The Last Man

Chapter 16
THE sparse waiting area held four people, a dog, three cats, and a bird. The bird was in a cage behind the receptionist's counter as well as the two cats that were sleeping in wicker baskets. A little boy not more than eight held the leash of a small pooch while his mother sat protectively next to him. An elderly man with a cigarette dangling from his mouth cradled a sickly-looking black cat that was missing large clumps of hair. The old man looked depressed. Neither adult made eye contact, but the little boy gave Rapp a friendly smile. Rapp returned the gesture with a nod of thanks. Most of the people in Kabul tried to ignore foreigners, and Rapp didn't blame them one bit. Their country had been at near constant war for thirty years. There were others who stared you down as if they wanted to kill you, and a small minority who would smile and maybe even say hello.

Rapp approached the blue Formica reception desk. A nice young woman in a black hijab looked up at him and asked in English, "How may I help you?"

"Do I look that American?" Rapp asked, trying to seem offended.

"No, but he does." She pointed over Rapp's shoulder at Coleman.

Rapp turned around and looked at his friend's blond hair and blue eyes. Coleman's Northern European ethnicity made it nearly impossible for him to blend in on ops like this. "Yeah," Rapp said, "he works for the United Nations. I think he's Swedish or something like that. I can't understand a thing he says. At any rate, we were hoping to speak with Dr. Amin."

"I'm sorry, but he's at the university right now."

"Do you expect him back this afternoon?"

"Normally not, but if we're busy he stops by on his way home. May I ask what you need to discuss with him?"

Rapp hesitated. He was not used to sharing information, but this woman seemed nice enough, and she might be able to save him a step. "It's a rather important matter." Rapp retrieved his Joe Cox credentials emblazoned in gold with the seal of the United States and the all-important, somewhat vague words Federal Officer, raised and embossed. "We're trying to track down a missing person. We were told that he brought his dog to your clinic about a month ago. He was an American and his dog was a Rottweiler. Do you remember anyone like that?"

She shook her head. "No, but I'm only here part-time. Do you have a name?"

Rickman had more than a few aliases as well. Rapp had no idea if he had used one, so he started with Rickman's real name. The receptionist spun her chair around and crab-walked the chair over to a row of file cabinets. Rapp looked over his shoulder to find Coleman with his arms folded across his chest and shaking his head.

"Swedish? What in the hell is wrong with you?"

Rapp started to laugh, and then his eyes caught something beyond the glass doors. His left hand slid between the folds of his jacket and around the grip of his 9mm Glock. The change in Rapp's demeanor didn't go unnoticed by Coleman, who did a casual 180-degree turn to see what was going on. Rapp could scarcely believe his eyes. It was as if a ghost had walked out of his not-so-distant past. Nearly four years ago, to be exact. He watched the man walk past Reavers and Maslick, stopping briefly to point at something down the street. In Rapp's mind it was a move to distract them, but Rapp could not be distracted. Not by this man. He drew his gun and lined the sights up on the head of the man who had killed his wife.

The receptionist said something, but Rapp didn't hear her. He was too intent on the man coming through the door. The only thing that prevented Rapp from shooting him on the spot was that he had his hands in the air in what seemed to be a genuine posture of surrender.

Coleman said, "Is that who I think it is?"

"Yes."

One of the glass doors opened and the assassin stepped slowly into the lobby. He glanced at Coleman and then focused on Rapp. "We need to talk and we must do it quickly."

"Give me one good reason why I shouldn't shoot you."

Louie Gould kept his hands in the air and gave a slight shrug. "I can give you several, but since time is of the essence, let's start with the fact that I didn't shoot you in the head when you got out of your truck a minute ago. Even more important, I think you're going to need my help in the very near future. Possibly the next thirty seconds."

Despite the anger that was coursing through his veins, Rapp's pistol was extremely steady. "What in the hell are you talking about?"

