Kill Shot

Prelude
THE man flew through the air, propelled by one of the other recruits. CIA handler Irene Kennedy watched from inside the house with casual interest as he failed to tuck and roll. He hit the ground flat and hard - the kind of impact that more than likely knocked the wind out of him, maybe even bruised a rib. Kennedy pursed her lips and calculated his odds of making it through the remaining eight weeks of the training program. She'd seen so many men roll through here that she could handicap them like a Vegas bookie. This one she gave a less than 10 percent chance.

Kennedy's thoughts, however, were not really with this batch of recruits. She was more concerned with a certain man who had waltzed through the rigorous training program a little more than a year ago. Mitch Rapp had been her rookie, and in the year since they had unleashed him on the purveyors of terrorism, he had left a steady trail of bodies from Geneva to Istanbul to Beirut and beyond. His record to date was perfect, and that in its own way added to Kennedy's tension. No one was perfect. Sooner or later, no matter how much talent they had, the mighty got tripped up. To complicate the odds, Kennedy had pushed to allow him to operate on his own. No backup. Just an advance team to scout things out and then he moved in all by his lonesome to do the dirty work up close and personal. No team members to bail his ass out if things went south. Rapp had argued that a small footprint would mean less chance of being caught.

Instinctively, Kennedy liked the simplicity. She'd seen more than her fair share of operations that had become so cumbersome in personnel and scope that they never got off the ground. Rapp had successfully argued that if he failed he was just one man with a foreign passport who could never be traced back to Langley. Hurley the hard-assed spook and trainer, had pointed out that his little game worked only if he was dead. If they took him alive, he'd talk, just like everyone did, and then their exposure would be horrible. Theirs was not a risk-free business, however, and in the end Thomas Stansfield was willing to roll the dice on Rapp. The young operative had proven himself very resourceful and Stansfield needed to cross more names off his list of most wanted terrorists.

This mission was different, though. The stakes were considerably higher. It was one thing when Rapp was lurking about some Third World country practicing his craft, but at this very moment, he was about to do something very illegal, and unsanctioned in a country where he could not afford to make even the slightest mistake.

So intense was Kennedy's concentration that she hadn't heard the question from the man sitting behind the desk. She brushed a strand of her shoulder-length auburn hair behind her ear and said, "Excuse me?"

Dr. Lewis had been studying her for the last few minutes. Kennedy was a complex, confident, and extremely guarded professional. It had become an occupational obsession for Lewis to find out what made her tick. "You're worried about him."

Irene Kennedy's face remained neutral despite the fact that she was irritated by her colleague's ability to read her thoughts. "Who?"

"You know who," Dr. Lewis said, his soft blue eyes coaxing her along.

Kennedy shrugged as if it was a small thing. "I worry about every operation I'm in charge of."

"It seems you worry more about the ones he's involved in."

Kennedy considered the unique individual whom she had found in Upstate New York. As much as she'd like to deny it, Lewis's assessment of her concern over Rapp was accurate. Kennedy couldn't decide if it was the man, or the increasingly dangerous nature of the operations they'd been giving him, but in either case, she did not want to discuss the matter with Lewis.

"I've found," Lewis said in a carefree tone, "that I worry about him less than most. Always have, I think."

Kennedy flipped the comment around in her head. She could easily take it two ways - maybe more. "It's a lot easier when you're sitting on that side of the desk." Kennedy flashed him a rare smile. "I'm his handler. I put him in these situations, and I'm his only lifeline should something go wrong. I would think that clinically" - she raised an eyebrow, mimicking one of Lewis's overused facial expressions - "even you would understand that."

The shrink stroked his bottom lip with his forefinger and said, "Worrying about someone, or something, can be normal . . . and even healthy, but if taken too far . . ." Lewis shook his head and made a sour face. "Definitely not good."

Here we go, Kennedy thought to herself. This was not an accidental conversation. Lewis had been thinking about this for some time, plotting his line of questioning. Kennedy knew from experience that to try to run from the tete-a-tete would only make it worse. Lewis was patient and tenacious, and his reports were given serious weight by the deputy director of operations. The doctor would zero in on a problem and pepper you with questions until he was satisfied. Kennedy decided to lob the ball back onto his side of the net. "So you think I worry too much."

"I didn't say that," the doctor said with an easy tone and a soft shake of his head.

"But you implied it," Kennedy said.

"It was merely a question."

"A question that you asked because you think you've noticed something and you're worried about me. And since you initiated it, I would appreciate it if you would explain yourself rather than treat this like one of your therapy sessions."

Lewis sighed. He'd seen Kennedy get this way, but never with him. Usually it was with Stan Hurley, who was exceedingly adept at getting under people's skin. She was always calm and analytical in her dealings with Lewis, so the fact that she was so quick to anger now was proof that his concerns were valid. "I think when it comes to a certain operative . . . you worry too much."

