Consent To Kill

Chapter 51-52
51

CIA SAFE HOUSE, VIRGINIA

Physical injury and mental anguish brought with them uniquely different problems. Individually, each can cripple. A physical injury immobilizes a person, whereas psychological trauma incapacitates by inflicting fear or taking away an individual's desire to live. Separately, they are bad enough, but together they are almost always devastating. The last two days had been the worst of Rapp's life. His mind bounced back and forth between overwhelming despair and vengeful rage. As much as he wanted to leave the house and begin the hunt he was unsure of himself. Physically, he needed to recuperate, mentally he was a basket case. Having spent years in the field operating by himself, Rapp was a master at self-assessment. The searing hatred that he felt toward whoever was responsible for Anna's death would drive him to do whatever it took to find the culprits, and while Rapp understood the importance of motivation, he also understood the danger of being overly zealous. It caused people to take foolish risks that did not match the rewards. He would have to be smart about this. There would be times when extreme violence would be needed, but there would also be moments when he would need to be careful and judicious.

His body would heal soon enough. It had before and from worse injuries, but it was his mind that was the chief concern. Never before had he been so frightened to be alone with his thoughts. The black bottomless hole that his life had become was terrifying. He had done and seen terrible things, but nothing had so thoroughly unhinged him as the murder of his wife. It had gotten so bad that he actually asked to be given sedatives. It was the only way to turn off his mind and escape the horror of her death and the unending what-ifs.

But when he awoke it all came flooding back. The emotions had raged back and forth between hatred and complete despair. One moment he was swearing to himself that nothing would stop him from avenging her death and making the bastards pay, and the next moment he was curled up in a ball longing to touch her face one more time. And then came the inevitable-he blamed himself for her death. It was this lack of emotional steadiness, the ability to remove himself from the situation and think about the dilemma logically, that gave him great concern. If he couldn't get control of his emotions, he would fail.

Failure was unacceptable. The thought of them getting away with it, the knowledge that the longer he stayed cooped up in this room, the more likely it was that the killers would simply disappear, was what stopped his descent into darkness and depression. Ultimately, though, it was the thought of how pathetic he must look, curled up in a ball sobbing, that forced him to throw back the blankets, ignore the aches and pains, and swing his feet onto the floor.

As soon as he was upright a stabbing pain hit him in the temple and he realized it was the sedatives. It was time to take a complete physical inventory. He was wearing a pair of pajama shorts. He briefly wondered where they'd come from and then it occurred to him that he no longer had any clothes. The house, the car, all of his possessions, they were gone. He assumed even Shirley, his dog, had gone up in the explosion. Compared to the loss of Anna it was all trivial. He looked down at his leg and examined the deep purple bruise on his right thigh and then the small surgical marks on his left knee. The thigh looked far worse than the knee. His broken right arm felt fine, but his ribs were tender. He pushed himself off the bed and stood. The first step was more of a shuffle. His left knee was stronger than he would have thought. There was a robe on the back of the door and he hobbled over and grabbed it.

He made his way downstairs slowly, and in the process realized that his right leg was definitely in worse shape than his left. He paused near the front door and looked out the side window. The sky was gray and there wasn't a person in sight. There was a mirror on the wall and he stopped to look at his reflection. His thick black hair was unkempt, and his face was covered with stubble. The entire house felt unusually quiet. Rapp, so used to being alone, suddenly felt the need to be around people. He wanted information. He wanted to know what was going on. He shuffled his way down the hall to the kitchen. His legs were beginning to work better. The smell of coffee caught his attention. The clock on the microwave told him it was 9:53 in the morning. He found a mug in the cupboard and poured himself a cup.

Out of the corner of his eye, Rapp caught some movement. He shuffled over to the sink and looked out the window. Two people were sitting at a table on the patio. It was Irene Kennedy and her eight-year-old boy, Tommy. Tommy was slouched in his chair looking bored, kicking his leg up and down. Irene was talking on her phone. Rapp took in a deep breath and slowly let it out. Tommy was like a nephew to him. The boy adored Anna. Rapp suddenly felt both foolish and selfish for thinking only of himself. Anna would be missed by a lot of people.

Rapp set his coffee down and made his way over to the door. He twisted the handle and pulled. The door didn't budge. Rapp remembered he was in a secure CIA facility. Just like his house, the door jambs were reinforced and reversed so they only opened out. He pushed the door open and stepped carefully onto the brick patio. He pulled at the knot on his robe and slowly made his way over to them. Tommy noticed him and stopped fidgeting. He sat up straight and appeared hesitant. Kennedy turned around and told whoever she was talking to that she had to go. Rapp noticed movement on both his right and left and turned in each direction. Two of Kennedy's bodyguards were standing post. Rapp made it to the table and little Tommy stood. His eyes were already welling with tears. Rapp opened his arms and the boy buried his face in Rapp's stomach.

Tommy began sobbing uncontrollably. In between quick gasps of air he choked out the words "I'm sorry."

Rapp fell into a chair and held him as tightly as his ribs could take. The sight of someone he cared so much for, someone he knew adored his wife, melted what little resolve he'd managed to muster and the tears flowed once more.

They sat underneath the umbrella like that for a long time. He tried to tell Tommy everything would be all right, but even he could hear the uncertainty in his voice. Everything wasn't going to be all right. The one person he loved more than anything in the world was gone, and he found himself teetering on the verge of complete despair. How did his life get to this awful place?

Rapp heard a dog bark and he looked up to see Shirley, his collie mutt, running toward him. The unexpected surprise put a smile on his face. Rapp let go of Tommy and held out his arms for Shirley. The dog jumped up, placing its paws on Rapp's lap. Rapp scratched her neck and said, "I thought you were gone."

