American Assassin: A Thriller Read online

  Kennedy was still in a bit of shock. She herself had seen Hurley tie NFL-sized linebackers into pretzels. Nowhere in her research had she found anything that would lead her to believe Rapp was capable of going toe to toe with Stan Hurley. "Stan, you need to trust me. I had no idea he could best you."

  "He didn't best me! He almost did."

  "Yeah, but you cheated," Tschida said, taking perverse pleasure in the torment he was causing Hurley. "So, technically, he beat you."

  It took every last bit of restraint to not throw his glass at the gloating Tschida. Hurley turned his attention back to Kennedy and asked, "What are you up to? Why in hell would you try to sucker me like this?"

  "Just calm down for a minute, Stan. I am telling you right now, we found nothing in our research that said he was capable of this." Kennedy gestured at Hurley's battered face. "It was my sincere hope that someday he would be able to do this ... but not this soon."

  "Then your research sucks. You don't learn how to fight like this in your basement. Someone has to teach you."

  Kennedy admitted, "He's been going to a martial arts studio for the past year."

  "That would have been nice to know," Hurley fired back.

  "Stan, you have been bitching up a storm that this guy is a waste of time because he hasn't had Special Forces training. You think a year of training in a strip mall is equal to what the army puts guys through?"

  "That depends on the instructor."

  "And the student," Tschida added.

  Kennedy folded her arms and thought long and hard before she spoke. "There is one other possibility."

  "What's that?"

  "I know you don't like to talk about your age, but is it possible that you've lost a step."

  Tschida started laughing so hard his big barrel chest was rising and falling with each chuckle.

  Hurley was seething. "I'm going to put your ass in the ring with him, first thing in the morning. We'll see how funny you think this is then."

  Tschida stopped laughing.

  Kennedy pulled up a chair and sat at the table across from Hurley. "Please tell me what happened."

  "You're not jerking my chain?"

  Kennedy shook her head.

  "You weren't trying to pull a fast one on me? Set me up?"

  She shook her head again and said, "No. In fact I was worried that he would be on the receiving end of a beating. Not the other way around."

  Even through his anger- and bourbon-induced haze, Hurley was starting to grasp that Kennedy was telling the truth. "Where did you find this guy?"

  Kennedy gave him a look that he instantly understood.

  "Shithead," Hurley said to Tschida, "go check on those clowns, and if they're screwing around bust 'em out and make 'em snap off a hundred up-downs."

  "Got it." Tschida moved out, all business.

  As soon as the screen door slammed, Hurley looked at Kennedy and said, "Who is he?"

  She couldn't keep him in the dark forever, but she would have preferred to wait a few more days. Setting her apprehension aside she said, "His name is Mitch Rapp."

  CHAPTER 6

  RAPP lay on his cot, his head propped up on a lumpy pillow and a bag of frozen peas on his groin. Dinner had been served buffet style on a folding table at the far end of the barn. His appetite wasn't really there, but he forced himself to eat. There were seven of them plus two instructors, and among them, they polished off a giant pot of spaghetti, a plate full of rolls, and all the salad and corn on the cob they could stomach. The men were tired, hot, and ragged, but they stuffed their faces all the same and washed it down with pitchers of ice water and cold milk. Rapp had spent the last five years eating at a training table and knew how it worked. Tough drills in heat like this didn't exactly spur the desire to eat. It had the opposite affect, but you had to ignore it and shovel down the food. The physiology was pretty straightforward. They would be burning five-thousand-plus calories a day, and that meant either they had to eat a ton of food or they would begin to lose weight. With his frame and current weight, Rapp could lose ten pounds, but anything beyond that and he would open himself up to injury and illness.

  Rapp tossed the copy of Time magazine on the floor and adjusted the bag of frozen peas. One of the instructors had pulled him aside as he was clearing his plate and told him he wanted him to get on his back and start icing. He then gave him strict orders to report any blood in his urine. Rapp simply nodded and took the bag of peas. After his sparring match and before dinner he'd had a few hours to reflect on what had happened while one of the instructors led him through a tough circuit of calisthenics and then a ten-mile run through the woods. Rapp made it seem like he was struggling, but he wasn't. Especially with the running. He could last all day if he had to, but he didn't want to show these guys too much too soon. Besides, give a teacher the choice between a straight A student who has all the answers and an earnest one who gets better over time, and they'll pick the earnest one every time.

  Rapp was still trying to absorb what lesson there was to learn from his earlier throwdown with the man whose name he still did not know. He was not happy that the man had changed his own rules in the middle of a fight, but there wasn't a lot he could do about it now. He had to focus on how it would affect things going forward. It was important to know how far he could push it, and if these instructors weren't going to abide by the rules, they could hardly expect him to do so.

  Rapp's first chance to meet the other men was after his run. They were at the pull-up bars behind the barn doing four sets of twenty-five. In addition to the mean old bastard running the place, there were three more instructors. Just as his recruiter had told him, no one was to use his real name or discuss any personal information. The first two instructors were easy to keep straight. The short skinny one was called Sergeant Smith and the tall skinny one was called Sergeant Jones. They would start their days with Smith and end with Jones.

