American Assassin

Chapter 62
IT couldn't have been more than five minutes. The trunk opened and they were on him. Rapp couldn't tell how many, but it was more than two and fewer than five. The punched, grabbed, and pulled, finally yanking him from the space and throwing him to the floor. Rapp tried to block the blows as best he could, but they were coming from too many directions, and besides, the goal was not to show them how skilled he was at fighting, it was to play possum. To that end, Rapp started screaming and begging them to stop. The ass-kicking did stop, but only because they began stripping him.

When they were done, Rapp lay on the hard, dusty floor, whimpering. As best he could tell, they were in some type of bombed-out building. All of his clothes and possessions were thrown into the trunk of the car that he had just been yanked from. The vehicle started up again, and then the driver floored the gas and sprayed Rapp with loose gravel. The four men who were standing around him all started laughing.

A fifth man walked into the circle. Rapp recognized him as the one who had been leaning against the building. He was a senior member of Fatah. "Why are you doing this? I have been authorized by my government to negotiate with you."

Radih squatted on his haunches. He held out Rapp's Beretta. "Why do you need this to negotiate?"

Rapp shrugged. "This is a dangerous town ... I don't know."

Radih slapped him hard across the face. "I think you are a liar."

"Sorry."

"Shut up!"

"But the money..."

Radih slapped him again and Rapp started to whimper.

"I'm just a messenger."

"And what do you have to offer?"

"Money. Lots of it."

"How much?"

"A million dollars."

Radih roared with laughter. "I think it will cost you a lot more than that."

"Maybe I can get more money?" Rapp said hopefully.

"And maybe we will sell you to the Russians with the others."

"I can get you the money."

"I don't care about the money. And besides, you do not seem like you would fetch a very good price." The other men nodded and laughed. Radih was suddenly curious about this man. He had to be very low-level. "Why were you chosen to negotiate their release?"

Rapp shrugged and didn't answer.

Radih slapped him and one of the other men kicked his legs and screamed, "Answer him."

"I volunteered. Please don't hit me."

"And why would anyone volunteer for something like this?"

Rapp spoke softly into the floor.

"Speak up!"

"I said I am related to one of the men."

"Related? To who?"

"Stan Hurley."

"We don't have a hostage named Stan Hurley."

"Yes, you do. Hurley is his real name. You probably know him as Bill Sherman. That's why I volunteered. Please don't hurt me," Rapp pleaded. "I mean you no harm, I just want to get these men released. I promise we will not bother you again - "

"How are you related to this Stan Hurley?"

"He's my dad."

Radih could hardly believe his luck. He might not be able to kill Bill Sherman, but Sayyed had said nothing about his son. Radih stood. "Let's go," he announced to his men. "Tape his wrists and toss him in the trunk."

Rapp was as passive as he could be while they wound the duct tape quickly around his wrists. He counted ten times and noted that they didn't bother to tape his ankles.

"I can make you guys rich," Rapp pleaded as they tossed him in the trunk of a different car. The trunk was slammed shut and then they were off. He had no idea where they were to begin with, so the twenty-odd-minute drive that they went on through the city was unecessary. Just before they stopped, however, things became noticeably quieter. Almost as if they were in the country. When the trunk popped again, Rapp was hit with a blast of sunlight. He glimpsed a building that looked like it was slated for demolition. Two big men yanked him roughly from the trunk. Rapp's bare feet hit the rough ground and he realized they were in an alley. The buildings on each side were riddled with pockmarks, and not one of them had a window. Two blocks away he caught a glimpse of blue. Before he could take in anything else he was rushed into the building and down a flight of stairs. He was immediately hit by the smell of raw sewage. He almost gagged, and this time it wasn't for effect.

The hallway was ten feet wide with rooms on each side. They were all missing doors except three rooms at the midpoint on the right. He noted the two guards with bandannas tied around their faces. They were the first men who had tried to conceal their faces, and then Rapp realized it was the smell. The men who had him by the arms yelled ahead to the guards to open the first door. They removed the padlock from the latch and swung the door open. With a good enough head start Rapp thought he might be able to bust the latch off.

"Please," Rapp pleaded with the men. "I'm only an analyst. I can't do this. Please give me my clothes back and let me call Washington. I'll get you your money."

They tossed Rapp into the room like a rag doll. He tumbled to the floor, begging them to listen to him. Then the door was closed, and he was again enveloped in darkness. Rapp began to whimper, softly at first and then a little louder. For some strange reason, this room smelled better than the hallway, almost as if it had been cleaned with bleach. He recalled the landscape in the alley and remembered the thin strip of blue on the horizon only a few blocks away. It was the sea for certain, and with all of the bombed-out buildings it fit the general description of Martyrs' Square. The merchant must have been right. Rapp rolled onto his side and started digging through his thick hair. The fact that they hadn't covered his head with a hood worried him. He found the small blade and placed one end in his teeth. He set the blade against the top edge of the tape and began slowly moving his hands back and forth.