The next sound that came over his earpiece wasn’t an alarm but a notification of another call from Maxim Krupin. He was monitoring the operation from the comfort of his office in the Kremlin and would be concerned by what he was seeing.
Azarov ignored the call. If the other teams had been discovered, then this place would likely be known to the enemy as well. Attacking the large, complex facility, though, would be significantly more difficult. Did he still have time to escape? The storm would provide cover and if necessary he could-
“Contact north.”
The English coming over the radio was excellent, tainted only by a moderate Dutch accent. Hassan was the son of Syrians who had settled in Amsterdam-a store clerk who had become bored with his life and joined ISIS.
“Details?”
“It appears to be a single man. Approaching on foot.”
Azarov closed his eyes and let out a long breath. The mental image of his home in Costa Rica, so vivid a few minutes before, began to lose focus.
“Did you say a single man? Confirm.”
“Affirmative.”
“Keep eyes on the target.”
The Russian moved from his protected position and navigated the convoluted collection of ladders, catwalks, and ramps that led to the northern edge of the facility. He crawled the last ten meters, setting up in a well-camouflaged position with a gap wide enough to get a spotting scope through.
He had to admit to being impressed by Hassan’s attentiveness. With the blowing sand, it took Azarov almost ten seconds to spot the figure running down the back of a dune some one hundred fifty meters away.
The most immediate impression was that the man was extremely fast. While perhaps not as powerful as he himself was, this lone attacker’s skill at negotiating the soft desert surface was unquestionably superior.
Finer details became apparent as the distance between them narrowed. He was wearing the uniform of a Saudi soldier but with no visible insignias. Weaponry appeared to be limited to a single handgun holstered on his hip. Much more interesting, though, was his face. At first Azarov assumed it was just heat distortion but he could now see that this assumption was in error. The man’s nose was badly broken and both eyes were blackened. Partially hidden by a thick beard, his lips were split and distorted, complementing similarly swollen cheekbones.
In another world, watching this man charging their position alone would have been almost comical. But this wasn’t another world and there was only one man with this combination of speed and audacity.
“Rohab,” Azarov said, connecting to his men again, “join Hassan on the north end of the facility. Engage and kill the man approaching.”
“I understand,” came the reply.
If this was indeed Mitch Rapp, the tactical situation presented some interesting opportunities. The American was clearly injured, had run an undetermined distance in the oppressive heat, and was unlikely to be familiar with the structure that he was approaching.
While escaping and luring Rapp to northern Russia still had benefits, it also had a number of drawbacks. Rapp would have the full resources of the CIA behind him while Azarov would be alone. With no urgency on the American’s part, he would have significant control over the time of their next meeting and would use that time to heal and plan.
The more Azarov considered the situation, the more it became obvious that the moment for this confrontation was now. After he killed Rapp, he would contact Irene Kennedy and propose a truce. She had the reputation of being an eminently reasonable woman and would see no profit in risking more of her men in a pointless quest for revenge.
A gust struck from the south, kicking up an opaque cloud of sand that blasted the skin on Azarov’s hands and face. When it cleared, the man was gone.
CHAPTER 55
RAPP dropped to his stomach, ignoring the searing heat of the sand beneath him. There was still no sign of opposition, but he now had a solid view of the north side of the facility. Azarov would hang back-sacrifice any pawns he had in hopes of getting lucky or at the very least wearing Rapp out.
Those pawns would likely be handpicked from ISIS. Even if they had military experience and additional spec ops training, these weren’t SAS or Delta. In his experience, they would lack any capacity for subtlety or out-of-the-box thinking. They’d take the most obvious positions and attack at the first opportunity. No matter what the job, jihadists could always be counted on to reach for the hammer.
When the next gust hit, he sprinted through the opaque dust cloud it created. The soft sand gave way to concrete and he slowed, squeezing between two upright pipes and keeping to where the tangle of machinery was most dense. It robbed him of his ability to see much more than five feet in a straight line, but that limitation would go both ways.
Rapp pulled his Glock and started weaving through the steel maze. There was an obvious vantage point on the second level, about fifteen yards to his right. He himself might have been attracted to it in his younger days. The position would provide an unobstructed view north, as well as reasonable protection from the wind. Even more advantageous, practical access from below was blocked by a massive cylindrical tank.
Rapp spotted a drift that went almost to a catwalk ten feet above and began climbing it. At the top, he had to dig to widen the gap between the sand and the metal grid, but managed to get through without making a sound loud enough to rise above the wind.
He inched forward through the dangerously confined space. After a few feet, he spotted a boot protruding from behind a steel plate. Rapp looked at the Glock in his hand and then reluctantly holstered it. Without a silencer, using the gun would be too much of a risk.
He found a broken pipe and quietly dug it from the sand. While not exactly sharp, one end looked jagged enough for his purposes. He kept moving forward, slipping from beneath the catwalk and continuing along the drift as it climbed toward a hard ceiling of electrical conduits.
After about a minute, he had a full view of his target: Middle Eastern male, lying prone, searching the desert through a scope mounted to an AK-47.
The angle of the sun was going to be a problem. Rapp had it at his back, which was normally an advantage, but in this case it would cause him to throw a shadow. He stayed low to minimize the problem, but there was no way to change the laws of physics. His shadow moved steadily up the man’s back and finally entered his peripheral vision when Rapp was still almost ten feet out.
The terrorist rolled, desperately trying to swing the AK with him. The confined space that was slowing Rapp’s approach had a similar effect on his target. The rifle’s barrel caught on the edge of a drain lever and a moment later Rapp drove the broken end of the pipe into the man’s sternum. He threw his full weight behind it and managed to drive the steel down until it hit concrete.
Rapp immediately retreated, suspecting that the dead man was working as part of a two-man team. That suspicion was confirmed when automatic fire erupted from below and rounds began sparking off a storage tank to his right.
Rapp vaulted a railing and sprinted for a set of stairs to the west, unable to see the man firing. The steps were solid steel plate and he could feel the vibration of bullet impacts as he took them three at a time.
The shooter was still invisible below, but it was clear that he was firing from the left. Ahead, the stairs dead-ended into a T. To the right, they continued up and eventually disappeared into the glare of the sun. To the left was a low gate blocking access to a steel mesh catwalk.
When he reached the T, Rapp feinted right and then went left, leaping over the gate and landing on the catwalk. The shooter had anticipated him continuing up the stairs, and the rounds pounded along them as Rapp drew his Glock.