As he weaved through the trees, Rapp couldn’t help thinking about how it had happened. He remembered the battles they’d fought, some against America’s enemies and others between the two of them. He remembered shouting matches about strategy, tactics, and personnel. He remembered drinking on Nash’s deck with Maggie and the kids and teaching their oldest son lacrosse.
Rapp slowed as his white-hot rage faded to dull red.
A few years back, he’d forced Nash to take credit for something Rapp himself had done, turning him into a hero. He’d received the Distinguished Intelligence Cross, the fawning attention of Washington’s elites, and an enormous amount of media coverage. The unexpected celebrity had made it impossible for him to continue as a clandestine operative. Through no fault of his own, Nash suddenly found himself shut out of the career he’d spent his life building.
He’d been pissed as hell and, in retrospect, probably with good reason. At the time, Rapp had told himself he’d done it for the man’s own good. That he was losing his edge and had a family that needed him. He’d convinced himself that he was protecting his old friend. But was that really his decision to make? And were his motivations really so pure? It had been clear that someone was going to have to take credit for what had been done and Rapp didn’t want it to be him. The problem was that he hadn’t just fled the spotlight, he’d shoved his friend into it in his place.
Rapp came to a stop, listening to the forest around him for any indication of his target. But there wasn’t anything. When properly motivated, Nash could apparently still move his fat ass up a hill.
He started forward again but found that his pace had slowed even more. He thought back to a particularly ugly fight he and Nash had years ago. It ended up with Rapp leaving the man lying on the shoulder of the road.
Now he couldn’t even remember what they were arguing about.
He tried to refocus on the task at hand, reminding himself that the penalty for taking Mike Nash for just another manicured bureaucrat could very well be death. But the focus wouldn’t come. Only the memories.
The hard-to-face truth was that he’d made Nash the man he was today. He’d sent the Marine to the executive floor kicking and screaming. Once there, what had he expected him to do? Nash always excelled. In school. In sports. In combat. Why wouldn’t he examine his new battlefield and calculate how to win on it? Why wouldn’t he recognize that Washington was an operating environment that didn’t reward loyalty and courage. It rewarded treachery and self-interest.
Adapt or die.
As Rapp slipped through the trees, he reflected on the things Nash had said to him back in that clearing. Was it possible there was a kernel of truth in it? Over the course of their relationship, they’d probably disagreed more than they agreed, but Rapp had always taken the man seriously. Sometimes more seriously than he was willing to admit.
Son of a bitch.
Rapp hated doubt. It was almost as bad as regret on his scale of bullshit wastes of time. But there he was. Walking through the forest wallowing in it. Setting a pace designed to ensure that he never caught his target.
By God, he’d make Nash suffer, though. He’d keep running him up this hill until the forest opened onto farmland and forced the man to double back. He’d keep shooting at random, suspending Nash at the edge of panic. Then, eventually, he’d collect Coleman and the guys and drive away. Nash would stay hidden in the woods for days, starving his ass off, getting chewed on by bugs, and hopefully ingesting an amoeba that would cause truly catastrophic diarrhea. Eventually he’d emerge, filthy, unshaven, and dehydrated. Separated from his Agency support and family. Not knowing who he could trust.
When he finally slipped back to the United States, he’d be Kennedy’s problem. Maybe she’d ship him off to surveil a Siberian weather station for the rest of his career. Or shove him in a forgotten warehouse full of Cold War intelligence reports in need of filing. Rapp didn’t care as long as he never had to lay eyes on the man again.
The sunlight intensified just ahead, indicating a break in the trees. Rapp turned to skirt its edges before spotting a figure near the middle.
Nash.
He hesitated for a moment, but then moved into a position where he’d be visible but still have reasonable cover. Nash had taken no such precautions. He was out in the open with his gun hanging loosely from his hand.
“You’re even slower than I thought,” Rapp said.
“I didn’t figure there was any hurry. Just putting off the inevitable, right? I’m not going to let you push me up this hill until I drop. I’d like to die with a little more dignity than that. If I’m going down, I’ll damn well do it with a shirt free of puke and the crease in my pants still holding.”