  Rapp had to do two sets of twenty-five with a thirty-second rest between so he could catch up with the other recruits. After each man had polished off a full one hundred pullups Sergeant Smith went nuts. He lined them up and paced back and forth dumping disdain on them.

  "One of you faggots doesn't think he needs to do a full pullup," The instructor started. "Thinks he can go halfway down and not quite all the way up. Well, I don't like anything done half-assed so you ladies get to start over."

  Then the invective really started to fly as he called into question their manhood, honor, intelligence, and lineage. Rapp noted that he treated them as a group rather than singling out the supposed offender, who he wasn't so sure even existed. He'd watched the other men, and none of them seemed to be slacking off. The sergeant was simply moving the goal line in hopes that one of them would grow sick of the games and quit. As he looked around, though, he didn't see that happening. The other six were hard individuals.

  "Four more sets on the quick. Let's go!" the sergeant barked. "And do 'em right this time, or I'll send you ladies on a nice long run and you can forget about dinner."

  There were two bars, so the men lined up and started over. Rapp was waiting for his turn when one of the other recruits poked him hard in the kidney. Rapp turned around and took inventory of the man who had jabbed him and was now cussing him out in a voice only the two of them could hear. The man looked like one of those professional rugby players from Europe. He had a heavy brow made heavier by a single black eyebrow that traveled laterally from one temple to the other. His eyes were coal-black and wide-set, but his most prominent features were a hook nose that looked to have been broken at least twice and a dimple in the middle of his pronounced chin. Rapp thought of two things almost instantly. The first was that it would be a waste of effort to try to knock him out with a punch to the head. The guy's neck was as thick as the average man's thigh. The second was that he didn't fit in. At least as far as Rapp understood the intent of what they were up to. The man's features were so distinctive as to make him almost impossible to forget. He looked m
ore like an enforcer than a stealth operative.

  "Do 'em right this time, shithead," the big man said testily.

  Rapp was sweaty, dirty, hot as hell, and not used to taking crap from anyone. He had done his pullups correctly. If anyone could be accused of not doing them all the way it would be the very man who was in his face. Rapp was tempted to set the tone and knock the guy on his ass, but he figured there would be plenty of time for that later. He turned back around without responding and stepped to the line.

  "That's right," the big man said, "be a smart boy and keep your mouth shut. Just fucking do 'em right this time."

  The rest of the afternoon proceeded without incident and they were allowed to jump into the lake to cool down before dinner. Rapp steered clear of Victor but kept an eye on him. He had learned that was the big man's name. Or at least the name he'd been given. Since they were forbidden to use their real names, the instructors gave each of them a fake first name. Rapp's was Irving, which they had already shortened to Irv. The other five guys were Fred, Roy, Glenn, Bill and Dick.

  They all seemed decent enough and pretty much kept their heads down and their eyes alert. There were a lot of knowing glances and silent communication. Since they were forbidden to talk about their past, there was no mention of military service or the units they had served in. This created an interesting situation for Rapp. The instructors more than likely knew he'd never served in the military, but the other recruits had no idea.

  It created a weird dynamic when you dumped a group of guys in a situation where they were forbidden to talk about their pasts. It pretty much killed small talk, so little was said during dinner. Rapp retired to his cot so he could ice his groin and was staring up at the slow, churning revolutions of the ceiling fan that hung from the rafters directly above him. He was thinking about the match, going through it move by move wondering what he could have done differently, when Victor appeared next to his cot.

  "What's your name?" he asked in a hushed voice.

  Rapp glanced over to the door where one of the instructors was giving orders to one of the other guys.

  "Irv."

  "No, dumbass." He shook his head. "I mean your real name."

  Rapp was starting to think he didn't like Victor. He'd been warned by his recruiter repeatedly that talking about your personal life was grounds for immediate dismissal from the program. Just ten minutes earlier, while they were eating, the instructors had reminded them of this again. Rapp impassively looked up and said, "Didn't you hear what the instructors told us?"

  A lopsided grin fell across the other man's face. "That's just a bunch of BS. It's a game. They're just trying to fuck with us." He glanced over his shoulder to make sure no one was close enough to hear and said, "Come on ... where you from."

  "What's your angle?"

  "Huh?"

  "What are you up to?"

  "Just trying to get to know the guys ... that's all."

  "Try not to take this the wrong way, but it's none of your business who I am or where I'm from."

  "Is that so?" His face flushed a bit and his jaw tightened. "I'll tell you something. I don't need you telling me what is and isn't my business."

  Rapp didn't like his predicament. He was on his back and vulnerable, but he didn't want Victor to think he was easily intimidated. "It's not me telling you," he said in a casual voice, "It's them." Rapp looked over at the instructor by the door.

  The instructor finished whatever he was saying and left. It was just the seven recruits now.

  Victor started laughing. "There goes your mother. Looks like your ass is mine."

  Rapp decided lying down was no longer the best position to be in. He quickly swung his legs off the cot and stood. In a conversational tone that was loud enough for the others to hear he said, "What's your problem, Victor?"

  "You're my problem."

  "I gathered that," Rapp said from the other side of the cot, "but could you be a little more specific. Maybe it's something I could fix."

