Attia nodded.
“Your silence isn’t an answer, Muhammad.”
Finally, a hint of resolve became visible in his disciple’s expression. “No one has even seen him since he descended into the canyon. Or, better said, no one who’s survived. Twelve of our men are dead, including three of mine. He seems to be targeting our crack troops and leaving the others alone to the degree possible. He kills them, strips them of their food, water, and weapons, and then fades back into the desert.”
“He’ll become exhausted,” Halabi said, the volume of his voice slowly rising. “He’ll get sick or injured. He can’t last out there forever. Bring in more local men loyal to us. Overwhelm him. Trap him like the animal he is.”
“Trap him?” Attia said, the frustration audible in his voice. “We can’t even find him. All we can do is make guesses based on the pattern of bodies he leaves behind. It’s likely that he buries himself during the day to sleep and moves only at night. And he has an endless supply of food, water, and ammunition because it’s being provided by his victims.”
“The desert will—”
“The desert will do nothing!” Attia said, daring to interrupt him. “This isn’t a hardship for him. It’s his home. He’s spent his entire adult life fighting in places just like this one. He could live out there for weeks. Perhaps months. Killing our people when they present an opportunity or when he needs supplies. But he won’t have to, because his comrades won’t leave him out there forever. They’ll find men loyal to him and they’ll find aircraft. When that day comes, our men will die without ever having laid eyes on Mitch Rapp. What is it you tell me every day? That with a thousand good men, you could bring America to its knees overnight? But you can’t find a thousand good men. And now you’re going to leave the few you have managed to find to be picked off one by one by a man who America’s next president will likely put in prison.”
Halabi felt the familiar hate well up inside him but then it faded into an unfamiliar sense of confusion and uncertainty. Had he fallen into the same trap that had snared him so many times before? Rapp’s life had been his for the taking in that village. But instead of ordering the helicopter destroyed on its way in, he’d insisted on Rapp’s capture. Why? Did it further the pursuit of Allah’s will?
No.
He had failed to kill God’s greatest enemy on earth because of his own desperate need to take revenge. To see the CIA man broken and groveling not at God’s feet, but at his own.
Halabi understood now that Rapp wouldn’t be caught in that desert, that God had put him beyond the reach of his men as a punishment. Once again, he could feel God’s eyes on him. This time, though, they radiated something very different from the love and approval that he had become accustomed to.
“Pull our men out, Muhammad.”
“All of them? There’s no reason not to leave the local—”
“All of them. It’s no use.”
Attia gave a short, relieved nod before speaking again. “I assume you agree that we have to move out of Yemen immediately? It’s unlikely that Rapp could have interrogated one of my men before killing him, but it’s possible that he’s learned about this place. Can I begin preparations to move our operations to our secondary site in Somalia?”
Halabi nodded and the man turned, disappearing through the door.
More retribution from God. They would trade a mountaintop fortress surrounded by people sympathetic to his goals for a maze of caverns surrounded by men whose allegiances changed like the direction of the wind.
Halabi closed his eyes and once again envisioned the dangerous path to victory. The greatest obstacle ahead wasn’t the U.S. military or Irene Kennedy or even Mitch Rapp. It was his own arrogance.
Finally the ISIS leader pushed himself to his feet and limped to the far wall. There he retrieved a whip consisting of various chains attached to a worn wooden handle. He swung it behind him, feeling the metal bite into his flesh. The blood began to flow and the pain flared, but God remained agonizingly silent.
CHAPTER 14
WEST OF MANASSAS
VIRGINIA
USA
RAPP accelerated out of the trees and onto a flat summit bisected by a newly paved road. Below he could see the widely spaced dots of porch lights and, in the distance, the glow of Manassas reflecting off low clouds.
Their escape from Yemen had been surprisingly uneventful other than the number of people involved. Predictably, Shamir Karman had become emotionally attached to a number of his employees and had refused to leave them behind. It had taken a little creativity, but they’d managed to cram everyone into a five-vehicle motorcade and avoid getting strafed by the Saudi air force. By now Karman would be installed in a New York condo and the others would be getting fast-tracked through immigration.
Coleman and his men were at Walter Reed getting their wounds checked for the various antibiotic-resistant infections making their way around Yemen. And, of course, grumbling about the fact that Rapp’s two days fighting his way through the desert had left him with nothing more than a moderate sunburn.
Empty lots started to appear on either side of the road, all owned by people loyal to Rapp. Near the center of the private subdivision, he passed a couple of completed foundations and a house surrounded by a yard strewn with toys and sports equipment. With all those kids, Mike Nash’s place was always either descending into anarchy or recovering from it.
Creating a neighborhood full of shooters had been his brother’s idea and, as usual, it had been a solid one. While the fortress of a house Rapp had built was capable of repelling pretty much any attack that didn’t involve artillery, the fact that any fight would be immediately joined by a bunch of former SEALs, Delta, CIA, and FBI added to the deterrent.
And so he finally had a place he could let his guard slip a little bit. Maybe relax and have a couple of beers in a chair that wasn’t backed up to a wall.
Or not.
Sayid Halabi was alive, pissed, and had apparently been doing some deep thinking. His propaganda videos were beautifully produced and perfectly targeted. His men were well trained and well disciplined. His use of technology was cutting-edge.
He seemed to have lost interest in futile attempts to take and hold territory in favor of embracing the concept of modern asymmetrical warfare. He’d identified the internal divisions tearing America apart and was using fear—amplified by Christine Barnett—to widen them.
It was hard not to give the terrorist piece of shit credit. The rage gripping Barnett’s constituency seemed to become more powerful and more deranged every day. Her followers didn’t seem to think Sayid Halabi carried any of the responsibility at all for the bioweapon he was cooking up. They were far more interested in blaming America’s foreign policy for provoking jihad, the president’s party for not anticipating the threat, and the CIA for not making it magically disappear. Trying to find a news program that even touched on the subject of stopping ISIS was an exercise in futility. All they were talking about was how Halabi’s videos were affecting the presidential primaries and how an attack might reshape the general election.
He used the controls on the steering wheel to turn up the stereo, filling the interior of the Dodge Charger with Bruce Springsteen’s “The River.” Not the most uplifting song, but it took him back to a simpler time. A time when America’s enemies were external and could be eradicated with a gun.