Pursuit of Honor

Rapp checked his rearview mirror and then yanked the steering wheel to the right. The car moved onto the shoulder.

“What are you doing?”

“Pulling over.”

“We don’t have time,” Nash said with alarm. “We’re late.”

“Well, you should have thought of that before you decided you wanted to have a bitch session.” Rapp brought the black Charger to a sudden stop and threw the gearshift into park. As he unbuckled his seat belt, he said, “Leave your phone in the car.” Rapp checked the mirror, waited for a car to whiz by, and then got out and circled around the trunk. He had a .45 caliber Glock on his left hip in a paddle holster and as he stepped onto the grass he rested his left hand on the butt of the weapon.

Nash reluctantly got out of the vehicle and said, “Come on, Mitch, this is bullshit.”

“What would be bullshit, would be putting you in front of the president and whoever else he’s bringing to this meeting.”

“I’m not the problem here, Mitch.” Nash pointed at himself and then, turning his finger on Rapp added, “I think you need to take a long hard look at yourself.”

“You are so fucking out of line right now, I don’t even know where to begin.”

“Why . . . because I have a conscience . . . unlike you and Stan, who pretty much do whatever the hell you want, whenever you want, to whoever you want?”

“You’re cracking up, Major,” Rapp said, using Nash’s Marine Corps rank. “Combat fatigue. You haven’t slept, you look like shit, and you’ve lost all discipline.”

“Discipline,” Nash spat the word back at Rapp. “Coming from you that’s just ripe. Your entire career has been one insubordinate move after another.”

“You used to talk to your battalion commander like this?”

“Stop with the Marine Corps analogies, all right. This is nothing like the Corps.”

Rapp took in a deep breath. What little patience he had was gone. “I’m giving you two options. You either take two personal days . . . five days . . . I don’t care how many days you need to sort this mess out, but you take ’em, and don’t come back until you get your head screwed back on.”

“What’s my second choice?”

“You resign right now.”

“And if I choose neither?” Nash asked with a forced lack of interest.

“Then I’ll fire your ass,” Rapp responded without hesitation.

“This is bullshit. I’m not the one with the problems. Maybe you should be the one taking a few days off.”

Rapp was on the verge of snapping. He’d seen this type of behavior before. Perfectly healthy guys who succumb to the stress of a job that can grind up and spit out the most hardened warrior. Hurley had warned him a week ago that Nash had been showing signs of fatigue.

Nash’s wife had called Hurley and shared some things that she probably should have kept to herself. Rapp thought of that conversation and asked Nash, “Tell me, when was the last time you had a hard-on?”

Nash frowned. “What the hell are you talking about?”

Rapp stared at him. “You know exactly what I’m talking about.”

“Fuck you.”

Rapp shook his head. “You can try to make this about me and what happened down at the lake, but you know that’s a lie. The only reason your plumbing doesn’t work when you’re thirty-eight is because you got some shit going on in your head.”

Nash’s face flushed with anger and he took a step toward Rapp and clenched his fists. “Don’t make this about me. I didn’t sign up for this shit. No one told me I’d be involved in kidnapping and murder . . . least of all of a fellow American. I don’t care how much you hate-”

Rapp was already alert to the fact that Nash might take an illadvised swing at him, so when he heard him getting a little too close to divulging what had gone down the night before, he took a quick step forward, and his left hand shot out like a battering ram. The palm strike landed in the center of Nash’s chest, rolling his shoulders forward and nearly breaking his sternum. The blow sent Nash backpedaling for a few feet and onto his butt.

Rapp closed the distance and remained in a combat stance. “If you’re dumb enough to get up, I swear I’ll put you in the hospital.”

Nash was clutching his chest and had the look of a feral animal on his face.

Rapp could tell he was calculating odds. “You’re so damn tired you look like a strung-out junkie. I don’t wa

“And if I don’t do what I’m told,” Nash said clutching his chest, “what are you going to do, kill me? Hurt my family?”

Rapp was in a state of semidisbelief. “You know damn well I’d never touch your family.”

“I’m not so sure.”

“Let’s be clear on one thing.” Rapp stepped closer. “If you break that oath you took . . . I wouldn’t dream of hurting your family.” He lowered his voice and added, “But I will kill you. It won’t be easy, and it’ll probably haunt me for the rest of my life, but this is bigger than our friendship.”

CHAPTER 20

CIA HEADQUARTERS

RAPP parked in the underground garage and proceeded to the director’s private elevator. Ke

Rapp entered the elevator, pressed the top button, and as the doors began to close, he thought of Nash. Decking him hadn’t bothered Rapp a bit. They were not analysts; they were front-line operatives who lived in a physical world of sparring and training. Judo, karate, wrestling, kickboxing, they practiced it all. Rapp himself was a devotee of the Gracie style of jujitsu and Nash, having been a state high school wrestling champ, was no pushover. Rapp knew more tricks and had never been bested by the slightly younger Nash, but the fact that Rapp had been able to knock him on his ass with one well-delivered palm strike said more about Nash’s mental state than one might imagine. If Nash ever came to his senses, he’d probably thank Rapp for knocking him on his ass. That’s the way Marines were wired. They could get pissed as all hell in the middle of a fight, but after things had calmed down, they would laugh at their own stupidity. They weren’t the type to be obsessed with the past. What was eating away at Rapp was the fact that he never saw it coming. Nash had been his recruit. The guy was a natural. Tough as nails, yet relaxed enough that he wouldn’t look like a robot the way a lot of the military guys did when they tried to transition into other careers.

Not more than two weeks ago Nash would have been the first guy in line to punch Adams’s ticket, and now he was wringing his hands like one of those blowing-in-the-wind politicians on the Hill. Rapp had seen a few guys burn out and crash land. Their line of work wasn’t exactly stress-free. More often than not they would bounce back after a little R&R, but occasionally a guy would end up in a free fall like some druggy who’d taken a bad acid trip. Rapp could only think of one time when that had happened and the guy had to be put down like a rabid dog. He didn’t even want to think they might end up there with Nash. Rapp knew his wife and kids well. Nash was a good family man and a friend, and unfortunately he also knew too much.