The Last Man Read online

  “Yeah . . . keep your eye on it.”

  Gould looked behind them. There were multiple elevated rooftop positions within five hundred yards. “If they get behind us we’re done for.”

  Coleman checked his watch. “We’ll be out of here before they figure that out.”

  Off in the distance he heard the dull thumping of rotor blades. Coleman looked to the east, toward the airport. At first he couldn’t find a sign of the helicopters, as they were flying so low, and then he saw the shimmer of movement as they skimmed the rooftops almost two miles out.

  “Scott!”

  Coleman turned his head and looked at Maslick, who was pointing over the edge of the building.

  “We’ve got trouble.”

  Coleman looked down and saw the men with the clear bulletproof shields forming up along the edge of the building. He looked to his right and saw the same thing. He grabbed Gould and said, “Get over there and help him.”

  A bullet slammed into the top of the stone parapet, just a few inches from Gould’s face. He almost immediately realized from the trajectory that it had to have come from above. Lunging forward from his knees, he shoved Coleman to the ground as a barrage of bullets hit their position. Gould rolled off Coleman and said, “I’ll deal with the men across the street.” He handed Coleman one of the canisters from his vest. “It’s only a flash-bang but it might help.”

  Coleman grabbed it from him. “I’ll try to draw their fire in a second.” On all fours he stayed near the edge and began crawling to the far corner. He looked back at Gould, counted down with his fingers, and rose onto one knee. He was surprised to see four gun barrels pointed in his general direction from an elevated position. He was expecting just one or two. Coleman’s right index finger began rapidly squeezing off rounds. His aim was far from exact, as he was trying to draw the attention of these men so Gould get a few good shots.

  Gould came up a second later and quickly moved his aperture into position. He placed the red dot on the closest man’s head and fired. At the exact same instant he saw a muzzle flash from the man he was trying to kill. Before Gould had a chance to seek out a second target, he was knocked on his ass. He knew immediately it was his left shoulder. He looked over and saw the near-perfect circle of blood slowly growing. His shoulder was screaming with pain, but Gould knew the injury was not fatal. At least it wasn’t if he got medical care in the not-so-distant future. His best hope for that was if he got off his ass and back in the fight. With a grunt and more effort than he should have needed he got back on his knees and took aim at the men across the street. Gould’s left hand was still functional, so his aim was as steady as ever, although he knew that might not last. Only two heads were visible. Gould lined up the first one, took the shot, and saw the man go down. He was moving the rifle into position for the second shot when there was a large explosion beneath him. The building shook for a second and then all was quiet.

  “Dammit,” Coleman yelled. “Cover me.” He tore off across the roof for the hatch.

  Gould shouldered his weapon and began firing on the rooftop position across the street. More barrels suddenly appeared and he had to seek cover beneath the stone parapet. When he looked back the blond-haired guy was gone. Gould lay on his back for a moment trying to survey the damage to his shoulder, and then he suddenly became aware of the growing noise of helicopter rotors slicing through the air.

  Coleman found his way down the ladder as quickly as you’d expect from a guy who had spent a good portion of his life on ships. By the time he reached the staircase he had Reavers’s M-4 up and ready to engage. He flew down the stairs and into a cloud of floating debris in the first-floor hallway. He didn’t care how many men there were, he was going to rush them head-on. Moving down the hallway at a steady pace, he saw the pile of debris near where he had last seen Rapp. Coleman’s heart sank as he stepped on the pile and swung his weapon to the left to engage the men who would be coming through the front door.

  He was shocked to find not a person standing. On the sidewalk just outside the front entrance there was a tangle of bodies. Coleman saw some movement and almost fired. One of the cops was trying to roll onto his side. Coleman’s conscience got the better of him and he took his finger off the trigger. Two sounds suddenly filled the relative silence. The first was a low moan, which seemed to be fading, and the second one was the roar of U.S. Special Operations helicopters, which was definitely growing in volume.