"Rapp?" Kennedy asked.

"Correct."

"Please don't give me some psychobabble that you think I'm in love with him." Kennedy shook her head as if anything so humdrum was beneath her. "You know that's not how I work."

Lewis dismissed the idea with the back of his hand. "I agree. That is not my concern."

"Then what is?"

"That you do not give the man his credit."

"Credit? Credit for what?"

"Let's start with the fact that he came down here a little more than a year ago, without any military experience, and bested every man we put in front of him, including your Uncle Stan. His ability to learn, and do so at an incredibly rapid pace, is unlike anything I have ever seen." Lewis's voice grew in intensity. "And he does it in every field of discipline."

"Not every field of discipline. His marks in geopolitics and diplomatic affairs are dismal."

"That's because he sees those fields as an utter waste of his time, and I don't necessarily disagree with him."

"I thought we wanted well-rounded people to come out of this place."

Lewis shrugged his shoulders. "Mental stability matters more to me than well-rounded. After all, we're not asking him to negotiate a treaty."

"No, but we need him to be aware of the big picture."

"Big picture." Lewis frowned. "I think Mitch would argue that he's the only one around here who keeps his focus on the big picture."

Kennedy was a woman in the ultimate man's world, and she deeply disliked it when her colleagues treated her as if everything needed to be explained to her. "Really," she said with chaste insincerity.

"Your man has a certain aptitude. A certain ability that is heightened by the fact that he doesn't allow extraneous facts to get in the way."

Kennedy sighed. Normally she would never let her frustration show, but she was tired. "I know you think I can read minds, but today that skill seems to have left me. Could you please get to the point?"

"You do look more tired than normal."

"Why, thank you. And you look like you've put on a few pounds."

Lewis smiled. "No need to hurt my feelings, just because you're worried about him."

"You are a master at deflection."

"It is my job to observe." He swiveled his chair and looked at the eight men and the two instructors who were putting them through the basics of hand-to-hand combat. "Observe all of you. Make sure no one has a mental breakdown and runs off the reservation."

"And who watches you?"

Lewis smiled. "I'm not under the same stress," the doctor said as he spun back to face Kennedy. "As you said, he is your responsibility."

Kennedy mulled that one over for a second. She couldn't disagree, so she kept her mouth shut. Plus the good doctor excelled at compartmentalizing the rigors of their clandestine operation.

"I'm looking out for you," Lewis said in his understanding therapist tone. "This double life that you've been living is not healthy. The mental strain is something that you think you can manage, and I thought you could as well, but recently, I've begun to have some doubts."

Kennedy felt a twist in her gut. "And have you shared these doubts with anyone?" Specifically she was thinking of Thomas Stansfield.

"Not yet, but at some point I am bound to pass along my concerns."

Kennedy felt a sense of relief, even if it was just a brief reprieve. She knew the only way to avoid a bad personnel report was to allay Lewis's concerns. And the only way to do that was to talk about them. "This aptitude that you say he has, would you care to share it with me?"

Lewis hesitated as if he was trying to find the most delicate way to say something that was brutally indelicate. With a roll of his head he said, "I have tried to get inside Rapp's mind, and there are days where I swear he's so refreshingly honest that I think I know what makes him tick, and then . . ." Lewis's voice trailed off.

"And then, what?"

"There are other days where I can't get past those damn dark eyes of his and that lopsided grin that he uses to defuse anyone who goes poking around in his business."

"That's the aptitude that puts you at ease? His lopsided grin?"

"No," Lewis scoffed. "It's far more serious than his ability to be open one moment and then impenetrable the next, although that may have a hand in how he deals with everything. I'm talking about the very core of all of this. Why are we here? Why have we secretly funneled over fifty million dollars into this operation? I'm talking about the fact that he is a one-man wrecking ball. That he has methodically, in a little over a year, accomplished more than we have accomplished in the last decade. And let's be brutally honest with each other." Lewis held up a finger. "The 'what' that we are talking about is the stone-cold fact that he is exceedingly good at hunting down and killing men."

Kennedy did not look at Lewis, but she nodded. They had all come to the same realization months ago. That was why they had turned him loose and allowed him to work on his own.

"I'm here," Lewis continued, "to observe and make sure we have the right people and that their minds can handle the unique stress of this job. I have stress, you have stress, but I doubt ours compares to the stress of operating alone, often behind enemy lines, and hunting down a man and killing him."

"So you're worried that he's going to snap on us."

"Not at the moment. In fact, I think he has coped extraordinarily well with the rigors of his new job. I've kept a close eye on him. When he's back here, he sleeps like a baby. His head hits the pillow, sixty seconds later he's out and he sleeps straight through the night."

