many times, as far as Hurley was concerned. There was something basic and satisfying about stepping back and letting Rapp continue on his spree. Hurley knew now it had been a mistake—a horrible one. This quiet little operation had gone public in a very bad way, and it was his responsibility to make sure the mess was cleaned up, before it mushroomed into something worse.
He stared into the amber booze as if it were a fire and allowed his mind to drift down a corridor and consider an option that he was none too fond of using. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d had to kill one of his brothers, but the others had been traitors. Three of them in total over all these years, and he hadn’t so much as batted an eye at the order. He remembered each kill as if had been yesterday. The first two he’d shot in the head and the third he’d nearly decapitated with a long combat knife. He wondered if he would have to kill Rapp. The matter had not been discussed, and as far as Hurley was concerned, it didn’t need to be. Rapp would either get his shit together and come in like he was told, or Hurley would be left with no other option.
The problem, Hurley knew, was Rapp’s maverick streak. The little shit was uncontrollable and clever as hell. He had played Kennedy to perfection. This was her disaster, but Hurley should have been more forceful. It was as if they were two squabbling parents and Rapp was their child. They had argued in front of him, he saw his opening, and he had learned to pit them against each other. He had used it to get what he wanted and now Hurley was being called in to tidy things up. Rapp was cocky, arrogant, and an uncontrollable loose cannon, but one question remained—was he a traitor?
Hurley was of two minds on this one. Part of him hoped Rapp was and part of him desperately wanted them all to walk away from this madness and allow things to cool down. Everything that Hurley had predicted had come true in Paris, and now it was his responsibility to fix it. He’d been warning both Stansfield and Kennedy for months that they were giving Rapp too much latitude. That sooner or later he was going to step in it and create a major incident. They continued to point to Rapp’s results as if the ends somehow justified the means. Hurley knew different. Discipline was paramount in this line of work and Rapp was anything but disciplined. He was a cowboy who had a habit of deviating from the operational game plan as a matter of course.
Hurley took a swig and sucked in some air through his lips. He wanted a cigarette something fierce. Unfortunately, while he’d spent the last thirty-some years trotting around the globe killing bad guys, the wussification of America had taken hold. Now if he wanted to smoke he had to travel halfway back down the concourse to some specially designated glass room where all the smokers were on display like zoo animals. He’d visited the room only once, and was so aggravated by all the uptight do-gooders who walked by with their condemning looks that he swore he’d never do it again.
“Fucking sheep,” Hurley mumbled to himself. “They don’t have a fucking clue.”
“Excuse me?” the man sitting to Hurley’s right asked.
Hurley didn’t feel like it, but he put a smile on his face. “Sorry, just talking to myself.” He stared back into his drink and hoped the guy would drop it. He needed to round up his team and get on a flight. Kicking the shit out of some businessman might complicate things. Fortunately, the guy left him alone and Hurley got back to thinking about cigarettes and how he couldn’t wait to get to France.
A looming figure approached from the concourse and grabbed the open stool to Hurley’s left. He saw Victor in the reflection of the bar mirror. That wasn’t his real name, but it was what they all called him. His real name was Chet Bramble, and while he wasn’t very soft around the edges, he was someone Hurley could depend on. Victor didn’t take a shit without asking for permission, and that was the way Hurley liked it. If it had been Victor and him in France none of this would have happened. Victor knew how to follow orders, and Hurley was too smart to miss four bodyguards. For the hundredth time since hearing about the debacle Hurley asked himself how Rapp could have fucked things up so badly.
“Steve and Todd are here,” the big man said.
Hurley looked over at Victor. His appearance was menacing, which was both an asset and a drawback. Big men were nice to have around if you needed heavy lifting, or you wanted to scare the crap out of someone, but they weren’t good for clandestine work. They attracted too much attention. In addition to his large stature, Victor scared people. Pending violence hung on him like a neon sign. His size wasn’t freakish by any means. He was six-foot-four and weighed a touch more than 250 pounds. It was his block head, thick neck, and broad shoulders that made him stand out. His barrel chest tapered to a relatively narrow waist and a set of powerful legs. And size was not his only problem. His most prominent feature was a hooded brow that hung like a cliff over a pair of cold black eyes. There were plenty of people who didn’t like Victor. He’d been run out of the army for punching an officer. Hurley had been in the army himself and could relate to anyone who thought that the big green machine was a little too monolithic. He’d seen his fair share of officers who could use a good smack, so it was easy for him to turn a blind eye to Victor’s transgressions.
Besides, Hurley liked having a big rottweiler around to keep people on edge. He held up his glass and shook it for the bartender. The slight man in a puffy pirate shirt hustled over. Hurley ordered another drink and a beer for Victor. That was another thing he liked about Victor. He could handle his booze. He wasn’t one of those uptight military academy pussies who had to do everything by the book, or one of those stiff feds. This was not a by-the- book business. Their job was to break laws left and right and not get caught.
“I fuckin’ hate traveling without my gun.”
Hurley turned to look at Victor. The man was clearly agitated. “Calm down,” he snarled. Speaking out of the side of his mouth, Hurley said, “Why the fuck do you think I spend all that time teaching you idiots how to use your hands? A guy as strong as you doesn’t need a gun.”
“Unless I’m in a gunfight.” Victor frowned and crumpled his cocktail napkin.
“When we fly, we all play by the same rules. No guns.”
“Why didn’t we take one of the Company jets?”
Hurley didn’t like having to explain himself to subordinates, but he decided he’d give Victor this one answer. “We’re trying to keep a low profile. Don’t worry . . . I’ve made arrangements. Assets will meet us, and they’ll have all the guns you want.”
Victor took a swig of his beer, chewed on his bottom lip for a second, and then in a quiet voice asked, “Are you finally going to let me kill this little shit?”
Hurley contemplated his fresh drink and the question at the same time. Victor liked to cut to the heart of the matter rather than dance around an issue. “I didn’t decide to bring you along for your looks.”
Satisfied with the answer, Victor smiled and took a big swig of beer.
Hurley saw how pleased his dog was with the answer and it gave him pause. Those traitors he’d killed—he’d been following orders. There was never any joy in it. Victor seemed downright thrilled over the prospect of killing a