Gould took a quick look around the waiting room. He would have preferred to have this discussion in a more intimate setting, but there was no time for that, so before he got into the details he looked at Rapp's blond-haired friend and said, "I told your guys outside that they should call for backup but I don't think they took my advice. Trust me, you are going to want to make that call and do it quickly." The assassin then said to Rapp, "I still take the occasional contract."

Rapp shook his head. "That wasn't part of the deal."

"I know," he said sheepishly, "but we needed money and I have been very selective." He shook his head, showing the first sign of frustration. "We can discuss this all later. The important thing is that I took a contract from an anonymous employer. My instructions were to fly into Kabul yesterday. About ninety minutes ago I received instructions to come to an office building on this street. When I arrived, this rifle was waiting for me along with a photograph of my target." Gould pointed at Rapp. "You."

"You're full of shit."

"I wish I was, but that's not the real problem." Gould kept his hands up while he took a step back to see if he could see what was going on at the one end of the block. As he did so, one of Rapp's men came through the door.

It was Maslick. "There's something going on out here. Both ends of the street are blocked by the police and they've got about ten guys at each end that look like they're planning some kind of an assault."

Gould confirmed with his own eyes what the man had said. "They're here to kill you. And me, too, I suppose."

A single rifle shot cracked the relative calm of the afternoon. The four men in the lobby were all combat veterans and none of them flinched. They all looked at Reavers, who was standing on the sidewalk. Before any of them could react, a fusillade of bullets rang out. The glass doors shattered and when they looked up, Reavers was falling to the ground.

Coleman shouted above the roar of the rifle shots, "Suppressive fire? I'll grab him."

Rapp moved to his left and pushed his back against the wall while Maslick moved to his right and did the same. Both men began squeezing off well-aimed shots at the officers at the opposite end of the street. Coleman holstered his gun, yanked open the door, and grabbed Reavers by the tactical vest. The big man didn't budge on the first try so Coleman put all of his muscle into it. Bullets were zipping past his head in both directions. He backpedaled into the reception area and immediately noticed the streak of red blood on the white tile floor. Out of the line of direct fire he knelt and tried to find where he'd been shot. His hands slid over Reavers's body, checking for blood. Within seconds he found two fatal wounds. The first was in his hairline on the top right side of his head and the second was in the groin. Reavers's brain was gone, but his heart was still pumping, and from the looks of the pool of blood on the floor, his femoral artery had been hit.

In battle, the passage of time slowed for Coleman. In a brief instant he acknowledged that his friend was gone and that now was not the time to deal with it. That would come later - anger, frustration, genuine sadness, and some laughs, to be sure, but right now was about survival.

"Reavers is dead," Coleman announced above the roar of fire. He grabbed his friend's M-4 rifle and started stuffing the extra magazines into his vest and cargo pockets.

Rapp stole a quick glance at Reavers's lifeless body, and then he noticed the frightened look on the little boy's face. He yelled to Coleman. "Get these people back into one of the exam rooms!"

Gould showed up at Rapp's side and dropped to one knee. He began firing well-aimed single shots. In less than five seconds he counted three kills with as many shots. "We need to put someone on the roof." After a couple more shots he yelled, "And you might want to see if you can get someone to come help us!"

"Scott," Rapp barked without taking his eyes off the street, "call Mike and tell him what we're up against. Tell him we need a Quick Reaction Force ASAP or we're all dead." Rapp stepped back, ejected an empty magazine, and popped in a fresh one. Yelling back to Coleman he added, "A gunship would be nice!" Rapp popped off a couple of rounds and saw a man go down. Then, looking down at Gould, he said, "Get up on the roof and see what you can do. I'll join you as soon as I can. How much ammo do you have?"

Gould shook his head. "Just this one thirty-round magazine, and then I'm down to my pistol."

Rapp noted the make and model of the pistol in Gould's vest. "At these distances I bet you're pretty good with that thing."

Gould nodded. "The best."

"We'll see about that. Grab one extra magazine for the M-4 from the blond guy, and then get your ass up on the roof before we're all dead."