Consent To Kill

Chapter 53-56
53

CIA SAFE HOUSE, VIRGINIA

The black Lincoln Town Car pulled up to the heavy gate. Rapp stood in the living room and watched. The sun was falling in the east, shooting golden streaks of light and shadows across the fields. Rapp assumed Kennedy was in the backseat of the luxury sedan but he couldn't be sure. Lincoln Town Cars were a dime a dozen in Washington. It was 7:20, and his boss had been due to arrive at 7:00 with his brother. Steven had never been big on punctuality. Rapp had not seen his brother in almost two months. There was no strain in their relationship, it was just that they were both extremely busy. There was also the fact that the only thing they had in common was that they'd come from the same parents. At first glance, though, even that bond appeared debatable.

The car came to a stop in the circle by the front door. Out of habit Rapp watched how Kennedy's security detail operated. The man behind the wheel kept the car in drive and the guy in the shotgun seat jumped out and scanned the area a full 360 degrees. Only then did he open the director's door. Kennedy emerged from behind the heavily tinted windows and a moment later the blond, almost white head of Steven Rapp appeared from the other side of the car. Mitch smiled briefly. His brother had always had that effect on him. Steven Rapp was one of those rare individuals who were funny without having to try.

Mitch Rapp was six feet tall and weighed 185 pounds. Steven Rapp was five six and couldn't have weighed more than a buck thirty-five. Mitch had black hair; Steven had blond hair. Mitch had square broad shoulders; Steven had a slightly concave chest. Where Mitch had brown eyes, Steven's were a brilliant blue, and so the contrasts went. There had been a lot of mailman and milkman jokes while they were growing up and who could really blame the wiseasses-Mitch himself had wondered how these two opposites could have come from the same womb. Their mother for years laughed about it and claimed it was because Steven was undercooked by a full five weeks in the womb, whereas Mitch didn't want to come out and was two weeks late.

Where Mitch had been blessed with athletic ability, Steven had been blessed with intelligence, and not just your average Mensa high-IQ type intelligence. Steven was a certifiable genius with a master's degree in quantum theory from MIT. For the past four years he'd been running the hedge fund department for Salomon Brothers in New York City. His annual bonus last year had been a cool twenty-seven million dollars. Mitch had been giving him money to invest for nearly a decade, and Steven had turned several hundred thousand dollars into more than four million. He was extremely good at what he did, and Mitch was very proud of him. He was also very protective, which was why this next part was going to be awkward.

Even before their father had passed away so unexpectedly, Mitch had watched over Steven like an eagle guarding its nest. When their father died, Mitch pummeled any kid who so much as looked at Steven the wrong way. It got so bad that even Steven told him he had to find other ways to deal with his grief. This coming from his eight-year-old little brother. Even then the kid had been wise beyond his years. When their mother died of cancer, Mitch had made the extra effort to check in on him, to make sure his baby brother didn't feel alone in the big city, but Steven just kept plugging along. His work was all-consuming and that was at least something he could identify with.

Tommy Kennedy entered the room and stood next to Mitch. Rapp put his arm around the boy.

Tommy looked out the window and said, "My mom says your brother is really smart."

"Yep."

"Do you think he'll want to check out my Game Cube?"

Rapp grunted, amused by the question. Steven was the original video gamer, crushing all takers in Pong, PacMan, Asteroids, and all of the original video games. His apartment in Manhattan had a separate room just for gaming, replete with two custom chairs and a fifty-inch, high-definition plasma screen. Rapp nodded and said, "My brother will definitely want to check out your Game Cube."

Rapp made his way toward the front door. Most of the aches and pains he had felt when he finally got out of bed in the morning were now gone. His right thigh hurt a bit, and his ribs were still tender, but other than that, he felt pretty good. The wood-paneled door had one six-inch titanium dead bolt. Rapp turned the dead bolt with his left hand and opened the door with his right. A beeping noise sounded in the hallway behind him. Rapp knew that an employee of the CIA was sitting in a small security room under the horse stables noting the fact that the door was open.

Rapp was dressed in the clothes Coleman had brought him: jeans, a T-shirt, and hiking boots. The white cast on his right arm was the only outward sign of his ordeal.

