Act of Treason

  11

  R app turned the phone to vibrate mode, dialed Coleman’s number, and stuffed the phone in the breast pocket of his coat. As he grabbed the door handle with his right hand his left hand slid around to the small of his back and gripped the handle of his Glock 19 pistol. Rapp drew the weapon and looked through the peephole to make sure no one was waiting outside his door. With the gun at the ready, he flipped the dead bolt and opened the door. A stubby suppressor added another three inches to the gun. He did a quick check of the hallway, slid the gun into a specially designed pocket on the inside right side of his jacket, and moved out. Rapp bypassed the elevator and went straight for the staircase. As he opened the fire door, Coleman’s voice came over his wireless earpiece.

  “Brooks says we’re five to ten minutes out. Traffic’s pretty bad.”

  “This whole damn thing might be over by the time you get here.”

  Rapp had just reached the first step when he heard a commotion from below.

  “What do you mean it might be over?” Coleman asked.

  Rapp couldn’t answer right away. Two men burst into the stairwell one floor beneath. One of them was speaking loudly in Russian. He recognized one of them as the man who had shoved money in the old man’s shirt earlier in the evening. It was exactly as Rapp had feared. Gazich had already killed one of them, and now he was drawing these two into a trap.

  “What’s going on?” Coleman asked.

  Rapp waited for the two men to get to the second landing before he whispered his reply. “I think we’ve got an unsatisfied customer.”

  “What in the hell are you talking about?”

  “I’ll explain it when you get here.” Rapp started down the stairs. “That is, if I’m still alive.”

  “Slow down, Mitch. You’re not making any sense.”

  “Tell Brooks to call Marcus so he can bring her up to speed on who this Deckas guy really is, and tell him the guys in the surveillance photos are Russian.” Rapp hit the next flight.

  “Where are you?”

  Rapp glanced over the railing as the two men hit the first floor landing. “I’m in the hotel following two Russian idiots who are about to get killed.”

  “Just wait until we get there.”

  The men hit the fire door hard and burst into the lobby.

  “You don’t think I can take care of myself?” Rapp bounded down the steps two at a time, now that he was the only one in the stairwell.

  “That’s not what I said. You’re going into this blind with no backup. That is not what I would call a prudent tactical decision.”

  Rapp laughed. “You SEALs are all such pussies.”

  “Don’t make this about some macho bullshit. Just hang tight for a few more minutes.”

  As Rapp hit the first floor landing he could hear Coleman yelling at Brooks to step on it. He pushed the fire door open and entered the lobby.

  “Two minutes okay?” Coleman pleaded.

  “Sorry buddy, the train is leaving the station. I need to make sure these idiots don’t all kill each other.” Rapp walked casually through the lobby so as to not raise any unwanted attention. This was not difficult due to the fact that everyone was staring at the two bulls squeezing through the turnstile door. “Just stay on the line,” Rapp said, “and I’ll keep you appraised as best I can.”

  Rapp calmly smiled at the bellman as he reached the door. Out in front of the hotel one of the Russians was stopped in the middle of the street trying to get the attention of his friend sitting in the parked car. The other Russian was already across the street and yelling at the man to follow him. Rapp continued to give Coleman the tactical update as he waited for a car to pass. He watched as the Russians bullied their way through the crowd of people waiting to get into the café. Rapp moved to the left and crossed between a row of parked scooters. He avoided the dozen-plus people standing by the hostess stand. While all of the patrons were focused on the commotion caused by the two rude men shoving their way through the crowd, Rapp stepped over the sagging, faded, velvet rope that formed the perimeter of the patio. He discretely threaded his way through the tight tables and bobbed his head to avoid the corners of table umbrellas.

