Donatella pressed the button on the spring-loaded baton, extending it to its full length. Gatton didn’t even flinch. People were typically slow to process things that were utterly unexpected, and he was slower than most. She swung the weapon, slamming it into his ribs instead of going for the more obvious head shot. His grunt was audible through the roar of the rain, as was the satisfying snap of collapsing bone.
He staggered right and she spun, swinging the baton hard enough into the back of his legs to take his feet out from under him. His face twisted in pain when he hit the wet asphalt, but he couldn’t take in enough air to make a sound.
In her peripheral vision she saw Gatton’s companion pull a knife from his pocket. She turned and met his wide-eyed gaze with a dead one of her own. His confusion was even deeper than Gatton’s had been. The fact that she had a weapon and had used it to defend herself would be comprehensible, but her refusal to run for the safety of the street would be completely unfamiliar.
“Do we have business together?” she said, just loud enough for him to hear.
Apparently, they didn’t because he just gathered up his drug paraphernalia and fled.
*
Donatella shook off her umbrella and entered the parking garage. Her heart rate was still slightly elevated, but that was all that remained of what had happened. Her hair was still perfectly arranged, her makeup was unblemished, and her clothes were free of both wrinkles and blood.
She slipped into the gray Ford Focus the FBI had given her—out of spite, she assumed—and inserted the key in the ignition. She started to turn it, but then froze when a gun was pressed to her ear by someone in the backseat.
A cop? Could she have been seen? If that was the case, what should she do? Killing the man would be a trivial matter, but it wouldn’t play well with her FBI handlers.
No. What was she thinking? Police didn’t hide in backseats waiting for a suspect to get in their car. A former enemy? Doubtful. As odious an organization as the FBI was, it had hidden her identity quite competently. A mugger? A rapist? That would be interesting. After all this time, two men in one day.
“What the fuck was that all about?”
Despite the years, the voice was immediately recognizable.
“Mitch?” she said, turning slowly.
“You didn’t answer my question.”
“He stole from me,” Donatella said. The anger that had faded long ago erupted again. “Like you did.”
She pushed the gun aside and lunged over the seat, wrapping her hands around his neck and squeezing with everything she had. “You did this to me, you bastard! I had beautiful men. Beautiful women! A beautiful flat in Milan! I am what you made me!”
He dislodged her hands and shoved her back against the dashboard hard enough to knock the wind out of her.
“You did this to yourself, Donatella. How many times has the Bureau had to relocate you? Twice now? And from what I just saw, you’re going for a hat trick.”
“What are you doing here, Mitch? You don’t care about me. You haven’t for a long time.”
“That’s not true and you know it. But, damn, you’re a pain in the ass.”
“Are you going to send me to Iowa?”
It was the FBI’s favorite threat. And after what had happened two years ago in Dallas, they’d made it clear that it was no longer an idle one.
He shook his head. “I have a job you might be interested in.”
“A butcher shop that needs a new manager?”
“You’re never going to let that go, are you? It was just a suggestion. You like food and you’re good with knives.”
His phone rang and he put it to his ear. “No, the alley north of that. Uh-huh. I don’t give a shit. Bury him in the woods, feed him to some pigs. Just get rid of him. Yeah . . . One, but he doesn’t seem like the type who’s going to go to the cops. Forget him. I know she is. I already said I owe you, what more do you want? Fine . . .” He disconnected the call. “Where were we?”
“You were talking about a job,” she said, her eyes narrowing slightly. “Why would you be coming to me? Is this something Scott and his Boy Scouts can’t handle? No. They walk on water. Something that needs a feminine touch?”
His eyes shifted in a way that most people would have missed. They’d been together in their younger years and she could still read him. A smile began to play at her lips. “No, not a feminine touch. You’re into something too ugly for them. You’re isolated.”
“Something like that.”
Her smile broadened and she leaned back against the dash. “What’s in it for me?”
“What do you want?”
“I want to go home to Italy. And I want funding to start my own fashion line.”
“Cut the crap, Donatella. You know I can’t do that.”
“You can do anything.”
“The Mossad wants you dead.”
“You and Irene could take care of that with a phone call.”
“Yeah, but we can’t take care of Hamas. Those guys really know how to hold a grudge. And we can’t do anything about the enemies you made when you were working private. Try again.”
“Why don’t you make me an offer?”
“Don’t you want to know what the job is first?”
“Not really.”
“All right. New face, new identity. A nice condo in New York overlooking Central Park. You stay away from the fashion industry, but I bankroll you in an art gallery.”
“Art?” she said. It was something she’d never considered. “I like art.”
“I remember,” he said, slipping his Glock into the holster beneath his arm. “You used to drag me to those openings.”
“I thought you could use a little culture. Apparently it didn’t take.”
CHAPTER 23
Tal Afar
Iraq
ANTHONY Staton moved along the shattered wall, finally getting a glimpse of his target in the moonlight. The building was constructed of concrete and had sustained a fair amount of damage from the war and ISIS’s recent takeover of the city. The bottom floor was burned out, but the entire top floor had apparently been renovated into a luxury flat. It was hard to believe from where he was standing. Great care had been taken to leave no outward evidence that it was habitable, and blackout shades went down every afternoon just before sunset.
Now that the Agency had located it, there was nothing he would have liked better than to see the whole structure disappear in a pillar of flame. Paint it with a laser, wait for a drone to come overhead, and then slink out of there in the ensuing dust and chaos.
Unfortunately, that wasn’t the plan. The former Iraqi general who had planted his fat ass in this cut-rate penthouse was apparently too important to vaporize. Irene Kennedy wanted him alive, and that left Staton wandering around ISIS-held streets with nothing more than a bare-bones team to back him up. Fast and light was undoubtedly the best strategy in this situation, but that didn’t make him feel any less exposed. This was an op that he would have gladly let someone else handle, but the Agency was an operational clusterfuck right now. Scott Coleman was damn near in a wheelchair, Joe Maslick had dug in his heels, and Mitch Rapp had hung up his Glock. Who would have thought he’d live long enough to see that last one happen?
“This is Forward One,” came a voice over his earpiece. “I’m in position. Still quiet. Looks like we might get lucky.”