  Coleman turned and looked down at the pile of debris that he had just walked over. He began yanking ceiling tiles and pieces of wood and Sheetrock from the heap, and then he saw the blue countertop that Rapp had used to fortify his position. Next he spotted a hand and an arm. Coleman released the rifle, letting it hang from the sling around his neck. Taking both hands, he lifted the large piece of Formica up, revealing a dusty and pale Rapp. He chucked the large board off to the side, dropped down to one knee, and stared at Rapp’s lifeless face. Coleman placed a finger on Rapp’s neck to search for a pulse and then slapped him a couple times on each cheek.

  Rapp gasped, his eyes shot open wide, and his left hand shot up and grabbed Coleman by the throat.

  Coleman removed Rapp’s hand from his throat by applying just the right amount of pressure to his wrist. “It’s me, you idiot. Do you think you can stand?” The former Navy SEAL could tell by the way Rapp’s eyes were darting around that he still wasn’t entirely with it. He ran his hands up and down Rapp’s body looking for any injuries. The thump-thump signature of the helicopters was growing louder by the second. The thought of missing their ride, or worse, getting one of the birds blown out of the sky because they weren’t up on the LZ, made Coleman skip the rest of the medical assessment. He stood and grabbed Rapp by his tactical vest, yanking him to his feet. Rapp wobbled and almost fell to his left, but Coleman steadied him.

  “Come on . . . this way. Our ride is waiting for us.”

  “What the fuck are you talking about?”

  “We have a hot double date.” Coleman squatted, threw Rapp’s right arm around his neck, and then moved the two of them down the hallway. “Don’t want to be late. Come on, we need to hustle.”

  “Where the hell are we?” Rapp wobbled again and his legs gave out.

  Coleman struggled to keep him upright and then decided he needed to change tactics. He spun Rapp toward him, bent over, and threw Rapp over his shoulder. Coleman hefted him in a fireman’s carry and started up the steps. “Damn, you’re getting fat.”

  “Put me down, you idiot. What are you doing?”

  “Saving your fat ass, dumb shit.” Coleman reached the second floor and stopped at the ladder that led to the roof. The rotor wash from one of the helicopters was blowing through the opening. Coleman didn’t think he could climb the ladder with Rapp over his shoulder, so he set him down.

  Rapp’s pupils were as big as saucers.

  “Shit,” Coleman muttered. He turned Rapp toward the ladder and placed his hands on the rung just above his head. “Come on, climb. Let’s go.”

  Rapp turned his head and gave him a blank stare.

  Coleman screamed at him, “We’re going to die if you don’t get moving. Snap out of it!” Coleman grabbed him by the waist and started pushing him up the ladder.

  Rapp seemed to finally come out of his stupor, his hands grasping at the rungs above him.

  “That’s right,” Coleman prodded him on as they made painfully slow progress. Fortunately, Maslick appeared in the hatch opening. He grabbed one of the shoulders on Rapp’s vest and practically yanked him onto the roof. By the time Coleman cleared the ladder, the big former Delta Force Operator had Rapp on his feet and was dragging him toward one of the waiting Little Birds.

  Coleman watched as bullets began impacting the ground around Rapp and Maslick. He snapped his M-4 up to his shoulder, flipped the selector to full automatic, and began raking the roofline across the street with fire. Coleman marched steadily forward, and when his weapon locked out he ejected the spent magazin
e and inserted a fresh one, charging the weapon and then releasing another volley.

  Ducking under the Little Bird’s rotors, Coleman kept up the suppressive fire and jumped onto the portside external bench. He looked inside the back compartment and saw Rapp and Gould in a pile on the floor. Maslick was sitting on the starboard side bench laying down suppressive fire. Coleman took his finger off the trigger and reached forward, slapping the pilot on the shoulder. Coleman gave the man the thumbs-up signal and the bird immediately lifted into the air.

