now on our payroll. How many assholes like Zahir were now wearing the uniform of the Afghan Police? Innocent or not, these cops were trying to kill Rapp and his men, so he was left with no alternative if he wanted to survive.
A fresh barrage of bullets slammed into the front wall of the building, peppering Rapp with tiny pebbles. He darted out, fired two wellaimed shots, and ducked back into the lobby as a dozen-plus bullets raked the spot where he’d been standing less than a second ago. Rapp shook his head with anger. That had been closer than he would have liked. He looked across at Maslick again and noticed a splotch of blood on his right shoulder. This position was quickly becoming too hot to defend. Sooner or later one of them was going to pop out and take a bullet in the head. Rapp made a snap decision and ordered Maslick to the roof.
Maslick tried to argue, but Rapp made it clear there was no time for debate. As Rapp began his retreat from the lobby he passed Reavers’s body. He noted the Sig P226 pistol still in the man’s thigh holster. Kneeling, Rapp grabbed the gun and the three spare magazines. The anger came boiling to the surface and Rapp said to himself, “I swear to God I’m going to kill these idiots who came up with this reintegration crap.” The image of Sickles popped into Rapp’s mind and it suddenly occurred to Rapp that Sickles had probably recruited the man who was now trying to kill him. Rapp popped in his earpiece and looked up Sickles’s mobile number. He tapped the number and listened as began to ring. Rapp left the lobby and entered the hallway that bisected the building. Down at the far end Coleman was stacking and shoving equipment against a side exit.
Taking up position against the doorframe so he could cover the front entrance, Rapp began to wonder if the wall he was behind was thick enough to stop a. 223 round. The answer was likely no, so as Darren Sickles’ voice came on the line, Rapp walked back into the lobby. “Hey, dickhead,” Rapp barked above the roar of gunfire, “did Mike tell you the shitstorm we’re in?”
Rapp holstered his gun, stepped behind the reception desk, and began yanking up on the heavy Formica countertop.
“He just told me. I have no.”
“Shut up and listen to me.” Rapp gave the top one more shove and it broke free. “This is your fault. You recruited these scumbags, and you were dumb enough to think you could trust them.” Rapp grabbed the top and lugged it back into the hallway. “You are going to get on the fucking phone, and you are going to call every last one of them, and you are going to tell them that I’m going to place a million-dollar bounty on every one of their fucking heads, and I’m going to be the one collecting it.”
Rapp tossed the heavy top up against the doorframe and leaned against it. He drew his weapon again, feeling a lot better about his position, but not so good about Sickles, who was yammering about how he didn’t understand any of this. That it simply didn’t make sense. With more important things to do than listen to Sickles’s senseless speculation, Rapp yelled, “Darren, I don’t give a shit what you think! Just get on the damn phone and make it clear to these assholes that I’m going to hunt them down and kill them.” Rapp was tempted to tell Sickles that he was going to kill him as well, but it was likely to be an extremely counterproductive threat, so he bit his tongue and hung up. 12 6 Vince FLy nn
Rapp knew what their next move would be, and it likely wouldn’t take long. The U.S. had outfitted the Afghan Police with takedown gear that included battering rams, breaching shotguns, ribbon charges, and bulletproof riot shields. It was the bulletproof riot shields that worried Rapp the most. All a thoughtful commander needed to do was grab a couple of shields and do the old Roman tortoise. The first man in the line would hold the shield directly in front of him and the second man would hold the shield above them, protecting them from the men on the roof. They’d rush the front door with one or two lines of men. If that happened, Rapp knew they would overpower him and his little 9mm pistol in a matter of seconds. The thought of dying like that got Rapp thinking, and he yelled down the hall, “Scott?”
Coleman shoved a big metal exam table against his pile and turned to look at Rapp. “What?”
“You come across any oxygen tanks?”
“Yeah.” Coleman didn’t have to be told what to do. He ducked into one of the rooms and came out with two green tanks. He dragged them down the hall by the necks and dropped them at Rapp’s feet.
Rapp kept his eyes and his pistol on the door and asked, “Any more?”
“Yeah.”
“Put ’em in front of your pile down there and get your ass up on the roof.”
Coleman shook his head. “You get up on the roof. I’ve got this handled.”
“Stop wasting time. Drop the tanks down there and get moving. They’re probably running low on ammunition.”
Coleman reluctantly dropped two more tanks by the side door and then stopped to offer Rapp Reavers’s M-4 rifle.
“Nope… no need for that down here. This is all close quarters. Get your ass up on the roof and buy us some time.” Coleman started to leave, but Rapp grabbed him by the arm. “What did Mike say?”
“He said he’ll get some shooters here as soon as is humanly possible.”
“Call him back and tell him we’ll take anything. Get a Little Bird to give us an ammo drop and maybe a SAW or two.” Rapp glanced back at the front door. “Maybe some grenades, too.”
“I’m on it.” Coleman had his phone out and was calling Nash again. “Call if you need help.”
Rapp knew he’d be making no such call. He’d hold them off as long as he could and then, if he was still alive, he’d limp his way up to the roof. What a shitty way to die, Rapp thought to himself. All of the close calls he’d had and it was going to come down to being killed by men who were supposed to be his allies. He heard Stan Hurley’s gruff voice telling him to suck it up. Now was not the time to think about death unless it was the other guy’s mortality that you were focused on. Hurley was fond of saying that no matter how bad things got there was always a way out. Rapp clung to that idea, as there was an ebb in the volume of shots being fired-just a pop here and there instead of the sustained blister of rounds smacking into the building.
Unfortunately, Rapp knew what that meant. It was too soon for Nash or Sickles to have been able to call off the dogs, so it was more likely that someone in a command position with half a brain had showed up and was now getting the men ready for an organized assault. Rapp holstered his gun and dragged the two oxygen tanks into the lobby. He stopped about six feet short of the front door, laid the tanks on their sides, and then drew his gun. Lest they think no one was guarding the front door, he slid along the wall until he had an angle to shoot from. He squeezed off two shots and then two more and ducked back into the lobby. He was pretty certain the first two shots had hit one man, but the second two had bounced harmlessly off a clear Plexiglas riot shield. Rapp went back to his position in the hallway with the foreboding feeling that this might be one situation he wasn’t going to be able to get out of.
Chapter 18
Gould popped the hatch and had to will himself onto the flat roof. Somewhere out there, he feared, a sniper was still lurking. He rolled onto his side, the M-4 cradled protectively in both hands, and then crawled his way to the parapet of the roof. There was a twofoot stone parapet that provided sufficient cover. He carefully brought his head above the lip and scanned the buildings across the street. With no shooters in sight, he got up on his right knee and brought the butt of the rifle up to his right shoulder. Gould swung the muzzle over the edge of the roof, sweeping it from left to right with both eyes open, the big square EOTech aperture bringing his targets clearly into view.
The spotter in civilian clothes was standing behind one of the police trucks with his cell phone held to his left ear.
“There you are, you little prick,” the assassin said with a smile creasing his lips. Gould placed the red dot right over the cell phone, let loose an even exhalation, and then casually squeezed the trigger. The rifle jumped a quarter inch, but Gould never lost sight of the target. The heavy bullet shattered the cell phone and then exploded through 13 0 Vince FLy nn the man’s head, spraying blood, bone, and brain matter in a mini mushroom cloud onto the men and street just past him.
Three police officers were left standing in shock, gaping at the man who had just been urging them into action, and then three seconds after that they were all lying on the street dead. Gould worked his targets methodically, keeping the rifle in single-shot mode. It took the police approximately ten seconds to realize there
