“Copy.”
Very few people had managed to escape the building, but most of the ones who had were forgoing their vehicles and running for the edges of the property. That left Rapp a clear path to his car and a welcome amount of privacy as he shoved the wounded Saudi through the passenger-side door. A few moments later Rapp had the engine started and was reversing through Terry’s expensive landscaping. When the BMW finally jumped the curb into the street, he drifted it 180 degrees and slammed it in Drive.
“Mitch, you’ve got a vehicle coming hard at you from the southwest corner of the lot. Might just be someone looking to tag along on your escape route, but I wouldn’t bet on—”
Black’s voice was drowned out by the sound of automatic fire and the ring of impacts against the BMW’s rear end.
“Can you do anything about them?” Rapp said.
“No angle. You’re on your own, man.”
Rapp pressed his foot to the floor and was shoved back in the seat as the vehicle accelerated down a sweeping hill.
The stench in the car suggested that one of bin Musaid’s intestines had been punctured, and Rapp glanced over at him. The pallor was obvious even in the dim glow of the instrument lights, as was the amount of blood that was soaking into the upholstery. More concerning, though, was the Volvo in his rearview mirror. There was a man standing up through the sunroof, and Rapp could see the gleam of his weapon. So far they were out of range, but the driver was taking insane chances, nearly rolling over the steep embankment to the right every time he cornered.
“Did you hear those men speak, Your Highness?” Rapp said. “They sounded Iraqi. And there’s no question that they were after you personally.”
“Hospital,” he responded weakly. “Hospital . . .”
Rapp had seen enough people in similar shape to know that he wasn’t going to make it. This would be a short interrogation and he needed to focus the man. To that end, he eased up on the accelerator and let the Volvo get close enough for the shooter to shatter their rear window.
Bin Musaid’s feeble scream mixed with the roar of the M5’s engine as Rapp accelerated again.
“Your wound doesn’t look serious,” he lied. “And I think I can lose the men chasing us, but it’ll be hard to hide you from them—they know that I have to take you to a hospital. Who are they? Do you know anything I can use? The king has made it clear that you’re to be kept safe at all costs.”
Bin Musaid started to cry. “I . . . I betrayed him.”
“Who? Who did you betray?”
“I gave money to ISIS. I supported their effort . . .” His voice faded. For a moment Rapp thought he was dead, but a volley from behind jerked him back to consciousness.
“Nassar! It has to be.”
“Nassar? Do you mean Aali Nassar?”
Bin Musaid nodded and then coughed violently, spraying the steering wheel and Rapp’s right hand with blood. “He drained my bank account, knowing that I’d seek my brother’s help. He knew it would be easier to kill me in Europe than at home.”
“That makes no sense, Highness. If he suspects that you are involved with ISIS, why wouldn’t he go to the king? Why wouldn’t he just arrest you?”
“You don’t understand,” bin Musaid responded, weakening quickly. “I was just the messenger. He’s afraid that if the CIA takes me, I’ll reveal that he was behind all of it.”
“Behind all of it,” Rapp repeated. “Are you telling me that Aali Nassar is coordinating support for ISIS?”
Bin Musaid nodded.
“Who else is involved?”
The prince didn’t respond.
“Answer me!” Rapp shouted. “The king will take care of Nassar, but if I don’t know who the others are, I can’t stop them from killing you.”
“I don’t know,” bin Musaid sobbed.
“He must have said something. Wealthy businessmen? Other royals? Government employees?”
“The hospital,” bin Musaid said in a voice that was barely audible. “You have to get me to the hospital.”
He didn’t have much more time, and it was likely he was telling the truth about not knowing more. Why would Aali Nassar tell this useless piece of shit anything?
Rapp tightened his hands on the wheel and focused on putting a little distance between him and the chasing vehicle. He wasn’t going to be able to shake them completely, though. The Volvo was a surprisingly capable car, and the man behind the wheel was either going to stay on their tail or die trying. This situation was unusual in a fundamental way, though. For once, they weren’t after him.
He hammered his foot onto the brake pedal, slamming bin Musaid against the dashboard. Rapp kept his eyes on the headlights growing in his rearview mirror as he reached for the passenger-door handle.
“What are you doing?” bin Musaid managed to say before Rapp threw open the door and shoved him out.
“Stop! What—”
Rapp accelerated away, turning on the stereo and leaving bin Musaid lying in the road. In his rearview mirror, he saw the Volvo come to a stop in front of the prince, illuminating him in its headlights as the man in the sunroof emptied a full clip into him. After that, they hooked a U and disappeared back up the road.
With his immediate problems solved, Rapp dialed Claudia.
“Mitch! Are you all right? I’m not getting a GPS signal from you.”
“I’m fine. The transmitter probably got shot.”
“Where are you?”
“About seven miles south of Terry’s, getting ready to head back.”
“No, don’t. All the terrorists are down and Grisha and Donatella are out.”
“Do they need a pickup?”
“They’re fine on foot.”
“What about Kent?”
“He’s okay, but he had to get out of the apartment fast. There’s just no way to make that rifle quiet. I heard you have the prince. Is that true?”
“I lost him.”
“What do you mean, ‘lost him’? He’s not a set of keys! How could you have lost him?”
Rapp slowed to the speed limit and opened a window to try and clear the smell of bin Musaid’s damaged bowel. “Long story.”
CHAPTER 30
RAPP eased the BMW to the edge of the dock and looked both ways. It was empty of pedestrian traffic at this hour, and most of the yachts moored near his were dark. The inevitable exception was the one inhabited by the tireless rich kids. They were on another tear, but it wouldn’t be a problem for him. Even if they noticed the BMW and managed to make out the small-arms damage, they’d never remember it in the morning.
He turned left, trying to keep his engine noise down. Claudia was standing on the yacht’s stern and the gangways were in place.
He was barely on board before she started retracting them and closing the stern railing. Living up to his reputation for efficiency, their Congolese captain immediately began motoring out to sea.
Claudia opened the car’s passenger door and backed away at the sight of the blood. “Did you do this?”
“He got hit in the bar,” Rapp said, stepping out and talking quietly over the top of the vehicle. “They were chasing me because of him, so I tossed his body out.”