Pursuit of Honor Part 20

The guy's eyes flickered back and forth and then he nodded and said, "What's up?"

"National Security. Nothing to do with the club directly. I just need to get in there and talk to someone."

The bouncer started to answer, but was stopped by another bouncer who had been standing next to the door. This guy was even taller. He had to be six-nine and easily tipped the scales at 350-plus pounds. His white head was clean-shaven and tattoos peeked out from under his shirtsleeves and collar. Rapp noted a hammer-and-sickle tattoo with a sword on the man's forearm. He repeated what he'd already said to the other bouncer and for good measure held up the Homeland Security ID.

The big white bouncer reached out to grab the ID case and Rapp took a step back. In a cool voice Rapp said, "I'm not going to cause you any trouble. I just need to talk to someone."

"No." The man had a foul look on his face. "You have paper?" he asked with a thick Russian accent.

"Paper?" Rapp asked, having no idea what the guy was talking about.

The big Russian snapped his fingers several times while he searched for the right translation. "Warrant," he said, finally coming up with the word. "You must have warrant. No warrant, no come in."

Rapp looked at the big black guy and said, "He's not serious?"

The black guy gave Rapp a shrug that said he was the wrong guy to ask.

Rapp looked back at the Russian and said, "Let me see your pa.s.sport."

The Russian made a big show of patting himself down as if he were searching for the proper doc.u.mentation. Then with a smarta.s.s smile he said, "Sorry. No pa.s.sport."

"Then you better let me in, or I'm going to have to arrest you."

The man laughed at Rapp. "Come back with warrant. No warrant . . . p.i.s.s off."

Rapp watched as he made a shooing gesture with his hands as if he was trying to send a door-to-door salesman on his way. Rapp glanced at Coleman, who was already looking over his shoulder wondering where Reavers was. "Three options," Rapp said in a loud voice. "The first, I ignore the fact that you're a rude son of a b.i.t.c.h and you get out of my way. Second, you decide not to let me in, so I arrest you for obstructing a federal agent, and I have you deported with all the other Russian a.s.sholes who were picked up this week."

"And the third?" The Russian asked as he defiantly folded his big arms across his enormous chest.

"Third," Rapp said as he c.o.c.ked his head to his left, "I kick your a.s.s and leave you bleeding and crying here on the sidewalk. Your choice . . . and to show you I'm not a bad guy, I'll even give you a second to think about it."

While the big Russian stood there like a statue Rapp turned and walked over to Coleman. In a voice that only the two of them could hear, Rapp said, "Call Marcus and tell him to jam everything. There are probably more Russians inside the club. I don't need these guys calling for reinforcements when this guy goes down."

"What are you going to do?" Coleman asked.

"I'm going to drop the a.s.shole before he even knows what hit him." Rapp looked back over his shoulder and gave the big man the once-over from the heavy soles of his black boots to his shiny bald head. There are a lot of ways to take down a man. Every guy is different- different strengths and different weaknesses. Big guys like this all had one weakness in common and Rapp had already scoped it out. This thing would be finished before the guy even knew it'd started. Rapp was sure of that. His only real concern had to do with the other three big locals. Giants like these guys were easy to handle one at a time, but in groups, they could be a problem. All they had to do, after all, was get their arms around you and fall to the ground. If you got caught between them and something really hard like a concrete sidewalk, you were bound to break a few ribs.

Rapp saw Reavers crossing the street and decided it was safe to start. His presence might be enough to give the other three bouncers pause. Rapp turned and marched straight back to the Russian. He stopped one pace away and placed his right hand on his hip and his left hand on the hilt of his gun. "So . . . what's it going to be?"

The Russian kept his arms folded across his chest. Each fist was stuffed under an armpit in a show of immovable defiance. "How do you say in English?" he said again searching for the right word.

"How do I say what in English?" Rapp checked the man's feet again. They were shoulder-width apart, feet planted firmly on the ground, knees barely flexed. This guy was used to intimidating people.

The Russian's face lit up with a smile and he said, "Go f.u.c.k yourself. Freedom of speech, right? G.o.d bless the U.S.A., and f.u.c.k all the cops."

"f.u.c.k all the cops," Rapp repeated in a voice loud enough that it would get the attention of the other bouncers and some of the people in line.

"That is right. You Americans think we Russians are stupid, but we know your laws. You can't do s.h.i.t. You are a cop. You can't touch me."

Rapp smiled and nodded. He kept nodding and leaned in a little farther. He got up on his toes and lowered his voice so it would stay between the two of them. "I like your theory, but there's only one problem with it. I'm not a cop."

Rapp turned as if he were going to walk away. He took one step with his left foot, and then started to lift his right foot off the ground. Everything looked normal. There wasn't a single sign that would betray what was about to happen. The toe of his right shoe touched the ground for an instant and then he moved. Rapp's left leg flexed and his upper body leaned forward. His head turned to the right, and then in one lightning-fast move, Rapp's right leg shot out like a donkey delivering a kick. The heel of his shoe landed directly on top of the Russian's right kneecap and kept going, driving the knee past the vertical line and folding the leg back in the wrong direction. A healthy knee would not have been able to take the blow, let alone one that had been carrying around an extra 150 pounds for a good decade. The snapping noise of the knee joint breaking was followed by the crunching sound of tendons tearing away from various bones.

