Free The Last Man by Vince Flynn Page A

roadside bombs. No parking was permitted on the street and the sidewalks were kept clear of garbage, vendors, and pretty much anything that could conceal a roadside bomb. Despite all of these precautions, Rapp was filled with anxiety.
    While most people found comfort in the Mine Resistant Ambush Protected vehicles, Rapp thought of them as big rolling coffins. You might as well paint a sign on the hulking side that said Infidels. Rapp preferred a more low-profile form of transportation. The Clandestine Service at Langley bought older-model vehicles and had private contractors make sure the cars were in top mechanical shape. Occasionally they would add bulletproof glass and some armor, but in Afghanistan, Rapp felt the key was to change vehicles often and blend in.
    As they hit the big turnaround at the corner of the embassy, Rapp felt his chest tighten. They were close to the gate and this was where the crazies liked to attack. The vehicle came to a sudden stop. They were the third in a three-vehicle convoy. Rapp looked up at Coleman with irritation washed across his face and asked, “Why are we stopping?”
    Coleman gave him an easy shrug. “Probably checking our creds.” “You mean to tell me those dumbasses didn’t pre-clear us?” “No idea.” Coleman smiled, amused at Rapp’s nervousness. Rapp punched the button to lower the back hatch. “Well, I’m not going be a sitting duck.” As the stairs lowered, Rapp nimbly navigated them before they were all the way down.
    Coleman laughed at him and popped the button to close the hatch. The Air Force security guys driving the vehicle were grumbling up front, wanting to know who the moron was who had just compromised their secure vehicle. Coleman waved them off and apologized.
    Outside, Rapp came face-to-face with a U.S. Marine who couldn’t have been older than twenty. The corporal gave Rapp a knowing nod and said, “I don’t like those things either.”
    Rapp took a quick look around and realized the Marine was part of a security team that had been pushed out one hundred feet from the main gate. They were in a semicircle spaced every thirty feet; a loose picket designed to create a secure pocket while credentials were verified and vehicles checked. The embassy’s perimeter blast walls, ballistic glass, and Kevlar-reinforced walls were impervious to car bombs, but visitors were vulnerable during this brief window when they were at the embassy’s doorstep. Two four-man fire teams composed the extended security.
    What a shitty job, Rapp thought to himself. They were a thin tripwire out here to slow down any crazy bastards who were barreling down on the gate in an explosives-laden vehicle. Their early shots with their M-4s were not likely to stop the vehicle nor were the rounds of the M249 SAW. It was the job of the big .50 caliber guns back at the gate to punch a hole in the engine of any unauthorized vehicle.
    “How’d you end up with this powder-puff job?” Rapp asked, as his eyes continued to sweep the area.
    The Marine tapped the two chevrons on his sleeve. “Shit rolls downhill and, as my gunny likes to remind me, the Corps is not a democracy. So I do what I’m told.”
    Rapp nodded—understood it was the way it had to be. “Good luck.” Rapp turned and headed for the door next to the big steel gate. A sergeant in his tan combat utility uniform and decked out in body armor intercepted him. Rapp pulled out a set of fake State Department credentials.
    The sergeant took the credentials and said, “Wait here.” He walked over to the closest guard booth and slid the identification through the metal box. A few moments later he returned with Rapp’s fake creds and a badge. “Are you armed, Mr. Cox?”
    Rapp shook his head and said, “Nope,” even though he was carrying two pistols and a knife. He followed the sergeant to the small door and stepped through. On the other side a familiar face was waiting for him. Rapp was neither pleased nor bothered to see