  They banked to the right, which gave Coleman a good vantage point to fire at the building with the men on the roof. No one, however, was getting up to shoot at the helicopter. They were either all dead or had finally taken the hint that it was a good idea to stay down. As they gained elevation and distance Coleman released his rifle and strapped himself in. That was when he noticed that Rapp was out again. He reached in and slapped him on the cheek. Coleman had seen a lot of concussions, and this was not the norm. Gould was lying next to Rapp with a bullet hole in his shoulder, his face tight with pain. Coleman seemed to remember seeing some blood on Maslick as well. A hospital was more important than getting back to the embassy. Plus, the CIA had its detention facility at the Bagram Air Base.

  Leaning forward, he shouted above the roar of the rotors and engine, “We need to go to Bagram. Straight to the base hospital.”

  The pilot nodded and began speaking into his lip mike. About five seconds later the Little Bird and one of the Black Hawks broke formation and headed to the northeast for the fifteen-minute flight to the main U.S. air base and its level-one trauma center. The Black Hawk pulled alongside, and Coleman could see Mike Nash sitting in the back of the much larger Black Hawk, talking on a headset. The fallout from what had just happened was going to be huge. Nash was probably already dealing with it. Coleman checked on Rapp again. He was still unconscious, which from a medical standpoint was a concern, but there was a silver lining. If Rapp were awake right now, he’d probably have them on their way to assault the police headquarters in Kabul.

  No Afghani politician or State Department official would be able to calm Rapp down. Even Kennedy would have a hard time convincing him to stand down. The only thing that could stop him would be a hospital bed. Once Rapp started, Coleman knew there would be no stopping him. He’d kill every last corrupt official he could get his hands on.

  CHAPTER 21

  JALALABAD, AFGHANISTAN

  RICKMAN no longer wondered if his ribs were broken—he was convinced. Three of them, he was pretty sure. Both eyes were now firmly closed, the skin so swollen and tight that he probably looked like he was morphing into an insect. His tongue told him that two of his teeth were knocked out and a third was chipped. He had finally broken. He’d heard the maxim many times before—everyone broke. He was no different, of course, and no one would expect him to hold out for very long. He had lived a life insulated from physical pain. He’d been hired for his intellect, not, like Mitch Rapp, for his predatory instincts. Emotional agony Rickman could write the book on, but this physical stuff was an entirely different game. He had prepared himself. In a broad conceptual sense, he understood what it would be like and that it would not last forever, that the physical scars would heal.

  Nothing, however, no amount of meditation and careful consideration could prepare him for the absolute brutality, the hair-splitting agony that would result from his nerve endings being so assaulted. There was some embarrassment that he couldn’t even last two days. Barely twenty-four hours after the torture started, Rickman caved. The secrets came flowing out in a torrent. He babbled from one subject to another like a crack addict who could not keep a train of thought. It would take multiple experts to decipher what he had really said, and that was intentional on Rickman’s part. There was just enough truth in his words to make them believe him, but there were also traps and deceptions that would give the CIA the time they would need to maneuver and possibly save a few people. There were also a few scores to be settled, some enemies who would now have to answer to the Taliban and defend what he’d said they’d done. The words would be a waste, as they always were with groups like the Taliban. The group was all that mattered. Individual needs were not important. The more the person tried to deny something that couldn’t be proven, the more it looked to these obtuse fools as if that person was putting himself before the needs of the group. Unable to decipher what had really happened, the Taliban would act predictably. They would kill the perceived traitor. It was a complex mix of facts, outright lies, half-truths, and complicated misinformation that was possible only with Rickman’s genius.

  They thought they were in control, but they weren’t. By the time he was done with them, Rickman would have these fools killing each other. Terrorist would be pitted against terrorist. Unfortunately, a few allies would be killed, but his side was not without fault. Soldiers died every week in this war. A few intelligence assets weren’t worth getting too spun up about.

  Rickman heard the door open, and he didn’t bother to try to open his eyes. He’d stopped trying hours ago. They were too puffy to work properly. He felt a certain sense of calm. The end was near, and then the pain would stop.

  “It is time,” a steady, soft voice announced.

