Free Kill Shot by Vince Flynn Page B

worthless left hand he ejected the magazine, tossed it over the side, and then began stripping the gun, dumping pieces as he went. By the time he reached the other bank, he was focused on Irene Kennedy—his handler. She was by necessity the person who knew the most about him, and the details of this mission. His orders came from her. If anyone were in a position to set him up it would be her.
    Rapp thought of his protocols. Missing a check-in was a cardinal sin. They would all flip back in D.C. if he didn’t call and do so quickly. Add to that the less than surgical carnage back at the hotel and there would be some very upset people. He could practically hear Stan Hurley cussing at the top of his lungs. Rapp suddenly realized how this would go down. Hurley would blame him for screwing this up. He’d blame him for missing the security detail, and there would be hell to pay. The decision for the moment was easy. Being shot was all the excuse Rapp needed to explain why he didn’t check in, at least in terms of D.C., but there was someone else he needed to alert. Rapp did not want to disappoint her, and if he didn’t call her, he’d do more than that. She worried about him under normal circumstances, and this was far from normal. She knew something was in the works and needed to be out of France for a while. That was why they were supposed to meet in Brussels at one this afternoon. Their rendezvous was set in stone. If he didn’t show up, she might do something stupid like call Stan Hurley.
    No one knew they were seeing each other, and if she called Hurley, the man would go berserk. Midstride, a shot of pain seized Rapp’s shoulder and ripped down his arm. He stopped walking, stopped breathing, and with his right arm he grabbed a light post to steady himself. Despite the chill, beads of sweat coated his forehead. A wave of nausea hit him and for a second he thought he might throw up. Ten seconds passed and then twenty and thirty, and finally the pain started to pull back like the tide going out. It left his fingers first and then slowly worked its way up his arm. Rapp took a couple of deep breaths and then started to walk again. He needed to find a pharmacy and then a hotel. He had a few in mind, the kind of places where he would blend in with tourists. And he would have to call Greta. Trying to clean the wound on his own would not be easy. She was far from squeamish about what he did. In fact, it turned her on, and the alternative had too many unknowns. If he didn’t show, she might cause some serious problems. He would have to find a pay phone and call her. If he was lucky, he might even catch her before she left Geneva. He also missed her, which was something he didn’t want to admit to himself. It had only been three weeks since they’d last seen each other, and he’d found himself counting the days until they reunited in Belgium like some love-struck high-schooler.
    Rapp laughed to himself as he moved down the empty street. He was walking a very thin line. The list of things he’d kept from his handlers was growing rather lengthy, and he knew they would take it as evidence that he couldn’t be trusted. He knew more than they thought, however. He wasn’t the only one breaking the rules.

CHAPTER 9
     
WASHINGTON, D.C.
     
    S ECRETARY of State Franklin Wilson was wearing a white oxford shirt under a yellow cardigan sweater. At seventy-one, with thinning gray hair, he looked every part the wise elder statesmen. A successful attorney, he’d served in three White Houses; the first as a chief of staff, then as the secretary of defense, and now as secretary of state. The money came from his wife’s family—a lucrative auto parts business in Ohio. The reputation was all his. He’d graduated near the top of his class from Harvard Law and joined one of D.C.’s top law firms. In between his stints as a public servant, he would return to the law firm, of which he was now a fully vested partner. It had been a great