Consent to Kill (41 page)

“Officially, he doesn’t want you anywhere near this investigation. Unofficially, he says you have his consent to kill whoever was behind this.”

Rapp’s rising rage subsided immediately. “So I take it I can’t use your G-5 on Monday.”

Kennedy shook her head. “I can help you, but you’re going to have to run this thing in the dark. No official ties to the Agency.”

Rapp turned to Coleman.

The former SEAL grinned and said, “I have a G-3. Not as nice as the G-5 but it’ll get us from point A to point B. I also know a few guys who are itching to make a trip to Afghanistan.”

“Monday morning,” Rapp said.

“I think that’s rushing it a bit,” Kennedy said in a concerned voice. “You need more time to recover.”

Rapp shook his head. “Monday morning. The longer we wait the harder it’ll be to find them.” He glanced back to Coleman. “I expect to be billed.”

“Right after you kiss my ass,” Coleman said stone faced.

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.”

“Scott, it doesn’t feel right. If you and your guys are going to put it on the line you have to be paid.”

Coleman knew Rapp well enough to know that he wouldn’t stop on something like this unless he got his way. “I’ll tell you what we’ll do. When we catch these rat bastards, we’ll split the twenty-two million.”

“It’s all yours. Just make sure everything is ready to go Monday morning.”

“Don’t worry, the boys are raring to go.”

A
LEXANDRIA
, V
IRGINIA

A
nibal Castillo looked down at a map of Loudoun County and traced his finger along a road. He nodded to himself and then stepped out into the garage to check on the progress. Three identical black Chevy Suburbans were parked in the stalls. His men were busy getting them ready. For an illiterate thug who had not a single year of formal education and had been raised in the harsh poverty of a war-torn Third World country, Anibal Castillo was anything but stupid. At thirty-four he had never known peace. The first seven years of his life were spent with his parents and four siblings in the unforgiving ghettos of San Salvador where they were often forced to beg for food. In 1979 his native El Salvador was plunged into a brutal civil war and Anibal’s father did his best to keep the family out of the fray. The next year Archbishop Romero was assassinated. The Catholic priest was idolized by both of Anibal’s parents. Romero had been an advocate for the poor against a corrupt government and his brutal murder motivated many silent peasants to join the leftist guerrilla forces of the Farabundo Martí National Liberation Front or FMNL. Anibal’s father moved the family to the central highlands and he joined the fight against the forces of the Duarte regime.

Anibal started off as a courier for the rebel forces and then when he was big enough to handle a rifle he became a soldier. Like most civil wars there were atrocities committed by both sides. Anibal’s mother and two sisters were raped, one of his brothers had been captured, tortured, and shot by the government, and his father had been blown in half by a land mine. By the end of the war Anibal knew only violence. In 1995 he immigrated to America with his mother and two sisters. His surviving brother stayed behind and got involved in the drug trade. Anibal’s family was sponsored by a group of Christian missionaries and ended up in the Washington area. Anibal never tried to find a job. Through his service with the FMNL rebels he was almost a de facto member of MS-13. Those first seven years in Washington had been easy. MS-13 was still under the radar of the FBI, and the DEA hadn’t quite figured out how pervasive the gang was. The local cops thought they were just another Hispanic gang involved in drugs and car theft.

With fellow gang members either being killed or sent to jail, Anibal moved up the ranks quickly. At thirty-four he was now in charge of all of Prince William County and the majority of Fairfax County. Like Cosa Nostra before them, MS-13 expanded its operations into gambling and prostitution. If they had stopped there, they may have been able to continue unnoticed for quite some time, but they made two crucial mistakes. The first was that they got into extortion and kidnapping—two activities that tended to get the attention of the FBI. Their second mistake was to allow their gang-on-gang violence to spill onto the evening news and the morning papers. Law-abiding citizens, the ones who vote, didn’t care too much when thugs killed one another, but when innocent people started getting caught in the cross fire they became incensed. Their outrage was then directed at the politicians, and the politicians, who tend to have acute survival instincts, came down hard on law enforcement.