"One of your neighbors took her in after the explosion," Kennedy said. "Tommy thought it would be a good idea to bring her with." Kennedy smiled at her son. "He said a person came to school this year and told them dogs helped people recuperate after they've been in an accident."

Rapp scratched Shirley's neck some more and looked at Tommy. "Thanks, buddy."

"You're welcome." Tommy reached out and petted the dog. "If you need me to, I can take care of her."

"That'd be nice."

"I also brought my Game Cube."

Rapp nodded, touched that the little boy was so concerned.

"Maybe we could play later." He started kicking his leg. "I thought it might help."

Rapp wanted to cry all over again, but managed to keep it together. "Thanks, Tommy."

Kennedy wiped away a tear of her own and asked Rapp, "Are you hungry?"

"Starved."

The three of them went back into the house and Kennedy made pancakes. She managed to keep the conversation off the explosion by handing Rapp a newspaper and sending Tommy into the other room to set up his Game Cube. As he read the paper, Kennedy informed him that his brother Steven had called. He was on his way down from New York. Kennedy offered to bring him to the house for dinner. Rapp simply nodded. Both Rapp's mother and father were gone. He and his brother were not close in the sense that they spent a lot of time together, but they shared a deep bond. It would be good to see him.

The hard part came when she brought up Anna's parents. They'd arrived the day after the explosion and were waiting to talk to him. Funeral arrangements needed to be made, and they wanted his input. It was obvious Rapp was dreading the confrontation. They would blame him for their daughter's death. Why wouldn't they? He blamed himself, after all.

They ate breakfast outside next to the pool. Rapp devoured four pancakes and three sausage links. Tommy tried to keep up with him, but only managed two of each. They were just finishing when Scott Coleman showed up. He entered the backyard through a side gate. He was wearing jeans, hiking boots, a blue T-shirt, and a baseball cap. A large black nylon bag was slung over his shoulder. He stopped next to Rapp and dropped the bag.

"I picked up a few things at some stores. I assume you're still wearing extra small."

Rapp ignored the barb and slowly leaned over to unzip the bag. His ribs were giving him some difficulty. There were several North Face T-shirts, a fleece vest and jacket, sunglasses, hiking boots, pants, underwear, socks. The colors ran decidedly toward muted greens and light browns. At the bottom of the bag he found a brand-new Glock 17 pistol complete with silencer and hollow-point ammunition.

Coleman rubbed Tommy's short hair and asked, "How are you doing?"

"Fine."

"Do you think I could have a minute alone with your mom and Mitch?"

Tommy looked at his mother and then said, "Sure." He stood. "I'm gonna go look at the horses."

"Be careful," Kennedy said as Tommy took off at a trot. The boy called for Shirley to follow and she sprang after him.

When he was far enough away Rapp pulled the pistol from the bag and held it up to the sunlight for a better inspection. He grabbed the back of the slide between the meaty part of his palm and his fingers and yanked it back. He moved the weapon around and checked out the chamber and barrel. The piece was well oiled and clean.

"What in the world are you doing bringing him a gun?" Kennedy was not happy.

Coleman ignored her. "I added the night sights and had them shorten the trigger pull."

Rapp pointed the gun toward the ground and squeezed the trigger. He nodded. "Thanks." Rapp set the 100-round box of ammunition on the table and began loading all three clips.

"Did you bring him a razor?" Kennedy asked.

Rapp scratched his thick stubble.

"You're not going to want to shave that just yet," said Coleman.

"Why?"

The former commander of SEAL Team 6 looked at Kennedy. She turned her soft gaze back to Rapp. "We've made some progress. The man who placed the bounty on your head was Saeed Ahmed Abdullah."

Rapp's dark eyes narrowed. "Waheed's father?"

"Yes."

"How solid is the intel?"

"For obvious reasons the Jordanians are not revealing their source, but they say the man has never let them down before."

"What else do we have?"

"Yesterday the NSA picked up a phone call made by Abdullah. We don't know who he was calling, but he was extremely upset. He told the person to finish the job or refund his twenty-two million dollars."

"Twenty-two million," Coleman said in disbelief.

Even Rapp was shocked by the number. "What did the other guy say?"

"We don't know. Abdullah was leaving the person a voice mail."

"Any luck with the phone number?"

Kennedy shook her head. "We don't have it. They only picked up Abdullah's voice from his end."

"Shit."

"We're working some other angles," Kennedy offered. "The vastness of his wealth is making it difficult, but we're looking for any transactions in the last month that might add up to twenty-two million dollars."

Rapp stared off toward the stables for a long moment.

"What are you thinking?" Kennedy asked.

"On Monday morning I'm going to need your G-5."

Rapp was referring to Kennedy's executive jet. "Just where are you planning on taking it?"

"Afghanistan."

Coleman started laughing. He looked at Kennedy and said, "You haven't told him yet."

"No."

"Told me what?"

"Your passport has been revoked, and I have promised the National Security Council that I will keep you under protective custody."

"Why?" asked Rapp in an angry voice.

"The vice president, secretary of state, attorney general, and the director of National Intelligence all convinced the president that you should be kept out of the investigation."

"What little investigation there is," Coleman interjected.

Kennedy gave him a look that said, You're not helping things.

"What's going on with the investigation?" Rapp asked.

"We'll get into that later. Let me first tell you what the president had to say to me in private. First of all, he is very sorry about Anna. You know he liked her very much."

Rapp didn't want to hear condolences right now and the expression on his face made it clear that Kennedy better get to the meat of the discussion quickly or Rapp's lid would blow.

"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."

52

ALEXANDRIA, VIRGINIA

Anibal 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 Mart?? 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 f*cking 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 f*ck 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 f*ck 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."