The first quarter of an inch was promising, revealing nothing but darkness beyond. He moved his face close, feeling the cool air against his skin and taking a few gulps of it. Initially, the lack of a latrine had been workable. But after the unexpected failure of one of the plastic bags he’d been using, things had gotten pretty ripe.
Widening the gap a few more inches provided a view of nothing more threatening than trees glowing in weak starlight. Judging by the condition of the ground, the rain must have stopped at least a day ago. The lack of a storm or any appreciable wind would make it easy to hear anything out of the ordinary, so he propped the hatch open and spent the next hour listening.
Satisfied that at least his immediate surroundings were clear, he pushed two liters of water and a vacuum-sealed bag of clothing into the outside world. After crawling after them, he went still again, reexamining his operating environment. Still no sign of any human presence. Skies were dead clear, with temperatures hovering in what he guessed were the low seventies. The search for him had moved on—likely to roads, airports, and friends or family who might harbor him. Anthony Cook would undoubtedly be pulling out all the stops.
Rapp stripped, using the bottled water and some baby wipes to clean off mud, sweat, and the stench of excrement. The process took a little longer than he’d hoped and would have benefited from a Brillo pad and some bleach, but he finally managed to make himself presentable.
The clothes were designed to make him look like a hiker—semitechnical and accompanied by a backpack large enough to carry essentials but not so large that he couldn’t move quickly. A subtle pocket had been added to the bottom right that housed his Glock and allowed for an awkward but functional cross draw.
He tossed his dirty clothes and empty containers back through the hatch before closing and covering it with dirt. After another quick check of his surroundings, he started straight downslope. There was a trail that cut across the base of the mountain, mostly used by hunters so vacant this time of year. If Claudia had done her job—and she always did—he’d reach his escape vehicle a half an hour before sunrise. With a little luck, he’d be out of US airspace by early afternoon and back in Africa by tomorrow.
Assuming that’s where he wanted to go.
He weaved through the trees, sometimes taking the path of least resistance and other times embarking on random detours. There was no sign he was being tracked, but that didn’t mean much. He’d made some formidable enemies over the years: al-Qaeda. ISIS. Half of Congress and two-thirds of the Saudi royalty. But no one quite like the president of the United States. Cook controlled the most powerful military and intelligence apparatus in history as well as the loyalties of world leaders across the globe. In light of that, things were starting to feel pretty lonely.
Of course, he still had Coleman and the guys, but how far did he want to drag them into this shit show? Nicholas Ward had a genuine distaste for the Cooks and enough power that they’d think twice about coming up against him, but there was a limit to the debt he owed Rapp for saving his life.
And, finally, there was Irene Kennedy. A woman who had been there for him since the beginning, but who now had problems that rivaled his own.
It seemed to come down to him, Claudia, and Anna now. But was that fair? He’d made himself so toxic that no one with half a brain would want to stand within a blast radius from him. He’d already been through this with his late wife. And that wasn’t a cross that got any lighter with time. Very much to the contrary.
He had bug-out plans formed decades ago and updated every six months. A plastic surgeon in Argentina. Money. Identities. But the secret to a successful disappearing act wasn’t the sexy stuff. It was leaving everything behind. Not just friends and family, but in many ways yourself. No more endurance racing. No more security operations of any kind. No travel to places where he’d lived or worked in the past. If he really wanted to get lost and stay lost, he’d have to gain forty pounds, move to Panama, and spend the rest of his life getting drunk on the golf course.
Not a pretty picture, but what was the alternative? Cook would assume that Rapp had killed Mike Nash and that he knew the White House was behind his betrayal. After that, Rapp’s reputation would work against him. Cook would assume that they were in a death match. In one corner, the president of the United States backed by the military, Homeland Security, and virtually every intelligence agency on the planet. In the other corner, Mitch Rapp and his Glock 19. Winner take all.
The Ford F-150 was probably five years old, with evidence of its hard life visible even in the predawn twilight. Virginia plates were current, and the filthy bed was scattered with the general detritus of rural life. Most important, it was parked right where it was supposed to be: a rutted dirt road that was all but abandoned during the summer.