The end result was that MS-13 was being squeezed by the local cops and the feds. Drugs became harder to move, and extortion and kidnappings were a good way to end up behind bars. Castillo was forced to focus on stolen cars, which was chump change compared to the other stuff. This mysterious man who he had dealt with only once before had shown up at the perfect time. His posse was getting restless. They needed some real action. Stealing cars was fine for the teenagers, but many of his men considered it beneath them. They needed to spill some blood and this was the perfect opportunity.

Castillo approached the first black truck and asked one of his men, “How much longer?”

The man peeked out from under the hood, a wiring harness in one hand and a screwdriver in the other. “Ten minutes.”

Castillo checked his digital watch. It was 6:23. The man with the strange accent should be here any minute. “How are the other two trucks?”

“They’re ready.”

Castillo walked over to the next Suburban. All three had been stolen in the last five hours. The license plates were switched out, and police emergency flashers added to the front grilles and back windows.

“Hey, boss.” One of Castillo’s men walked up holding a pair of blue coveralls and a baseball cap. “Do we really have to wear these?”

Castillo didn’t bother to speak. He just looked at the man sideways like he was thinking about killing him right then and there.

The guy was wearing a white wife-beater T-shirt and a pair of super-baggy shorts. He looked down at the blue FBI hat and shook his head.

“You want to go to jail, you fucking moron?” Castillo stared at the man, half hoping he would give him an excuse to beat him to death. It might be a good lesson for the others.

“No, boss.” The man was smart enough to keep from looking Castillo in the eyes.

“Well, how the fuck do you think we’re gonna drive all the way out to Leesburg, kill a bunch of feds, and then get all the way the fuck back here without getting stopped? Huh?” Castillo slapped the man across the side of his head and then yelled, “Maybe you want to drive your pimped-out ghetto ride and see how far you get, you stupid bastard?”

The other gang members had stopped what they were doing to see what would happen next. Castillo did a half circle and yelled, “Does anyone else have any stupid questions?”

The gang members scrambled like cockroaches. Castillo was about to walk back into his office when his new friend entered the garage—this time with an even larger briefcase. Castillo jerked his head toward the office and the man followed. The Salvadoran closed the door so they could have some privacy.

Tayyib stood stiffly with the briefcase clutched firmly in his hand. In a cautious voice he asked, “Is everything all right?”

Castillo rolled his eyes. “That was nothing. My men will be ready.”

Tayyib remained frozen for a moment, thinking of his options, which were extremely limited. “The trucks?”

Castillo nodded.

“Are they part of your plan?”

“Yes. I figure even with your diversion it might be difficult to get back into the city.”

The Saudi agreed. He took it as a good sign that the man could be creative. “The car I asked for?”

“It’s ready.”

“I will have no problem with the law?”

“As long as you don’t get pulled over you should be fine.”

“What does that mean?”

“Exactly what I said,” Castillo said sharply. “It’s a stolen car. We changed the plates but if you get pulled over and they ask for the registration and proof of insurance you’re in trouble.”

Tayyib supposed it was the best they could do on such short notice. He hoisted the briefcase onto the Salvadoran’s desk. “Four hundred thousand dollars.” He was tempted to add that he would find him and kill him if he didn’t finish the job, but considering his limited resources, and the fact that the comment might get him shot right here and now, he decided to keep his mouth shut.

Castillo opened the case and looked inside. He smiled and asked, “Your diversion you told me about?”

“I need to borrow a few things from you.”

“Like what?”

“Can you spare an RPG and a few grenades?”

Castillo thought about it and then nodded.

“Good.” Tayyib checked his watch. “Be in position by nine-thirty and I’ll make sure the police have their hands full.” The Saudi started for the door and then stopped. Looking over his shoulder he added, “Just make sure you kill everyone.”

Castillo smiled and said, “Absolutely.”

CIA S
AFE
H
OUSE
, V
IRGINIA

T
he black Lincoln Town Car pulled up to the heavy gate. Rapp stood in the living room and watched. The sun was falling in the east, shooting golden streaks of light and shadows across the fields. Rapp assumed Kennedy was in the backseat of the luxury sedan but he couldn’t be sure. Lincoln Town Cars were a dime a dozen in Washington. It was 7:20, and his boss had been due to arrive at 7:00 with his brother. Steven had never been big on punctuality. Rapp had not seen his brother in almost two months. There was no strain in their relationship, it was just that they were both extremely busy. There was also the fact that the only thing they had in common was that they’d come from the same parents. At first glance, though, even that bond appeared debatable.