  Rickman sighed. He so much preferred this one to the others. He was smart and actually knew what questions to ask. “But I’m having so much fun.” Rickman tried to smile through his swollen lips.

  “I know you are, but we all have our orders to follow.”

  “Yes,” Rickman said, “we all must be good soldiers.”

  The man squatted next to Rickman, keeping his back to the camera. Deftly, he slid an unseen syringe into the crook of Rickman’s left arm while pretending to take the man’s pulse. He depressed the plunger. He doubted Rickman noticed the prick. The man’s body was so overwhelmed with pain that this little stab wouldn’t even register.

  “So now that I’ve begun talking it would be nice if we could conduct the follow-up questions in a more civilized setting.”

  “Hmm . . .” The man seemed to be pondering Rickman’s request. “There’s only one problem.”

  “What’s that?”

  “You lied to us.”

  “I did not lie to you. I told you what you wanted to know.”

  “Ahh . . . I find it interesting how you phrased that. You told me what I ‘wanted to know.’ That is not what I wanted. I wanted the truth.”

  “I gave you the truth.”

  “You did not,” the man said in a voice bereft of emotion.

  Rickman grew nervous and began coughing up blood. “I’ve told you everything,” he managed to blurt out in his defense.

  “You are a devious man.” His tone had shifted to that of a disappointed father. “We all know this. So the beatings will have to continue, but don’t worry. You will learn very quickly that your games are not worth the effort.”

  “Please.” Rickman blindly reached out, clutching for the man’s arm. “I am doing everything you have asked of me.”

  The man stood and took a step back. “Not everything. You have told us a few of your secrets, but you have also told us many lies. That means we will have to do this the hard way.”

  “Please!” Rickman started crying. “I will tell you what you want to know.”

  The man was wearing a mask over his face and shook his head sadly. “You will tell me the truth . . . not what I want to know. The truth is the only thing that will save you.”

  “I will tell you the truth, then,” Rickman pleaded.

  “Yes, you will.” The man turned and walked past the camera, its red light glowing. In the hallway he took off his hood and tossed it on a wooden table. The two men were waiting like obedient dogs for instructions on what do next. Vazir Kassar was apprehensive about how to proceed. He didn’t have much confidence in these men. One of them started to speak, but Kassar held up a hand. The men had at least learned that much. Kassar despised people who talked too much and had explained
to the two halfwits that there was nothing they could say that he hadn’t already thought of.

  After fishing out a cigarette and lighting it, Kassar exhaled a cloud of smoke and said, “It is time to increase the pain.”

  Both men nodded eagerly. The taller of the two said, “The genitals . . . can we hit him in the genitals now?”

  “Yes, you may hit him in the genitals.” Kassar took no joy in this. It was simply part of the job. “I have given you the area I want you to focus on. Where I know he has lied. You will increase the pain until he tells us the truth. Yes?”

  “Yes,” both men answered.

  Kassar waved for them to proceed. He took another puff of his cigarette while the two simpletons put their masks on. Kassar couldn’t shake the feeling that these two fools might somehow mess this up. There were no guarantees in life, and definitely none in the dangerous waters where they were swimming. Kassar settled into a wooden chair and watched the single monitor. He checked the time on his watch and made a quick calculation. “This shouldn’t take long,” he said to himself.

  Rickman was strung up once again by his wrists. They had yet to lay a hand on him, but he was already sniffling. The men began taking turns slapping him in the head and heaving insult after insult at him. Kassar could tell that the CIA man was losing control of his legendary wits. He’d been awake for a day and a half and he’d been beaten so severely that he could barely stand. He was exhausted and on the verge of a complete collapse.

  The men paused for a moment and then without warning one of them took a rubber hose and swung it up between Rickman’s legs, striking him in the groin. A glob of blood exited Rickman’s mouth as his entire body convulsed forward. His sniffles turned into sobs and his chin was coated with spit, tears, and blood. Rickman was begging for them to stop, but the men paid him no heed. They were literally kicking the crap out of him as Rickman defecated in his boxers. This only upset the men more. The slaps were now replaced with punches.