  Rapp checked the patio to see if the old man was about, but he was nowhere to be found. This thing was going to go one of two ways. Either bad or good. Rapp was not exactly sure how he was going to proceed, but he had a rough idea what his rules of engagement were going to be. The Russians were now pressing through the front door of the restaurant. Through the large plate glass window Rapp watched them start up the stairs to the right. With a dose of caution he slid through the front door and resisted the urge to follow them. Going up a set of stairs blind like this was a good way to get shot, which Rapp presumed was exactly what was about to happen to them.

  Straight ahead the old man was conversing with a table of customers, but it was obvious his concern was elsewhere. He kept looking up at the stairs. Rapp turned to his left. There were two tables between the bar and the front window. The bar ran a good thirty feet, taking up the front third of the restaurant. In the back and to his right there were more tables. The customers were stacked three deep at the bar and virtually every single person had a drink in one hand and a cigarette in the other. The place was loud. Plaster walls, with a tin ceiling and tile floor. Wood tables and wood trim. Lots of hard surfaces.

  As Rapp smiled, excused, and nudged his way through the crowd he kept an eye on the mirror behind the bar. Two shelves of liquor bracketed the top and bottom of the mirror, and in its reflection he could watch both the old man and the staircase. Rapp did not hear the noise, but he did catch the mirror and the bottles shake ever so briefly. No more than a second later the liquid in the bottles danced yet again. Rapp sighed and cracked his neck from one side to the other. As he thought about what had just happened upstairs he flexed his fingers, extended them and then scrunched them into the palm of his hands. One dead for sure, probably two dead.

  His left hand slid over to his right wrist and without looking, he pressed the stopwatch function on his digital watch. Next came his breathing. It automatically settled into a steady, almost hypnotic rhythm. He was about ninety-nine percent sure the tremors were a result of the Russians hitting the ground one after the other as they’d been shot by Gazich. Was there a chance Gazich was already climbing onto the roof? Rapp doubted it. The way he’d stood next to the car after he’d killed the first man suggested he was too cool to turn and run. There were also the police to consider. Simply leaving the bodies lying around would mean the police would show up at some point. And they would have a lot of questions. Rapp’s bet was that he would stay and clean up his mess.

  Someone was still alive upstairs. In truth, any of the three would do, but Rapp wanted it to be Gazich. He was the man who had been standing on the street that day in Georgetown. Someone had hired him to do the job and now they wanted him dead. Rapp wanted that information, and playing it safe wasn’t going to get it. In life there’s the phrase, the calm after the storm. In war there is the letdown after the battle. Some people call it an adrenalin hangover. Elite soldiers train methodically in an effort to reprogram their biology to fight off this letdown. It is drilled into them to replenish spent magazines, clean weapons, and make sure they are battle ready before they so much as relieve themselves in a roadside ditch. Gazich was not an elite soldier. He was a sniper and an assassin. He would be focused on other things right now.

  Rapp was going upstairs. That much he’d already decided. There’d been too much watching and waiting lately. The only real question was how long should he wait? At least a minute. That would allow for the post adrenalin hangover to kick in.

  The old man started to move. Rapp watched him in the mirror. He came toward the front of the restaurant. One of the waitresses tried to ask him a question, but he ignored her and went straight for the staircase. Rapp checked his watch and casually pivoted away from the bar. He brought his right hand up, squinted his eyes, and covered his mouth
and nose as if he was about to sneeze.

  Instead of sneezing he said, “I’m going up to his office.”

  The steps were worn, checkered, linoleum tiles turned on their side so as to give the squares a diamondlike appearance. Black and white with a black rubber cap on the edge of each riser. To the left and right the tiles and cap were in good shape, but in the middle they were so worn the tan backing of the linoleum was beginning to show through. Rapp smiled at two women who were standing at the bottom of the steps. He placed his hand on the shoulders of one and slid around behind her. Rapp stayed to the right. Less noise and almost no chance of being seen until he made the turn at each landing. He moved quickly to the first landing.