The car came to a stop in the circle by the front door. Out of habit Rapp watched how Kennedy’s security detail operated. The man behind the wheel kept the car in drive and the guy in the shotgun seat jumped out and scanned the area a full 360 degrees. Only then did he open the director’s door. Kennedy emerged from behind the heavily tinted windows and a moment later the blond, almost white head of Steven Rapp appeared from the other side of the car. Mitch smiled briefly. His brother had always had that effect on him. Steven Rapp was one of those rare individuals who were funny without having to try.

Mitch Rapp was six feet tall and weighed 185 pounds. Steven Rapp was five six and couldn’t have weighed more than a buck thirty-five. Mitch had black hair; Steven had blond hair. Mitch had square broad shoulders; Steven had a slightly concave chest. Where Mitch had brown eyes, Steven’s were a brilliant blue, and so the contrasts went. There had been a lot of mailman and milkman jokes while they were growing up and who could really blame the wiseasses—Mitch himself had wondered how these two opposites could have come from the same womb. Their mother for years laughed about it and claimed it was because Steven was undercooked by a full five weeks in the womb, whereas Mitch didn’t want to come out and was two weeks late.

Where Mitch had been blessed with athletic ability, Steven had been blessed with intelligence, and not just your average Mensa high-IQ type intelligence. Steven was a certifiable genius with a master’s degree in quantum theory from MIT. For the past four years he’d been running the hedge fund department for Salomon Brothers in New York City. His annual bonus last year had been a cool twenty-seven million dollars. Mitch had been giving him money to invest for nearly a decade, and Steven had turned several hundred thousand dollars into more than four million. He was extremely good at what he did, and Mitch was very proud of him. He was also very protective, which was why this next part was going to be awkward.

Even before their father had passed away so unexpectedly, Mitch had watched over Steven like an eagle guarding its nest. When their father died, Mitch pummeled any kid who so much as looked at Steven the wrong way. It got so bad that even Steven told him he had to find other ways to deal with his grief. This coming from his eight-year-old little brother. Even then the kid had been wise beyond his years. When their mother died of cancer, Mitch had made the extra effort to check in on him, to make sure his baby brother didn’t feel alone in the big city, but Steven just kept plugging along. His work was all-consuming and that was at least something he could identify with.

Tommy Kennedy entered the room and stood next to Mitch. Rapp put his arm around the boy.

Tommy looked out the window and said, “My mom says your brother is really smart.”

“Yep.”

“Do you think he’ll want to check out my Game Cube?”

Rapp grunted, amused by the question. Steven was the original video gamer, crushing all takers in Pong, PacMan, Asteroids, and all of the original video games. His apartment in Manhattan had a separate room just for gaming, replete with two custom chairs and a fifty-inch, high-definition plasma screen. Rapp nodded and said, “My brother will definitely want to check out your Game Cube.”

Rapp made his way toward the front door. Most of the aches and pains he had felt when he finally got out of bed in the morning were now gone. His right thigh hurt a bit, and his ribs were still tender, but other than that, he felt pretty good. The wood-paneled door had one six-inch titanium dead bolt. Rapp turned the dead bolt with his left hand and opened the door with his right. A beeping noise sounded in the hallway behind him. Rapp knew that an employee of the CIA was sitting in a small security room under the horse stables noting the fact that the door was open.

Rapp was dressed in the clothes Coleman had brought him: jeans, a T-shirt, and hiking boots. The white cast on his right arm was the only outward sign of his ordeal.

Kennedy clutched her purse against her left side and allowed Steven to catch up. Rapp’s brother was wearing loafers, khakis, a white dress shirt, and a blue blazer. His black eyeglasses helped him look a bit older. He looked up at Mitch, who was standing under the portico, and pushed his glasses up on his nose a notch. “I’m sorry, Mitch.” Steven climbed the steps and wrapped his arms around his brother. “She was an awesome woman.”

“Yes, she was.”

“I’m so sorry,” Steven said again as he squeezed his brother tight.

“I know.” Rapp put his arm around his brother and kissed his forehead. “I’m glad you came. It means a lot to me.”