Kennedy clutched her purse against her left side and allowed Steven to catch up. Rapp's brother was wearing loafers, khakis, a white dress shirt, and a blue blazer. His black eyeglasses helped him look a bit older. He looked up at Mitch, who was standing under the portico, and pushed his glasses up on his nose a notch. "I'm sorry, Mitch." Steven climbed the steps and wrapped his arms around his brother. "She was an awesome woman."

"Yes, she was."

"I'm so sorry," Steven said again as he squeezed his brother tight.

"I know." Rapp put his arm around his brother and kissed his forehead. "I'm glad you came. It means a lot to me."

54

LEESBURG, VIRGINIA

The stolen Mercedes ML 500 had only 8,456 miles on it. It was black and had dark tinted windows just as Tayyib had requested. He had seen quite a few of the mini sport utility vehicles since he'd arrived in America. They were fairly common, but still expensive. Tayyib thought it would be a good vehicle to both blend in and remain above suspicion. After leaving the shop in Alexandria, he had taken the expressway out toward Dulles International Airport. From there he'd taken the Hirst-Brault Expressway north toward Leesburg. About six miles south of the town he took a detour and headed west. He came upon the horse farm a few minutes later and kept his speed at 55 mph as he drove along the edge. Trees dotted the fence line and obscured the house that sat atop a hill a good four hundred yards off the road. The main gate had cameras mounted on both the left and the right. Tayyib guessed Castillo and his people would have little trouble getting past it.

He continued down the county road for a few more miles and then turned around to head back to town. It was twilight and he needed to get into position. On the way into Leesburg, Tayyib drove past the Loudoun County Sheriff's Department. He'd found the address on the internet and printed directions from MapQuest. Six cruisers and a Suburban were parked in the lot along with another half dozen civilian cars. He continued into town and did a slow pass of the government center and the police department. He noted three police cars in the lot and another one pulling out. He had no idea when the shift changes took place but he doubted it was at 9:30 on a Saturday night. He drove slowly through the quaint town. It was filled with antique stores, bed and breakfasts, and a smattering of coffee shops, ice cream parlors, bars, and restaurants.

Tayyib parked on the street around the corner from a caf??. He walked back to the caf?? and was greeted by an overly enthusiastic and underdressed young woman. He ordered an espresso to go and looked around the place. There were three other patrons inside: two teenagers making out near the front window and a young man pecking away on his laptop computer. Tayyib felt like slapping the young couple but reminded himself he had more important things to do. After paying in cash he went and stood in front of the caf?? until the time was right. The air seemed a bit chilly, but none of the locals seemed to mind it. A woman in a tank top passed by walking a dog, and a couple of teenage girls sat in front of the ice cream parlor in skirts that barely made it a third of the way down their thighs. Across the street he could hear loud music spilling out of a bar, couples were out and about, and a few teenagers whizzed by on skate-boards. They all seemed to be having a grand time. Well, that's about to end, Tayyib thought to himself.

Tayyib was standing next to a small tree. He studied the branches for a second and picked his spot. After checking his watch one more time, he drained the rest of the espresso and threw the cup to the ground. Turning to the side so the two young lovers couldn't see what he was doing, he reached into his left jacket pocket and pulled out a hand grenade and a coil of fishing line. Tayyib turned his back to the caf??, looked to his left and his right, and then took the grenade and slid the spoon over one of the branches. The grenade dangled there like a piece of fruit-its matte green finish not quite blending in with the bright fall colors. Tayyib grabbed the end of the fishing line. One end was tied to the pin and he wrapped the other end around two fingers, dropping the loose coil to the ground. Casually, he started back for the car. A middle-aged couple passed him on the sidewalk and he edged closer to the street so they wouldn't get their feet tangled in the line. The last thing he wanted was a bunch of shrapnel in his back.

When Tayyib reached the corner he stopped and turned around. He could only make out the first few feet of the fishing line and then it disappeared in the shadows. The middle-aged couple were almost to the caf?? and two women were approaching from the other direction. The more mayhem, the better, Tayyib thought to himself. He grabbed the coil firmly in his hand and continued around the corner. Once he was shielded he drew in the slack and gave the line a good yank. The line popped free and Tayyib dropped the loose bundle of fishing line to the ground.

