American Assassin

The guy who was standing got it first, a nice little shot from ten feet right in the left eye. The two guys playing the board game—one got it in the back of the head and the other in his open mouth. Rapp never stopped moving. It was another nice thing Hurley had taught him. When you have the advantage, close with the enemy. He was no more than eight feet away when he shot the two nappers. The first one was clean, but with the second guy, he was off a bit on the first shot, so he had to fire one more to put him out of his misery.

Six shots left. Rapp glanced to his left. The hallway had been barricaded with scraps of broken office furniture. The stairs going up were empty. He walked over to the little one-by-one-foot hole in the sandbags and looked across the street. Sure enough, about two hundred feet away was a similar building. This had to be Martyrs’ Square. Rapp slung his AK-47 over his right shoulder, stuffed the Beretta in his waistband, and picked up the dead lookout’s AK-47. He gripped the rifle firmly, flipped the selector switch to full automatic, and sighted at the building across the street. He didn’t want to kill anyone over there, but he did want to make sure he got their attention, so he chose a position on the second floor and let it rip. The bullets shredded the afternoon calm, thudding into the sandbags across the street and then the building itself as it climbed. Rapp emptied the entire magazine and dropped the weapon.

Without hesitating, he moved to the peephole on the other side of the front door and took aim with the other AK-47. This time he sprayed the entire building down, firing in controlled bursts. Twenty or so rounds into the magazine the building across the street erupted in gunfire. Rapp hauled ass down the stairs as he heard bullets smacking into the building and gunfire being returned.

Hurley was standing at the other end, waiting for him. “What in hell did you just do?”

“I gave the big FU to Washington and got us a little diversion.” Rapp looked up the stairs. The men were gone. “Come on. Let’s get the hell out of here.”

They climbed up the stairs, and when they reached the landing a heavyset guy in green fatigues came ru

Hurley followed Rapp out the back door just as a sedan skidded to a stop between two piles of rubble. The two men in the front seat jumped out of the car, yelling and asking what was going on. Rapp couldn’t hear them over the gunfire, and since they weren’t pointing a gun at him he wasn’t in any rush to kill them. All he wanted was their car. Two more men exited the rear of the car, one Caucasian and the other Middle Eastern. Both looked vaguely familiar, which made Rapp think he’d seen them in some of the photos Ridley had shown him.

Hurley said, “Merry fucking Christmas,” and then shot the two men in front.

Rapp raised the Beretta and took aim at the fair-ski

Hurley yelled, “Don’t kill the little Commie. Crack him over the head and stuff him in the trunk. I’ve got the other one.”

Rapp and Hurley rushed the two men, their weapons leveled.

Hurley swung the butt end of his rifle and cracked Sayyed across the temple. As the Syrian dropped to his knees, Hurley said, “Sayyed, old buddy. I can’t wait to play Twenty Questions with you.”

EPILOGUE

ZURICH, SWITZERLAND, FOUR DAYS LATER

THOMAS Stansfield sat on the park bench and looked up at the Rietberg Museum. He loved Zurich—the lake, the unique pace, the beauty of the mountains, but most important the safety it afforded a man of his profession. This city, and the small country it was part of, had managed to stay out of World War II, even with war raging just beyond its borders in every direction. And in the years after that, it had continued to offer respite for Cold Warriors like himself and the man he was about to meet, a place where they could lower their guard, not completely, but enough to enjoy life a little, and occasionally meet face-to-face to discuss mutually beneficial opportunities, or in this instance, conclude vital transactions.

Stansfield saw the two black sedans enter the park and glanced at his watch. The meeting would start on time, which was a nice surprise. The man he was meeting was notoriously late. Stansfield watched the sedans stop thirty feet behind the two vehicles in his entourage. Every detail had been agreed to in advance so as to not make either party unduly skittish. Two men in dark overcoats and sunglasses exited the first car. They looked like Eastern European versions of the two men who were standing a respectful thirty feet behind the CIA’s deputy director of operations.

A man with unusually large ears and puffy eyes exited the second car and buttoned his blue, double-breasted suit coat. One of the men approached with a wool overcoat, but the older man waved him off, which brought the hint of a smile to Stansfield’s face. He had spent six years in Moscow. To a Russian, forty degrees in Zurich this time of year would feel like summer. Yevgeny Primakov motioned for his men to stay by the car and walked over to the bench.

Stansfield did not stand and Primakov did not expect him to. Neither were handshakes offered. These were two men whose entire jobs revolved around seeing through other people’s deceptions.

“Did you bring my man?” Stansfield asked.

“Yes. Did you bring mine?”

“That was not part of the agreement.”

“It should have been,” Primakov said gruffly.

“There would have been a slight problem there, Yevgeny.”

“What?”

Stansfield turned so he could face him. “My man wants to come back to America. Your man.” Stansfield shook his head. “He doesn’t want to go back to Russia. What does that tell you?”

“How can I know that? You have not allowed me to talk to him.”

Stansfield pulled a manila envelope from inside his jacket. “I gave you the highlights on the phone. His boss, one of your deputies, has stolen more than twenty million dollars from Mother Russia and her fine citizens. That money is currently sitting in various accounts around the world. How do you think Deputy Shvets would be treated if I were to hand him over to you?”

Primakov did not answer the question.

“Yevgeny, you do realize I could have given this to the White House? They would have shared it with your president when the time was right, and you would have been put under suspicion along with that thug Ivanov.”

Primakov couldn’t bring himself to say thank you, so he asked, “Why the courtesy?”

“Because I don’t like my people being kidnapped and treated like a science experiment. You did bring Mr. Cummins?”

“Yes.” Primakov stuck out his hand for the envelope.

“Not until I see my man.”

Primakov motioned to his men, and they opened the back door of the first car. The bodyguard had to help Cummins out of the sedan. He was incredibly thin, but it was him. Stansfield looked over his shoulder and snapped his fingers. One of his bodyguards took off at a trot to help with the transfer.

“The package.”

Stansfield handed it to Primakov, who immediately tore it open. He flipped through the twenty-odd pages and asked, “And how do I know this isn’t all made up?”

“Check it yourself. The access codes are all there. The money is still in the accounts, although trust me, I thought about using it for a few of our more creative programs.”

Primakov considered that for a moment. He finally managed to say, “Thank you.”