? ? ?
The sound of running feet below didn’t materialize and instead Rapp heard a barely perceptible rustle carried by the humid air. With the help of the monocular, he was able to pick out a man inching along the edge of the trail, ten meters below and twenty to the north. His sudden caution confirmed what Rapp had already suspected. The Russians had some kind of overhead surveillance—likely a drone similar to the one Coleman would be flying if this hadn’t been such a last-minute operation.
It seemed likely that he’d been spotted when he’d crawled up that open mudslide and the Russians had correctly assumed that he was setting up an ambush. The man passed by and eventually started picking up speed again, assuming he was beyond the point of immediate danger. And for the moment he was right.
Instead of chasing, Rapp concentrated on preparing the unfamiliar Russian launcher to fire. Once he was sure he understood its operation, he turning his attention north again. It wasn’t long before he saw a brief flash of the trailing man, still dancing over the jungle floor but even more slowly now—he’d let his interval almost double. Undoubtedly he was on the comm confirming that his lead was still alive and planning his next move.
Rapp was getting sick of these drugged-up, thirtysomething terminators whom Krupin was churning out. Azarov was bad enough. The world didn’t need another one.
Sitting in a puddle and aiming through a light amplification monocular didn’t exactly make for precision targeting, but that was the beauty of these types of weapons. What was it they said about horseshoes and hand grenades? Close was usually good enough.
? ? ?
Pushkin’s body reacted even before his mind fully registered the sudden flare to the southwest. He dove right, bouncing off a tree and going limp, letting gravity pull him into a vine-tangled creek bed. Earlier, he’d identified the feature as a potential threat. Now it would likely become his savior.
The blast struck some five meters away, creating a powerful shock wave full of hot, pulverized vegetation that sprayed him through the vines. The jungle had taken the brunt of the blast, but not all of it. Pushkin lay still in the deep gouge in the earth, closing the eye served by his night-vision scope and using his naked one to scan the shadows created by the flames. Finally, he sat up and aimed his assault rifle over the edge of the depression. As expected, there was no human activity. The rocket had been fired from the last reported position of the man working with Azarov. It had been an attempt to dissuade further pursuit, not the first volley in an ambush.
Pushkin fell back against the bank, examining his bleeding side and pulling out a three-centimeter splinter of wood that had wedged between his ribs. That and the ringing in his ears appeared to be the worst of the damage, but it was enough. His situation was simple to evaluate but excruciating to accept. He had failed. He was temporarily deaf, his radio appeared to be badly damaged, and the injury to his side wasn’t life threatening but was severe enough to slow him down.
He pounded his fist into the dirt until it came back bloodied. The operation had begun with everything in his favor. Now he was bleeding uselessly into the mud while his men tried to evacuate their casualties. At great cost, all he had managed to accomplish was to wound Azarov’s woman—an affront that his predecessor wouldn’t take lightly.
The smoke thickened to the point that it was becoming hard to breathe and Pushkin returned to the trail, reluctantly heading back the way he’d come. He’d reconnect with the man protecting his flank and regain communications. From there he could determine whether his lead was still alive and coordinate a retreat.
Then it was simply a matter of crawling back to Russia and delivering his report to its president. Azarov was still alive. And he would be seeking revenge.
? ? ?
Rapp slid headfirst down the slope on his stomach, finally finding what he was looking for—a sturdy tree hanging about fifteen feet above the trail. He scaled it and slithered out onto a thick horizontal branch, hugging it with one arm while holding the Beretta in the other.
He was covered in sweat and mud, wearing a helmet tailored to someone else’s head, and fairly certain that some unidentified tropical creature had attached itself to his ass. It seemed impossible that his mood could get any worse until it started to rain. Hard. The branch was getting increasingly slick but he hung on as the water soaked his beard and worked its way into his mouth. Waiting and swearing under his breath.
It seemed longer than it probably really was, but he finally spotted a hazy outline through the sheets of rain. The man who had passed by earlier had heard the RPG impact and was coming to the aid of his comrades. The cover of the rain had made him far less cautious than he’d been the first time. His focus seemed to be on keeping his footing in the deepening mud and not on potential threats in the trees.
Rapp had no choice but to aim the Beretta awkwardly under the branch, but at least a few of the rounds from his burst found their target. Without the body armor his teammates had been wrapped in, the man crumpled and slid on his face through the mud.
Rapp dropped to the ground, sinking a good six inches as the runoff from the storm gained depth and force. A quick glance at his watch confirmed what he already knew. If this weather kept up, catching Azarov before he reached the LZ was going to be tight.
CHAPTER 8
THE rain had lasted only about ten minutes and the jungle floor was already beginning to dry. Despite the improved footing and improved light, Azarov had to admit to himself that it was time to stop.
His chest had constricted in a way that he’d never felt before in his years of training, operations, and athletic competition. He’d developed an ability to push beyond what his mind wanted to allow but then again he’d always done it while in peak condition.
Was it possible that at thirty-five years of age his heart was giving out?
He shifted Cara’s weight to a less agonizing position and supported himself against a tree. His legs were trembling badly but he refused to sit, unsure if he’d be able to get up again. Instead, he gripped the branches and tried to gain control of his breathing.
Was she dead?
He pushed the thought from his mind and focused on the mission as he had been so meticulously trained to do. The only thing that mattered was getting her to the evacuation point. All other considerations were either irrelevant or could be dealt with later.
A distant flash turned the grays and blacks around him to dull yellow and green. He turned only his head, unwilling to expend any energy that wasn’t directly related to enhancing Cara’s chance of survival. Flames erupted from the canopy to the northwest and then just as quickly disappeared again.
What did it mean? Had Rapp fired the RPG? Or had he been the target? He was certain that the team that had attacked his home was Spetsnaz, but there was no way to know their strength or capabilities. Did they have drones? Helicopters? A hundred men closing from every direction? Had the CIA man been hopelessly outnumbered and finally met his end?
Azarov began coughing uncontrollably and bent forward at the waist, feeling Cara’s limp body shift as he did. If Rapp was dead, his debt was paid. His team would do nothing further to help. Claudia Gould was terrified of him because of a confrontation he’d had with her late husband and he’d nearly killed Scott Coleman. He would arrive at the rendezvous location to find only a dark, empty road.
A dim flicker became visible to the south, likely a single kerosene lamp lit by someone who had been woken by the explosion. He knew the house well, having run past it hundreds of times during training. It was enough to give him a sense of his position on the trail.