  Assumptions—more often than not that’s what it came down to. Educated guesses based on real-life experiences were what gave you the edge in these situations. Rapp pictured what was going on upstairs as he placed each foot carefully on the treads. The old man was about five foot eight and weighed close to two hundred pounds. On top of that, he favored his right side when he walked. His hips and knees were probably shit from working on his feet all day and carrying an extra forty pounds around. He’d make it up one flight all right, but the second would really get his heart and lungs going. Add to that the stress of the situation and there was probably a pretty good chance that by the time he got to the third floor he’d be on the verge of cardiac arrest.

  The first landing was no trouble. Rapp hugged the outside wall and kept moving, taking the turn and heading up the next flight to the second floor. The last thing he wanted was for one of the waitresses or bartenders to notice him and start yelling for him to come down. Back pressed flat against the wall, he stood completely still and listened. Below there was light music and loud conversation. Above there was darkness and silence. Rapp slid the pistol from its pocket. Three tiny green dots marked the tritium sights. Two in back and one in front. Rapp brought the pistol up and held it next to his face, the stubby suppressor pointing at the ceiling. The aroma of metal and oil mixed together to create a unique comforting smell.

  There was one more choice to make. Rapp’s pistol was currently chambered with a Federal Hydra-Shok 9mm hollow-point cartridge. The ammunition was subsonic, and near silent. It was perfect for taking care of business in a discreet way, but it had one significant drawback. The subsonic round had eighty percent less velocity than its supersonic cousin. Forget body armor; the bullet could be stopped by a thick leather jacket at about thirty feet. It was not the type of round you wanted to use in a gunfight. The problem with the supersonic rounds, though, was that they were not silent. They made a fairly loud snapping noise as they broke the sound barrier. Rapp glanced down the staircase and remembered how loud it was in the bar area. The scale in his mind weighed velocity and stopping power against stealth. Velocity won.

  Rapp switched the pistol from his left hand to his right and hit the magazine release. The black magazine dropped into his left hand, and he stowed it in his right front pocket. Rapp turned the weapon on its side, placing the butt of the grip against his chest. He cupped his left hand over the ejection port and moved his right thumb up under the slide release. Using his fingertips and the meaty part of his palm, he gripped the slide and pushed back until he felt the cold brass of the chambered round fall into his cupped hand. At the same time his right thumb pushed up on the slide release and locked the slide in the open position. He dropped the loose round into the same pocket as the magazine and fished out a different magazine from his left pocket. Rapp took the first supersonic round off the top of the magazine and placed it between his front teeth. He then quietly slid the magazine into the grip using the palm of his hand to make sure it was locked into place. The gun was switched again to the left hand. Rapp carefully took the single round from his teeth, and while pointing the muzzle at the ground he dropped the round into the chamber. It was a bit like loading a torpedo into a launch tube. Grabbing the top of the slide with his right hand, he pulled back just enough for the slide release to drop and then slowly let the slide come forward until the breach was closed.

  This wasn’t Hollywood. Real shooters carried their weapons hot. That meant a round in the chamber. None of this racking the slide macho bullshit. All that did was slow you down and make a bunch of noise. Rapp’s only alternative to this complicated process would have been a soft rack, which basically meant putting a fresh magazine in the grip and then carefully letting the slide come forward in a slow, controlled motion. The problem with a soft rack was that you risked an improperly chambered round, which was the last thing you wanted. Especially when you planned on getting off the first shot.

  Rapp gripped the weapon with both hands and extended it, pressing both hands away from his body. His arms formed a triangle. He moved to his right, his weight perfectly distributed, his footfalls as light as a featherweight boxer’s. He started up the stairs slowly, two steps at a time. When he reached the landing between the second and third floors he could hear voices. A swath of dim light shone on the wall up above. Rapp guessed it came from Gazich’s office. He stared at the wall for a few seconds to see if he could make out any shadows. There were none. That meant no one was standing in the doorway to the office. Rapp listened. The voices were faint. Barely audible. He thought it was Greek.

