“Grisha!” He heard Cara cough as she surfaced. “What-”
“Be silent and stay still!”
He had never spoken to her in that tone and it seemed to work. All sound coming from her direction faded. Azarov wanted to turn his head to look at her but decided it would be unwise until he determined who he was dealing with. If it was one of Krupin’s men, they would undoubtedly delay killing him until the Russian president could phone him and gloat about the limitlessness of his power. It would inevitably be a long and grandiose speech that would give Azarov time to gain the upper hand. And then he would go to Russia and kill Krupin, his political allies, his family, and everyone he’d ever known.
“Nice and easy, Grisha.”
The breath went out of him at the sound of the American accent. He rose with comic slowness, finally turning to face the man aiming a Glock 19 between his eyes.
“You look better than the last time I saw you, Mr. Rapp.”
“Three different plastic surgeries and I didn’t even bother to keep track of the time in the dentist’s chair. How about you? Were you actually hit or was the blood just for show?”
“Biceps. In and out.”
“Grisha!” Cara said, unable to contain herself any longer. “Who is he? Do you know him? What does he want?”
Azarov eased his face left until he could see her out of the corner of his eye. The hair had matted across her face but it wasn’t enough to obscure the terror etched there. It was unfair. A woman like her should never have to feel fear.
“Please, Cara. It’s going to be fine. Just stay in the pool.”
Rapp motioned with his gun. “Let’s take a walk.”
The Russian did as he was told, crossing his large patio and starting up the trail that led to his training facility. In doing so, the tactical advantage swung in his direction. The unseen shooter was undoubtedly Charles Wicker, one of the finest combat snipers alive. The jungle at the edges of the trail was extremely dense, though, making it virtually impossible to maintain an unbroken line of sight. Further, Azarov was intimately familiar with the terrain from years of training there.
It was an advantage similar to the one he’d counted on in Saudi Arabia, the Russian reminded himself. And this wasn’t a lone, injured Mitch Rapp fresh off a run through the sweltering desert. The CIA man was healthy, rested, and had backup.
The only relevant question Azarov needed to ask himself was how he wanted to die. On his knees or fighting? Oddly, he found that he didn’t care. Instead, his mind wandered to the past few months of his life. The time had been agonizingly short, but a gift nonetheless.
They reached the gym and Azarov stopped in front of the glass doors.
“Inside,” Rapp said.
He obeyed and Rapp indicated toward a chair next to the squat rack. Azarov sat while the American slid onto a table just over a meter away.
“I’m surprised you made it so easy, Grisha. You’re too comfortable here.”
“Isn’t that the way you’re supposed to feel in your home? Comfortable?”
“Not us.”
Azarov nodded. “And so you’ve come to kill me.”
“That was the plan. But now I’m not sure.”
“What’s changed?”
“You jumped on the surfer girl. The smart money would have been to keep her in front of you when you went for cover. Or at least to just leave her standing there as a distraction. It makes me wonder if Irene Kennedy’s right and you’re not a complete waste of skin.”
“She thinks that?”
Rapp put his gun on table next to him and Azarov focused on it in his peripheral vision. The short distance between them could be easily covered if it had been anyone else. With Rapp, though, it would be suicide.
“We can’t find a record of you contacting anyone in Russia since you got back. Even your company doesn’t know where you are. They figure you’re dead.”
“Not dead. Just retired.”
“Is that what you told Krupin?”
“Maxim Krupin?” Azarov said, feigning ignorance. “The Russian president?”
“It’s a little late to try to play that hand, don’t you think, Grisha?”
Azarov leaned back in his chair and stared up at the American for a few seconds. “We have ended our association. Permanently.”
“What if he feels differently?”
“Then I’ll kill him.”
“That’s a problem for me.”
“I don’t understand. Maxim Krupin is a sociopath who causes your country and the world nothing but problems.”
“That’s true. But now we have him by the balls. That bullshit in Saudi Arabia was all in for him and it didn’t work. If his involvement were made public, the rest of the world would come down on him like the wrath of God.”
“And you can use this,” Azarov said, “to exert control over Russia without creating a power vacuum.”
“That’s what Director Kennedy and the president think. Personally, I’d rather just fly over to Moscow and put a bullet in his head.”
“So you want me to tell you everything I know about his involvement in what happened in Saudi Arabia.”
“It’s one option.”
“If I agree, are you offering me protection from him?”
“Not my job.”
Azarov adjusted his gaze to the glass that looked out into the night. “I was young when I first met President Krupin. A simple soldier from a poor background. His offer to me was… everything. Money, beautiful women, power. All things I no longer value.”
“What do you value, Grisha?”
He was surprised by the question and even more surprised that he wasn’t sure how to answer it.
“Not patriotism,” Rapp prompted. “I assume not God. The surfer girl?”
Azarov tensed before he could stop himself. The hope that it hadn’t been noticed was dashed when a nearly imperceptible smile crossed the CIA man’s lips.
“She doesn’t know anything about me. There’s no reason to hurt her.”
“Who the fuck do you think you’re talking to?”
Azarov considered the question for a moment before responding. “My apologies. You understand that I’m accustomed to dealing with a different class of opponent.”
“So we understand each other?” Rapp said, standing.
“Yes.”
“And the business between us is finished?”
“Any questions I might have had about our relative abilities were answered in Saudi Arabia.”
The American picked up his Glock and started for the door. “Then enjoy the steaks.”
About the authors
VINCE FLYNN, the author of fourteen New York Times bestsellers, passed away in 2013. He was a graduate of the University of St. Thomas in St. Paul, Minnesota, and lived in the Twin Cities. Visit his website at VinceFlynn.com.
KYLE MILLS is the #1 New York Times bestselling author of fifteen political thrillers, including The Survivor for Vince Flynn and The Patriot Attack for Robert Ludlum. He initially found inspiration from his father, the former director of Interpol, and still draws on his contacts in the intelligence community to give his books such realism. Avid outdoor athletes, he and his wife have lived in Jackson Hole, Wyoming, for more than twenty years. Visit his website at KyleMills.com.