  "I doubt it," the bigger man said with disdain. "You look soft to me. Like you don't belong here."

  "Well ... why don't we find out." Rapp gestured to the wrestling mat.

  Victor laughed as if the idea was preposterous. "You don't stand a chance."

  Rapp nodded as if to say maybe, maybe not, and walked over to the edge of the mat. "I'm sorry about your mother, Victor."

  "What did you just say?" Victor asked.

  "I said," Rapp half yelled, "I'm sorry about your mom."

  "You'd better watch yourself!" Victor's eyes had taken on a wild glare.

  "Or what?" Rapp asked.

  The other five guys all dropped what they were doing to see what was going on.

  "You gonna take a swing at me, Victor?" Rapp egged the big man on. He was ready to end this thing right now. "What's wrong ... your mom the neighborhood slut when you were growing up ... she didn't hold you enough when you were little? She let every guy she met suck on her tit except you?"

  "You got a big mouth," Victor snarled, barely able to contain his rage.

  "Just trying to figure out what's wrong with you, Victor. You been shooting your mouth off all day. Acting like a world-class prick. We're all getting sick of it."

  "I'm going to kick your ass!" Victor howled as he hopped from one foot to the other like a boxer.

  Rapp didn't say a word. He moved to the middle of the mat and motioned for Victor to join him.

  Victor started whooping and hollering as he danced circles around Rapp. He was throwing shadow punches and explaining in detail what he was going to do to Rapp when suddenly one of the instructors reappeared in the doorway.

  "What in hell are you ladies doing?"

  Victor fell silent, but it was too late.

  "That's it, you dumb-assess. If you've got enough energy to fight then you've got enough energy to run. You've got sixty seconds to muster your worthless asses outside on the line. Put your running gear on and move it!"

  Everyone sprang into action, and while they were putting on their gear the other five men made their displeasure known through a mix of looks and verbal complaints. Rapp did not respond, while Victor seemed to relish it. He turned the taunts back on the other men and invited any of them to take a shot at him just as soon as one of them grew a set of balls. Rapp put on his shoes and sprinted for the door. He was the first one on the line, and while he waited for the others, it occurred to him that something wasn't right. If this program was so secretive and elite, what in hell was a loudmouth like Victor doing here?

  CHAPTER 7

  CAMP PERRY, VIRGINIA

  TOM Lewis took the call on the secure line. He listened patiently to the person on the other end relay a seemingly benign message about a meeting that was to take place in Washington, D.C., the following afternoon. To anyone with the ability to breach the secure system, which of course included the internal security people back in Langley, the conversation would have seemed so ordinary as to not warrant a second thought. In the third sentence, however, an adverb was used that caused his right eyebrow to shoot up a quarter inch. Lewis thanked the person on the other end and said they would talk at the meeting the next day.

  The clinical psychologist slowly placed the phone back in its cradle and tapped his pen on a generic desk blotter. Everything in the office was generic; all standard-issue government furniture, the kind that was purchased in massive quantities every year by the behemoth federal government. The desk, bookcase, and credenza were all made from particle board coated with a thin plastic veneer that was supposed to look like wood, but didn't. The chairs were black plastic with coarse charcoal fabric seats that could render a pair of dress pants useless in just nine months. Lewis was amazed at how ubiquitous this type of furniture had become in Washington, which in turn led him to the conclusion that the maker of this substandard furniture was more than likely headquartered in the home district of the chairman of the House Appropriations Committee.

  Lewis detested such poor craftsman
ship, but nonetheless made no attempt to add a personal touch to this office. His private office was in the District and every square inch of it had been meticulously decorated. With what he charged for an hour of therapy he could not only afford the fine trappings, but even more, his clients expected it. In a rather short period of time he had built up a very profitable practice. His patient list was a virtual who's who of Washington's power elite. Lobbyists, lawyers, and CEOs made up the bulk of his business. He treated only a smattering of politicians, but dozens of women who were married to powerful senators and congressmen came to see him every week and poured their hearts and minds out. If he were unscrupulous he'd be able to use that information to his benefit, but he had never been tempted.

  The thirty-six-year-old Lewis had both the passion and the natural inclination for his work. He had obtained an undergraduate degree in economics and math from Pomona College and a graduate degree in clinical psychology from the University of Pennsylvania. The latter was paid for by the government, which required him to serve four years in the army upon graduating. That stint in the army more than anything was what pulled Lewis into this current situation, in a windowless, crappy office on a base that very few people even knew existed. It seemed he had a knack for spotting mental deficiencies, which when he was in the army was something that greatly interested at least one flag officer and a couple of colonels down at Fort Bragg. He'd spent three years helping the Joint Special Operations Command tighten up their selection process and develop a new system for game theory.

  Lewis took a moment to collect his thoughts and figure out how the call would affect his evening. The camp had a bachelors' quarters of sorts for the various employees and consultants who traveled back and forth to D.C. When a new class was on the post he normally stayed one or two nights a week so he could observe how they interacted. He had planned on staying the evening and spending some time with one of the recruits who was showing some troublesome signs, but the phone call was more pressing.