He started for the car, counting the seconds in his head. He got to five, and then it happened. A loud explosion ripped through the still night air. Tayyib unlocked the Mercedes, climbed behind the wheel, and put the car in drive. He drove down Plaza Street and two blocks later stopped for a red light. When the light turned green, he continued past the police station and headed out of town, careful to maintain the posted speed.

Tayyib reminded himself that the important thing was to stay calm. He put on a pair of gloves and grabbed a black ski mask from the passenger seat. A few minutes later he turned onto Catoctin Circle and pulled up in front of the Sheriff's Department. Nothing had changed. The same vehicles were parked in the same spots. Tayyib pulled the ski mask over his head and threw the Mercedes in park. He calmly got out of the car, walked around to the rear of the vehicle, and popped the tailgate. Inside was an oily tarp from the garage. Tayyib moved it out of the way and grabbed a Chinese-made rocket-propelled grenade. It was loaded and ready to go. He shouldered the weapon and turned to aim it at the front door just as two deputies were rushing out. Tayyib widened his stance, put most of his weight on his back foot, and squeezed the trigger. The 40mm round traveled at a speed of 400 feet per second and Tayyib was a mere eighty feet from the building. There was a split-second delay and then a swooshing noise followed almost immediately by the detonation of the grenade.

Thousands of shards of glass flew in every direction. Tayyib lowered the weapon and looked at the two deputies. They were both on the ground just his side of the door. Neither was moving. Tayyib assessed the damage that had been done by the RPG round. Smoke was pouring out of the building and he could hear people screaming from inside. He dropped the RPG to the ground, and it clattered on the asphalt. In a nearly robotic fashion he pulled the last grenade from his pocket, yanked the pin, and threw the grenade through the shattered entrance, over the bodies of fallen deputies and toward the chorus of panicked voices. He turned, closed the tailgate, and was at the open driver's door when the grenade detonated. He didn't even flinch. He got behind the wheel, put the car in drive, and calmly pulled back out onto the county road.

Tayyib removed the ski mask and checked his watch. Castillo and his men would be moving into position and starting their attack any minute. As tempted as Tayyib was to go monitor the situation, he knew he needed to get rid of the vehicle as quickly as possible. He stepped on the gas and headed south for Dulles International Airport.

55

CIA SAFE HOUSE, VIRGINIA

Steven carried the conversation during dinner, regaling Irene and Tommy with stories of what Mitch had been like growing up. His quirky, self-depreciating sense of humor helped take everyone's mind off the tragedy for a short while. Even so, there had been moments during the meal where Mitch would get that faraway look in his eye. To his brother, it was obvious he was thinking of Anna. Steven would respond by saying, "Remember that time..." and then he would be off telling another story.

The meal wound down, the wineglasses were drained, and young Tommy let out a yawn. Irene took this as an opportunity to give the two Rapp brothers a moment alone. She had decided since it was a Saturday night and Mitch was up and moving around that it would be best if they all stayed over. Steven had agreed. "It looks like someone is ready for bed."

Tommy shook his head. "No. I don't have school tomorrow."

"It's still late."

"But I didn't get a chance to show Steven my Game Cube."

Kennedy looked up at the grandfather clock in the corner of the dining room. It wasn't yet 9:30. Before she could respond, Steven Rapp asked, "You have a Game Cube?"

Tommy nodded enthusiastically. "Yep!"

"What games?"

"Tony Hawk Pro Skater Four, Star Wars..." Tommy rattled off a half dozen titles.

"How much money do you have on you?"

Tommy looked confused, not quite understanding why the question was being asked.

"Hundred bucks a game. You and me."

Tommy's eyes got big and he looked at Mitch, who was shaking his head. Mitch looked at his brother and asked, "You like picking on an eight-year-old?"

"You sure had no problem doing it when I was his age."

Mitch just shook his head rather than go down that road again.

"All right," Steven said, "a buck a game, and I'll spot you as many points as you want."

"First we do the dishes," Irene insisted. "Come on, Thomas, help me clear the table." Irene stood. "Would anyone like any coffee?"

