spoke again. “And if your friend Irene Kennedy finds herself needing to make a quick exit from the United States, my offer extends to her as well.”
Rapp walked back to the Humvee thinking that maybe Coleman and Claudia were right. In the private sector all you had to do was stand around while people threw money at you.
“What the fuck was that all about?” Esparza said.
“He figures I’m going to kill you in the next couple of weeks and wants to give me a job after I do.” Rapp slid into the passenger seat. “Now let’s get the hell out of here before someone changes his mind and starts shooting.”
CHAPTER 38
NORTH OF HARGEISA
SOMALIA
SAYID Halabi embraced the last person in line and stepped back as all six filed away. Allah had provided a rare overcast night, blinding any U.S. surveillance that might be overhead and extinguishing the stars. He was standing at the edge of the hazy ring of light created by a bonfire some fifty yards away. The light breeze swept the smoke toward him, bringing with it the sensation of warmth and scent of charred wood.
Near the fire a young girl lay on a cot, deathly still between violent coughing fits. From a safe distance, a man filmed the towering flames that framed her. He followed the embers swirling through the air for a moment and then focused on the six martyrs approaching the girl. Each wiped a hand across her face, smearing their fingers with saliva, blood, and phlegm, and then rubbing it into their eyes and noses.
When it was done, two of the men threw the cot and its dying occupant into the fire. Her screams filled the air for a moment before going silent forever.
Gabriel Bertrand looked on from beneath the tree he was chained to, watching in horror as the girl’s body writhed and blackened. Finally, he turned toward the people stripping off their clothing and cleaning themselves with powerful disinfectants. Halabi didn’t want them to leave a trail of disease that Western authorities could follow to him in Somalia. But more than that, he wanted the infection to appear in America as though it had come from nowhere. As though it was a punishment from God’s own hand.