American Assassin

Rapp thumbed the transmit button and said, “Curly, this is Moe, over.” The Three Stooges monikers was Ridley’s idea.

“I’m here, Moe, what’s up?”

“I just got back from the market. Two guys tailed me back to the hotel.”

“Not a surprise. How was the market?”

“Pretty much treated me like a leper … just like you said.”

“Yeah … bad part of town. They haven’t seen a gringo around there in some time. I’m sure you were a big hit.”

“I did pick up one piece of information.” Rapp paused, trying to figure out the best way to pass it along without giving too much away on an open cha

There was a slight delay and then, “Yep … I remember.”

“He referenced a local standoff … a land grab … kind of a standoff at the OK Corral.”

“I’m with you.”

“There was one vendor … cagey fellow. Told me on one side of the corral, the guys are keeping some things in the basement.”

“I think I copy. Can you give me more on the source?”

“He sold electronics. Boom boxes, small radios, clocks, that kind of stuff.”

Ridley asked for a description of the man and his stall and Rapp gave it to him. Then Ridley said. “I’ll pass this on to the American and see what he’s heard. Anything else?”

“No,” Rapp said as he crossed over to the window and pulled back the curtain. The two men who had followed him had taken up positions directly across the street. “Those guys I mentioned have decided to camp out in front of the hotel.”

“Not a surprise. You sure you still want to do this?”

Rapp had just been asking himself the same question. But like his high-school lacrosse coach used to say, you can’t score unless you shoot. “I’m fine,” Rapp said into the small radio. “If I don’t check in at noon, you’ll know I’m either dead or in the middle of negotiations.”

“Let’s hope it’s the latter.”

“Roger that. Over and out.” Rapp took off his khaki sport coat and went into the bathroom to splash some cold water on his face. He patted the drops of water with a towel and looked at himself in the dusty, cracked mirror. Rapp eyed his fractured reflection; his thick head of black hair, the begi

Rapp played Ridley’s words over again in his head. “We know from debriefings that these things follow a certain pattern. It usually starts with a whack across the back of the head, but not always. You’re then tossed in either the backseat or the trunk, taken somewhere and stripped naked, and then moved one or two more times. There’s a good chance you’ll never be in the same building as them. Then again … they might be two doors down and you’ll never know they’re there unless you get free.”

Rapp stared at his reflection and questioned his sanity. “Are you fucking nuts?” Rapp couldn’t remember if he’d ever talked to himself out loud like this in the mirror. Maybe drunk, but never sober. It all flashed before him in that moment. He could slip out the back door and find his way back to the other side of town. Like Ridley had told him last night, “If you get cold feet, no one will judge you.” Except for himself, of course. Rapp did not want to live the rest of his life that way. This wasn’t like making a mistake in the heat of battle. This would be making a conscious decision to run from the field of battle. And not just to run, but to desert two of his fellow soldiers and leave them for dead. Rapp knew himself well enough to understand that a failure of this magnitude would haunt him for the rest of his days.

He pushed himself away from the mirror before he lost the courage. He checked the window again. They were still down there and had possibly been joined by another guy who was standing at the far end of the block. Rapp looked over at his gun, which was on the night table. It had been suggested that, to complete his performance, he should leave the gun in the room, but he didn’t like that idea. He’d rather walk out of the hotel buck-naked than leave the gun. He could explain it away as a precaution. Everyone else in this town walked around with a gun, so why shouldn’t he? The radio was the only other thing to decide on. He chose to bring it with him. If he didn’t get picked up right away, he might need to call Ridley with an update. As a precaution, he changed the cha

Rapp quickly scrawled a note and left it on the small desk in the corner, then put his sport coat back on and checked all the pockets. Everything was where it should be. Lifting the back of his jacket, he wedged the Beretta into his waistband and gathered his sunglasses, the map, and a large wad of cash and headed for the door. He hesitated for a split second, then told himself not to think.

“I’d rather go down swinging,” he muttered as he shut the door. If he survived this little ordeal he’d have to ask Lewis if talking to yourself was a symptom of losing your mind.

Rapp moved quickly down the four flights of stairs to the lobby. There was a new man behind the front desk and he looked nervous as all hell, which Rapp took as a sign that someone had talked to him. This was it. Showtime. Rapp continued out the front door into the blazing daylight and held his map above his head to block the sun while he looked up and down the street. Looking out from behind the sunglasses, he pretended not to notice the duo from Islamic Jihad. With his face buried in the map, he turned to the right and started heading east as if he was going back to the market.

Within half a block, Rapp’s nervous system began sending his brain alarms, each more frantic than the previous one. Now he was talking to himself again, but this time it was in his brain. The conscious, here-and-now, higher-functioning part was talking to the ingrained lower-functioning part like a jockey talks to a thoroughbred as it’s being led into the starting gate. Easy, he repeated to himself over and over. It took every ounce of control to override his training and millions of years of basic survival instincts that were embedded like code into the human brain. Up ahead, Rapp recognized a black car that was parked across the street. Earlier in the morning the car had been empty. Rapp ignored the man behind the wheel and turned down a narrow side street. Just thirty paces ahead a rough-looking man was stationed in front of a shop. His left leg was straight and firmly planted on the pavement and the other bent up behind him and placed against the side of the building. His big frame was resting against the wall while he took a long drag off his cigarette. The man had dusty black pants and a white dress shirt with sweat-stained armpits, and there was something vaguely familiar about him. Rapp wondered if he had been in one of the photos Ridley had shown him.

The street was otherwise empty. The survivors of the bloody civil war could smell trouble, and they had wisely decided to stay indoors until the morning’s sideshow was concluded. Rapp heard the men behind him, their thick shoes pounding out their progress and pace on the sidewalk. Suddenly a car engine revved, and the pace of his pursuers quickened. With every step Rapp could feel them closing in from behind. His brain ran through options and avenues of escape and he denied each one, willing himself to stay the course like a deranged ship’s captain headed for the shoals at full speed.