Both men declined.

"Why don't you two go into the living room and relax?"

As Irene and Tommy picked up the dishes, Mitch grabbed another bottle of wine from the sideboard and opened it. He filled his glass and offered some to Steven.

"Why not?" his brother said. "I'm not driving tonight."

They walked into the formal living room. It had a distinctly feminine feel: yellow walls; white enameled woodwork; blue and yellow floral patterned drapes; an ivory-colored couch with a mishmash of pastel pillows, matching side chairs, and white carpeting. Like most of the house, it looked like it hadn't been decorated since the mid-eighties. Mitch sat on one end of the couch and his brother took the other end.

There was an awkward moment of silence and then Steven asked, "Have you made any plans for the funeral?"

Rapp stared off into space and shook his head. "Her parents are handling all of that."

"Don't you think you should have a say in the matter?"

"I got their daughter killed, Steven. I think that disqualifies me from having a say in anything."

"Have you talked to them?"

"No."

"Don't you think you should?"

"I'm going to see them tomorrow." Mitch looked into his wineglass and added, "I have no idea what I'm going to say. She was their only daughter. They adored her." His eyes misted over. "They were so damn proud of her." He thought of the pain they must be in. Their beautiful daughter was gone forever.

Steven was at a loss for words.

Mitch looked up with tear-filled eyes. "I'm f*cking falling apart. I never felt more helpless in my life."

"I don't know...you were in pretty rough shape after Maureen died." Steven was referring to his brother's girlfriend who had been aboard the Pan Am flight that had been blown out of the sky over Lockerbie, Scotland.

"That was nothing compared to this. I was a kid back then. I didn't know what real love was."

"That's a lie," Steven said a bit forcefully. "You and Maureen were in love, and that's not taking anything away from Anna. It's simply the truth. You survived her death, and you'll survive Anna's. It's not going to be easy, but you owe it to her." Irene had explained to Steven that his brother was nearly catatonic over his wife's death. One of the doctors had recommended putting him under suicide watch. Steven had never hidden a thing from his big brother and he wasn't about to start now. "The last thing she'd want is for you to take your own life over this."

Mitch made a face that suggested his brother's concern was an insult. "Steven, I would never kill myself. That's not my problem. It's what I'm going to do when I get out of here."

"How do you mean?"

Mitch didn't get to answer the question. There was a noise from outside that caught his attention. His face turned to the ceiling, his ears focusing intently on the slightest sound. The solid construction gave the house great insulation, but even so, Mitch had spent so much time on gun ranges, indoors and out, that there was no mistaking what came next. The muffled crack of a rifle.

"Irene!" Mitch screamed at the top of his lungs. There were several more shots and he sprang to his feet. "Where are your bodyguards?"

Mitch grabbed Steven by the arm and yanked him out of the chair. More muffled shots rang out. They moved quickly from the living room, through the dining room, and into the kitchen.

Kennedy was at the kitchen sink, Tommy at her side. She had a dish-towel in her hand and a confused look on her face. "What's wrong?"

"Gunfire outside!"

"I didn't hear a thing."

"Trust me. Where are your bodyguards?"

"They're outside."

"Shit!"

Mitch grabbed mother and son by the arms and moved them quickly across the kitchen. Kennedy had the presence of mind to grab her purse from the counter.

"Get to the tunnel and head over to the interrogation facility." Rapp opened the door to the basement and started moving the Kennedys and his brother down the stairs. "When you get over there lock yourselves in one of the cells. Go!" Mitch yelled.

"But what are you-" Kennedy started to ask.

There was an explosion outside that shook the house. "Go, dammit!" Rapp screamed. He slammed the door shut and raced across the kitchen for the back stairs. He bounded up the first two steps, ignored the instant pain from his thigh injury, and continued up the steps two at a time, grabbing the handrail as he went. At the small landing there was another explosion. As Rapp reached the second floor he heard machine-gun fire from the rear of the house and wondered if he'd made the wrong decision to stay behind.

