Kill Shot

Chapter 34
BRAMBLE had already scoped out the spot. That was the way his brain worked. He was a hunter, a natural-born killer, and a badass to boot, which was why Rapp didn't stand a chance. Rapp was a college puke who hesitated. A p-ssy who'd been indoctrinated into the world of political correctness. His brain was filled with too much crap. Stuff that got in the way of millions of years of predatory evolution. It was his loss and Bramble's gain. Rapp was probably the kind of guy who puked after he killed someone. Bramble had once watched a fellow Ranger do that after a mission. He'd never lost so much respect for someone so quickly.

The alcove next to the front steps was the perfect spot. Bramble's heart was racing and he knew it wasn't from the short run up the block. It was the anticipation of the kill. The adrenaline that was coursing through his veins. It was an amateur reaction and he chided himself for it. He forced himself to take deep, steady breaths. There was nothing to be tense about. His position was ideal. He was completely concealed by darkness and he was in a textbook spot to ambush Rapp when he came back out. His heart began to slow and then he realized he had a problem.

Two actually. What would he do with McGuirk and Borneman? They were about to watch him kill Rapp, and while he could easily explain to them that Hurley had given him the kill order, the problems would pop up later, when they got back to the States. They would all be debriefed and Kennedy would lose her mind when she found out that he'd killed her baby. Even Hurley might take it badly. He despised Rapp, but he wouldn't take kindly to one of his men initiating a kill order on his own, especially after having been told to stand down. Bramble was scrambling to come up with an out when McGuirk's voice came over his earpiece.

"He's going for the safe."

Of course he is, Bramble thought, and then he remembered an order Hurley had given him. He panicked and asked, "Did you guys empty the safe?"

"Why would we do that?" McGuirk replied.

"Because I told you to," Bramble snapped.

"The hell you did. Todd, did Victor tell us to clean out the safe?"

Bramble listened to the one-sided conversation and then McGuirk told him he must be sniffing glue. "You never told us to empty the safe."

Bramble swore to himself, looked back down the street at the van, and asked, "What's he doing?"

"He's got the safe open, and it looks like he's emptying it."

Hurley was going to freak. It was the first thing he'd told him to do. "Clean out the safe and don't get any stupid ideas. Kennedy and I have an exact accounting of what's inside," he'd said.

"He's closing the safe," McGuirk announced. "It looks like he's stuffing a bag down the front of his pants."

"Shit," Bramble mumbled. "What else?"

"Looks like he's headed for the door. Yep, he's in the front hallway and headed straight for the door. What do you want us to do?"

"Sit tight." He was too focused on solving his problem. This was an opportunity he couldn't pass up, and if he did he'd kick himself in the ass for the rest of his life.

"Repeat that last order."

Bramble recognized Borneman's voice. He was going to be the problem. McGuirk he could deal with. "I said sit still. We don't want to spook him. Just be ready to pull the van up and keep giving me updates."

Bramble listened to McGuirk give him the play-by-play of Rapp's exit. His chief tactical concern at this point was whether he was going to come out the same way he went in. A few seconds later Bramble got the confirmation he was looking for. He stood in the shadows, a huge smile spreading across his face. "You're all mine, a*shole."

He heard the door open and he began to edge forward, his right arm extended, ready to fire. McGuirk kept giving him updates and Bramble could see Rapp coming down the steps in his mind's eye. As soon as he heard that Rapp had taken a right turn, Bramble left his spot. He knew the monitors in the van didn't exactly offer a crystal-clear picture of what was happening on the street and he was going to use that to his advantage. He stepped into the hazy glow of the streetlights and fell in behind his prey.

Rapp was standing right in front of him, only a few yards away and moving quickly. Bramble matched his pace, extended his gun, sighted in on the back of Rapp's head, said, "Gun," and squeezed the trigger. It was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen. The bullet entered the back of his head and exited his face with a spray of red mist. Rapp took one more step and then collapsed face-first on the pavement.

"Get that van up here. Chop, chop!" Gloating, Bramble stood over the body and said, "Ding dong, the witch is dead." Behind him he heard the engine rev and the van race up the street. A second later it skidded to a stop on the other side of several parked cars and the side door sprang open.

