American Assassin

Rapp let out a slight grunt even though the sit-ups were easy. Sharif was almost to the bench. Rapp lowered himself to the ground and rested for a second. The entire operation seemed far too complicated. Far too many moving parts, as his college coach liked to say. Too many places where something could go wrong. Rapp began another set of twenty-five sit-ups. Sharif was just arriving at the bench. The man bent over, undid the dog’s leash, and tossed a small blue ball into a grassy area. The little brown sausage took off after it. When Rapp came up the next time, Rashid had a mobile phone out and was punching in a number. Ke

Rapp did another sit-up and thought of Dr. Lewis, the shrink. The man must have asked him in every conceivable way how he thought he would cope with taking another human life. Rapp had answered that question so many times he finally said to the shrink, “Well … I guess I won’t know until I kill someone.”

“That’s right,” Rapp muttered to himself. The whole idea behind the Orion Team was that it would have a small footprint. It would cut through all the bureaucratic BS and get things done in a more expeditious ma

Rapp thought of the past three years. All the sleepless nights when he had yearned for the opportunity to meet just one of the men behind the downing of Pan Am 103. When he had imagined down to the most minute detail what he would do to them. And now he had the man who had supplied the plastic explosives and military-grade fuse and detonator sitting in his sights. He’d waiting long enough. When the best course of action was staring you in the face you should take it. Rapp hopped to his feet and did a couple of side bends before walking over to a tree. He stretched one thigh and then the other, stealing a glance at Shariff as he did so. The man was too busy yapping on the phone to notice Rapp.

Rapp did a few more stretches and took a quick inventory of his surroundings. He counted four people within two hundred feet. The closest had just passed by on the sidewalk. Rapp waited to give the woman a good head start and then stepped out from behind the tree. His feet fell silently on the dirt jogging path that ran in front of Sharif’s bench. He unzipped his jacket a foot and slid his left hand inside. His thumb found the safety. He flipped it up. Rapp then pulled his hand out of his jacket and kept moving toward the target, who had yet to notice him. Twenty feet away Rapp’s pulse was as steady as it had ever been. His eyes narrowed a bit and he took in a deep breath. He could hear the man clearly now. It was same voice he’d heard on the tape Ke

Rapp never flinched, never wavered for a second. He was only ten feet away when Sharif finally looked up. Rapp gave him a friendly nod and then raised his right wrist to look at his watch. A split second later his left hand slid between the folds of his jacket and found the grip of the Beretta. He swung the gun up, the holster acting as a sling, the blue fabric of his ru

Rapp’s finger was prepared to squeeze the trigger when he changed his mind. He wanted to look into Sharif’s eyes. He wanted to confront the man. The two men locked eyes for a second. Rapp smiled at him, and then changed directions, took two steps, and casually sat down on the bench next to the arms dealer. Rapp leaned forward and jabbed the end of the silencer into Sharif’s ribs.

A look of panic washed over the Turk’s face. His mouth was agape, the mobile phone held in his right hand a half foot from his face. A man’s voice could be heard squawking from the tiny speaker. Rapp elevated the silencer a few inches and squeezed the trigger. The bullet pierced the fabric of the ru

Rapp jabbed the silencer firmly into the man’s ribs and in a menacing voice said, “How do you sleep at night?”

“What?” Sharif asked in total confusion.

“You heard me, you piece of shit. How do you sleep at night? Do you think of all the i

“I don’t know what you’re—”

“Shut up,” Rapp commanded. “I know who you are, and I have no desire to listen to your lies.”

“But—”

This time Rapp jabbed the silencer so hard into the man’s ribs that Sharif let out a small cry. “I only want to know one thing,” Rapp said. “Do you ever think about them? Have you ever felt an ounce of guilt over all the people you’ve helped kill?”

Sharif shook his head slowly and parted his lips to speak.

Rapp didn’t want to hear his lies. He squeezed the trigger and sent a bullet into Sharif’s chest. The Turk grunted and clutched his chest with both hands. Rapp stood, lifted his right arm again, as if he were checking the time, and squeezed the trigger three times in quick succession. The bullets spat from the end of the silencer, all three of them striking the arms dealer in the nose. The hollow-tipped rounds were designed to pancake on impact and triple in size. A pink mist exploded from the back of Sharif’s head. A good portion of the man’s brain was now in the bushes behind the bench. Rapp flipped the safety into the up position and moved off down the path without even the slightest bit of remorse.

CHAPTER 23

LANGLEY, VIRGINIA

THE Counter Terrorism Center was tucked away in the basement of the Old Headquarters Building at CIA. It was underfunded, understaffed, under decorated, underground, and pretty much isolated from all the major players in the building by both geography and attitude. Eight diligent souls worked there, and that was counting an overworked administrative assistant and Irene Ke

Ke

“You keep pulling your hair like that and you’ll go bald,” Ke

Swanson pulled his hand away and tried to stand still. After a half minute he couldn’t take it any longer and said, “The thing doesn’t make any sense.”