Kennedy had wondered about this same thing. Not every operative handled the taking of another human being's life with such ease. "So how does he deal with it . . . the blood on his hands?" she asked.

"He is a linear creature, which means he doesn't allow a lot of ancillary issues to muddy the waters of his conscience. These men . . . the ones we target . . . they all decided of their own volition to get involved in plots to kill innocent civilians. In Rapp's mind - and this isn't me guessing, he's expressed this very clearly - these men need to be punished."

Kennedy shifted in her chair. "Simple revenge."

"He says retribution. The distinction is slight, but I see his point."

"Given the loss of his girlfriend, I don't find that particularly troubling. After all, this is a job that requires a unique motivation."

"Yes it does, but his runs deep. He thinks if these men go unpunished, it will only embolden them to kill more people. To screw up more people's lives," Lewis answered.

"You'll get no argument from me. Nor from our boss, for that matter."

Lewis smiled. "There's one more thing, something that adds a unique twist."

"What's that?"

"He wants them to know he's coming after them."

"Theory or fact?"

"A bit of both. He knows that he can make them jumpy. Keep them up at night worrying when he's going to show up. He wants them to fear his existence."

"He told you this?" Kennedy asked, more than a bit surprised.

"Parts of it. The rest I pieced together," Lewis said with a nod.

"And why didn't you tell me?"

"I'm telling you right now."

Kennedy moved to the edge of her chair. "I mean, why didn't you tell me when you first learned about it?"

"I told Thomas," Lewis said, covering his bases.

"And what did he say?"

"He thought about it for a long moment and then said making these guys lose a little sleep might not be the worst thing."

"For Christ's sake," Kennedy pressed her palm against her forehead. "As his handler, don't you think you should let me in on stuff like this?"

"I'm not sure I understand your concern. I think he's fine, and Thomas does as well."

Kennedy pinched the bridge of her nose in an effort to stifle the headache she felt coming. "This isn't the NFL. We don't trash-talk. We don't taunt the other team in order to throw them off their game. My men need to be ghosts. They need to sneak into a country, quietly do their job, and then disappear."

"Irene, I think you are exaggerating your concerns. The enemy knows something is afoot. Bodies are piling up at an unusual clip, and if the fear Rapp is generating causes some of these men to be a bit jumpy" - Lewis shrugged - "well then, so be it."

"So what in the hell are you trying to tell me . . . that you're okay with Rapp, but you're worried about me?" Kennedy asked, the suspicion in her voice obvious.

"I'm okay with both of you, but I do think you worry too much."

"I'm worried about him because he's about to kill a high-ranking official in the capital of one of our closest allies and if he screws up, the blowback could be so bad every single last one of us will end up in front of a committee on Capitol Hill, be indicted, and then end up in jail." Kennedy shook her head. "I don't know what your shrink books have to say about all of this, but I think a fear of going to jail is a healthy thing."

"My point, Irene, is that Rapp is good. Maybe the best I've ever seen, and his target is a lazy, overfed bureaucrat. Tonight will go fine. That's not what I'm worried about."

Kennedy was so focused on Paris that she almost missed the last part. "Then what are you worried about?"

"Mr. Rapp is unique. He has already proven his penchant for autonomy. He bristles against control, and so far, Thomas has been willing to ignore all of these little transgressions because the man is so damn good at what he does."

"But?"

"Our country, as well as our beloved employer, has a glorious history of throwing those men who are at the tip of the spear under the proverbial bus when things get difficult. If they do that to a man like Rapp . . ." Lewis winced at the thought.

"Our country and our employer don't even know he exists."

"I know that, Irene. I'm looking down the road, and I'm telling you there is a real danger that at some point we might lose control of him."

Kennedy scoffed at the idea. "I haven't seen a single thing that could lead you to that conclusion."

"Irene," Lewis said in a far more serious tone, "strip it all down and what we have is a man who has been taught to kill. Kill people who have harmed innocent civilians or threatened the national security of this country. Right now, his mission is clearly focused. He's out killing bad guys who live in foreign countries. What happens if he wakes up one day and realizes some of the bad guys are right here? Living in America, working for the CIA, working on Capitol Hill."

"You can't be serious?" Kennedy said, shocked by the theory.

Lewis folded his hands under his chin and leaned back in his chair. "Justice is blind, and if you train a man to become judge, jury, and executioner . . . well, then you shouldn't be surprised if he someday fails to see the distinction between a terrorist and a corrupt, self-serving bureaucrat."

Kennedy thought about it for a moment and then said, "I'm not sure I'm buying it."

Lewis shrugged. "Only time will tell, but I know one thing for certain. If there comes a time where you need to neutralize him, you'd better not screw up. Because if he survives, he'll kill every last one of us."