Borneman jumped out, and the first thing Bramble noticed was that he had a gun in his hand. He ignored the gun and pointed at the corpse. "Grab his feet. We need to pack him up and get out of here before the cops show up."

"You killed him," Borneman yelled.

"That's what this was all about. Sorry I couldn't let you in on it, but Stan wanted it that way." Bramble bent over and grabbed the back of the jacket with his left hand. "Come on, grab his feet. We need to get the hell out of here."

Borneman hesitated for a second and then slid his gun into the back of his waistband. He grabbed both ankles while Bramble picked up the front end with one arm, as if picking up a suitcase. The corpse sagged between them. Bramble led the way between two parked cars and heaved the head and torso into the van.

Bramble looked at McGuirk, who was behind the wheel, and ordered, "Grab him by the hands and pull him all the way in." While McGuirk jumped out of the driver's seat and started tugging on the corpse, Borneman swung the legs into the back of the van. The motion left him leaning forward into the open cargo door. Bramble took advantage of the opportunity. He stepped back, swung his pistol up, placed it a few inches from the back of Borneman's skull, and pulled the trigger.

Borneman's upper body fell into the van. Bramble looked at a wide-eyed McGuirk and said, "God, I'm good." And then he shot him in the face. The velocity of the bullet caused McGuirk to stand up for a second, but it wasn't enough to knock him over. He hung in the air motionless for a second and then he fell face-first on top of the first corpse.

Bramble was grinning from ear to ear. He'd get a medal for this one. Rapp had gone haywire and killed both McGuirk and Borneman, but he'd stepped in and killed the little shit. And then to really show how big a superstar he was, he'd managed to contain the fallout by stuffing all three bodies into the van before the locals showed up. This was the CIA, not the FBI. His job was to destroy evidence, not to preserve it. There would be no crime scene investigators and detectives. Hurley would take him at his word and be grateful that he'd cleaned up the mess.

Borneman's legs were still hanging out of the van. Bramble was about to grab them when a voice called out to his left. He slowly turned his head and saw two men in suits coming toward him. They were fifty to fifty-five feet away and their guns were drawn. Bramble knew they were close to fifty feet away because he'd fired over twenty thousand pistol rounds at that distance. He was willing to bet these two hadn't fired a fraction of that amount.

Bramble's French wasn't great, but he got the sense they were asking him to put his hands up. He obliged by putting his left hand up a little ahead of his right and then as he began to raise his right hand he casually swung his gun into position and fired two quick shots. The relative still of the night air was shattered by one of the men firing his gun. Since the weapon wasn't suppressed, it cracked like a thunderbolt. Bramble heard the snap of the bullet as it whistled harmlessly past his head.

Both men were down, and Bramble did what he often did in the aftermath of a near-death experience. He began to laugh. Not a giggle or a chuckle, but a belly-splitting roar of a release of tension and an absolute euphoric embrace of victory. He was the king of the hill, the last man standing, a man among children. Five bullets and five bodies. "Shit," Bramble said, "they should write a song about me."

Bramble heard a moan and turned to see that one of the men fifty feet away was moving. "Damn it." He liked the idea of five bullets for five men. It sounded like an Eastwood movie. Six bullets for five men had no ring to it. No flow. Bramble was pretty sure he'd hit the first guy in the face. He'd rushed the second shot a bit. It was always possible that the guy had a mortal wound and was simply in his final death throes. He started walking toward him and remembered that he had his knife on him. If he needed to he could save the bullet and slit the guy's throat. It would still be five bullets for five men - kind of.

Bramble was right about the first shot. He'd caught the guy square in the middle of the face, right between his nose and upper lip. "Now that's a hell of a shot."

The second man was clutching at his chest. His pistol was five feet away, but it might as well have been a mile. There was a little blood at the corner of his mouth and he was looking up at Bramble with pleading eyes. Bramble smiled at the man, raised his gun, and was about to pull the trigger, when for the second time in as many minutes a bullet zipped past his head.