56

Castillo rode in the first Suburban. A mile short of the house he told the men in his vehicle to get ready. A short while later the gate came into view, and Castillo hit the switch for the emergency lights. The driver crossed over into the oncoming lane, down onto the shoulder, and then jerked the vehicle to the right and skidded to a stop directly across from the tall black gate. The second Suburban pulled up alongside the first, and the third one continued just past the entrance, came to a sudden stop, and then backed up. Two men in blue coveralls and FBI baseball caps jumped out and wrapped a heavy chain around the center of the gate. They hooked the other end to the trailer hitch on the truck and scrambled out of the way. The vehicle lurched forward in four-wheel drive, slowed for a second as the gate resisted, and then there was a loud screeching noise as the metal began to twist. One after another, the anchor bolts that held the gate to the stone columns popped free and the gate came crashing down. The truck dragged the twisted black bars out of the way and the two waiting Suburbans raced up the long driveway.

They were going close to 60 mph by the time the house came into full view-their engines roaring and the red, white, and blue emergency lights flashing their official warning. A man in a suit was waiting for them at the edge of the circular drive. He had a radio in one hand and his other hand rested on the butt of his still-holstered gun.

Castillo smiled and told his driver, "Run him over."

The heavy Suburban took the turn, its wheels squealing and emergency lights flashing. The man in the suit was still under the illusion that he was about to have a confrontation with a fellow federal employee. He'd been told by Kennedy that Director Ross wanted to put Rapp under protective custody. At the last second the driver jerked the wheel to the right, blew through a three-foot hedge, and hit the guard with the Suburban's front right fender. The passenger-side rear wheel came to a stop on the man's chest. Every door on the Suburban flew open except the driver's. Five men, all dressed in matching coveralls and baseball caps, jumped out. Castillo was barely out the door when a second guard came around the corner of the house. This man had his gun drawn. Castillo raised his Uzi submachine gun with one arm and pulled the trigger.

Castillo wasn't the only man who had seen the guard. Within two seconds the man was hammered to the ground by no fewer than ten bullets. A third guard was dispatched in roughly the same manner as he came around the other side of the house. One of Castillo's men dropped to a knee to line up the first RPG shot on the house. Castillo banged his fist on the hood of the Suburban and yelled at the driver to move the vehicle farther away. Two seconds later the truck was clear and the first RPG was fired.

Four men, three of them with machine guns and one of them with an RPG, were headed around to the back of the house. Castillo surveyed the scene. So far everything was going according to plan. The debris from the first RPG was beginning to settle and the third vehicle had just arrived after getting rid of the gate. Castillo looked at the door. As far as he could tell, it was still intact. "Hit it again!" he yelled.

A second round was loaded. Castillo checked the area behind the man to make sure no one was standing in the back blast zone, which was a good way to get killed or severely burned. "Shoot!" he screamed.

The round hit the door squarely and a large section of the portico's ceiling broke free and crashed to the ground. Castillo ran along the sidewalk and up the three steps. He covered his mouth against the cloud of dust and gave the door a solid kick. He might as well have been kicking the side of a mountain. The door didn't budge an inch. As more of the dust settled Castillo bent over to examine the damage done by the RPGs. There were two holes in the door not quite big enough for him to fit his fist through. The wood was splintered away but beneath it, he could see the rough edges of bent steel. "What the f*ck?" he exclaimed.

The Salvadoran ran his hand along the door and gave the handle a twist. This was when he noticed that the door opened out, not in. Aware that he didn't have all the time in the world, Castillo ran back to the driveway and grabbed the RPG from his man. "Give me that damn thing!" He loaded another round, took careful aim and squeezed the trigger. There was yet another explosion, and more of the porch ceiling came crashing down. Castillo's men were now firing at the windows and fanning out around the house. When enough of the dust had settled, Castillo was happy to see that there was a hole where the door handle used to be. He barked at one of the drivers, "Grab a crowbar and go open that thing."

Castillo realized his ears were ringing and he worked his jaw from one side to the other to see if it would help eliminate the harsh noise. It was then that he noticed the pock marks the bullets were making on the windows. "Why am I f*cking around with this door?" he asked himself. "Here," he handed the RPG to the man standing next to him, "reload this thing."

How stupid, Castillo thought. He heard an explosion from the rear of the house and hoped the other men were making better progress.