American Assassin

American Assassin

Prelude

Beirut, Lebanon

Mitch Rapp stared at his reflection in the dusty, cracked mirror and questioned his sanity.  There was no shaking, or sweaty palms.  He wasn’t nervous.  It was just a cold, calculated assessment of his abilities and his odds for success.  He went over the plan once more from start to finish, and again concluded it was likely that he would be severely beaten, tortured, and possibly killed, but even in the face of such prospects, he couldn’t bring himself to walk away, which brought him right smack dab back to that part about his mental health.  What kind of man willingly chose to do such a thing?  Rapp thought about it for a long moment and then decided someone else would have to answer that question.

While everyone else seemed content to sit on their hands, it was not in Rapp’s nature to do so.  Two of his colleagues had been grabbed from the streets of Beirut by a nasty little outfit called Islamic Jihad.  They were a tentacle of Hezbollah that specialized in kidnapping, torturing, and suicide bombings.  The jihadis had, without question, already begun the interrogation of their new prisoners.  They would expose the men to unthinkable pain, and they would begin to peel back each layer of the onion until they got what they wanted.

That was the savage truth, and if his colleagues could delude themselves into thinking otherwise, it just meant they had consciously or unconsciously gravitated toward convenient conclusions.  After a day of watching the very people who said they would handle the situation do nothing, Rapp decided to look for a solution on his own.  The bureaucrats and Foreign Service types back in Washington might be content with letting things take their natural course, but Rapp was not.  He’d been through too much to allow his cover to be blown, and beyond that there was that nagging little thing about honor and the warrior’s code.  He’d been through the wringer with these guys.  One he respected, admired, and liked.  The other he respected, admired, and hated.  The pull for him to do something, anything to save them was strong.  The gang back in Washington might be able to simply write off losing the faceless operatives as a cost of war, but to the guys who were in trenches it was a little more personal.  Warriors don’t like leaving their own to die at the hands of the enemy, because secretly, they all know they might be in the same position one day, and they sure as hell hope their country will do everything in their power to get them back.

© 2010 by Vince Flynn