  Suddenly, the silence of the third floor was shattered by an unsettling scream. Rapp instinctively took a step back. His whole body coiled, his muscles tensed as he prepared to strike out. The scream was followed by a harsh but controlled voice. The language was definitely Greek. The Greek was followed by heavy breathing and Russian. Rapp immediately knew what was going on. He crouched low and moved forward two steps to get a view of the landing above. The first thing he noticed was that the office door was closed. The second thing he noticed was a dead man lying on the floor.

  12

  R app moved halfway up the next flight until he was eye to eye with the dead body lying across the top landing. In the poor light, Rapp couldn’t be sure, but he thought it was one of the Russians. The way the guy was positioned, Rapp figured he’d been shot in the right side of his head, spun ninety degrees, and then crumpled to the floor. Literally dead before his mass settled against the worn, dirty linoleum. His eyes were wide open, his left hand pinned under his body, one leg bent and the other straight. Rapp doubted the guy even had the time to register the pain of a piece of lead slamming into the side of his head. Not a bad way to go, all things considered.

  Rapp paused to take a closer look at the body. It was definitely the second Russian, the one who had stopped in the middle of the street to yell at his friend. Gazich would have been hiding in the hallway to the right. He would have let the first guy pass. Let him open the door and then he would have shot them one two. Subsonic rounds from ten, maybe twenty feet max. First shot to the head of the second guy, second shot probably right into the first guy’s right hip or maybe the knee if he was an exceptionally good marksman. The big Russian would have gone down hard. Gazich would have been moving after the first shot. He would have closed the distance for the most difficult shot of all. He wanted at least one of these guys alive, which meant he might have to shoot the gun out of the first Russian’s hand if he didn’t drop it after he’d been winged.

  Rapp was practically lying on the steps now. His right hand was out in front of him, flat on the tread. His left hand held his gun. It was angles and inches now. He’d maximized his position of cover. Three quarters of the frosted glass office door lay in plain view. Shadows floated back and forth and at least two distinct voices could be heard, one much louder than the other. Rapp figured that had to be Gazich. He would be the one asking the questions. Staying on the stairs was not a good option. The position offered minimal cover, and left him vulnerable should someone wander up from the café. Tactically, that left two choices. Either rush the office, or move to the relative cover of the hallway.

  Rapp made a mental picture of what the office was probably like on the inside. They were all pretty much t
he same. A desk, a few chairs, maybe a couch and some bookcases or a credenza. A guy like Gazich would never sit with his back to the door. That was for sure. It was also likely that his main work area would put him in a spot where he could not be seen directly from either window. Snipers were like that. They were always thinking angles and trajectory. Not just their own, but that of their most feared enemy—another sniper. With two windows facing the street that left pretty much one place for the desk. There was still the old man to consider, though. There was no way of telling where he might be when the door flew open. If he was directly between Rapp and Gazich he might have to be put down. The thought of having to kill a potentially innocent bystander pushed Rapp away from one tactic and toward another.

  Hovering in no-man’s-land was untenable, so Rapp made his decision. He moved to the top step staying as low as possible, and stepped over the dead Russian. Hugging the wall he moved down the corridor a few steps and settled against the outside wall of Gazich’s office. The hallway was like a sewer culvert. The farther he went the darker it became. Rapp looked to the end. He could barely make out the dark wood frame of a door against the yellowed plaster walls. If the third floor was set up the same as the second floor, that was where the bathroom would be and maybe the access to the roof. There was one more door directly across the hall from him. That was the other office suite. Rapp had no idea who it belonged to. All he cared about was that the place was empty.

  He was thinking of Coleman and was about to ask for an ETA when Gazich’s office door opened, throwing a splash of light into the dark corridor. Rapp’s pistol was up and aimed in the flash of a half second. He took three silent steps back, retreating farther into the darkness, both hands gripping the weapon. A solid immovable base. Three neon green dots lined up in a perfect row, the pad of his left forefinger resting gently on the trigger.