Rapp held his strike at maximum extension for only a fraction of a second and then he was away like a lumberjack clearing the area in case the tree kicked back at him. The Russian stayed upright for another second, and it seemed like an eternity. Rapp's right hand slid around his belt, found the heavy black baton, and yanked it free. He watched as the Russian began to teeter to his right. Rapp knew exactly what was about to happen. The brain hadn't registered the catastrophic failure of the right knee. Its internal gyroscope was telling the body that it needed to place weight on the right leg to prevent toppling over. It was something the brain did on autopilot a million times a day, and it always worked, unless some external force got in the way or the right knee had just been shattered.

The Russian didn't even scream. There wasn't time. He just kept tipping to his right, stepped as if he was going to catch himself, and then when the full weight of his 350-plus pounds started to come down on the bad knee it folded in the middle like a cheap card table chair. He hit the sidewalk hard, even though his arms reached out to slow his fall. His right temple bounced off the hard, dirty surface and landed facing the toe of his right boot. That was when the screaming started.

CHAPTER 42.

RAPP figured he had five minutes to get in and out before things got heated. Maybe as much as fifteen, but that was pushing it. Shutting down the phones and radios would certainly delay things, but the cops had to patrol this neighborhood on a pretty regular basis. Rapp could handle the cops if he had to, but he didn't feel like spending the night calling in favors and then having to explain himself for the next two days. The whole point of tonight's exercise was to take this particular problem off the burner and put it behind him. figured he had five minutes to get in and out before things got heated. Maybe as much as fifteen, but that was pushing it. Shutting down the phones and radios would certainly delay things, but the cops had to patrol this neighborhood on a pretty regular basis. Rapp could handle the cops if he had to, but he didn't feel like spending the night calling in favors and then having to explain himself for the next two days. The whole point of tonight's exercise was to take this particular problem off the burner and put it behind him.

Life would be a lot easier if he simply marched in, grabbed Johnson by the scruff of his neck, and dragged his lame a.s.s out of the joint. Simple and direct. Rapp knew all about momentum. In a situation like this, the best thing was to keep moving. More often than not, if you had the right bearing and you acted as if you were in charge, people followed your lead.

Rapp looked at the first bouncer and flicked his wrist in a hard downward motion. The two extendable sections of the baton snapped out and into a locked position with a hard click. Rapp pointed the stick at the big bouncer and said, "I gave him three choices. You only get two."

The bouncer looked down at the big bald Russian. He was writhing on the cement, swearing in his native tongue and staring in shock at his knee.

Rapp said, "You either take me to Peter Sidorov or you spend the next three days in the D.C. lockup with every other s.h.i.thead and drug addict in the city. You're a big guy, but they're like hyenas in there. They attack in packs. They might not be able to rape you, but they'll probably cut you and then you can spend the next year wondering if you have AIDS."

The bouncer hesitated for maybe a half second and then undid the velvet rope and gestured for Rapp to follow him. Rapp looked at Coleman and said, "You stay here and keep an eye on things. Mick," Rapp said, looking at Reavers, "come with me."

The big bouncer led them through the front door. Rapp followed two paces behind, and then Reavers. A long bar with a galvanized top ran for a good hundred feet along the left side of the old warehouse. Exposed metal trusses ran from left to right. Rapp paused for half a step to scope out the high ground. Old warehouses like this one often had a catwalk, but this one didn't. With one sweep of the place Rapp noted four more bouncers dressed like the four guys out front. To the right was a dance floor with an elevated DJ booth. The place was packed and their pace slowed as they threaded their way through the crowd.

Rapp saw where they were headed a few steps later. There was a VIP section at the far end. A set of stairs on the left and another one on the right led up maybe six feet to a big area that was probably eighty feet wide by twenty feet deep. There was a steel column every ten feet that acted as a divider between the individual VIP seating areas. Red velvet curtains hung in front of each area, swooping down from the rafters to where they were tied off around the columns. Through the openings in the drapes Rapp could see couches and chairs, revelers standing and sitting and in far dark corners, probably doing things that could get them arrested.

The music was loud, so loud that Rapp figured he wouldn't need to bother with the silencer if he had to start shooting people. They reached the base of the stairs for the VIP area and the big black bouncer slowly climbed four treads and he and another monster began screaming into each other's ears. Rapp noted the tattoos on the man's neck and wondered if his theory was flawed. This guy was a lot like the other Russian he'd just crippled except he had hair. The world of the Russian Mafia and their tattoos was a strange one. Over there, you could get killed for wearing a tattoo that you hadn't earned, but here in the States Rapp wasn't so sure. Were these guys the real thing or a couple o' wannabes trying to intimidate, by putting some ink on their skin?

The new guy finished listening to the big black guy, gave Rapp the universal stop motion with his hand, then disappeared into the dim recesses of the VIP area. Rapp immediately worried there was a back door up there somewhere. If Johnson had half a brain and he found out a federal agent was in the building he would bolt. Momentum Momentum, he reminded himself. Keep moving forward. Basic battlefield doctrine. Never give your opponent a chance to get his s.h.i.t together.

Rapp did a quick 360 of the area. He noted two bouncers within sight, but they weren't looking his way. Rapp smiled as he saw them fiddling with their radios. That alone would cause a diversion. With them focused on trying to fix their radios Rapp saw his opening. Looking over his shoulder at Reavers, Rapp waited for the big guy to lean in. Reavers stepped forward and placed his ear near Rapp's mouth.

"I don't want him sneaking out the back door. I'm going to tase this big fella here. Step around to my right and shield me. When I hit him, help me lower him nice and slow."

Reavers nodded.

Rapp looked up at the big black bouncer and started to move his lips. The bouncer couldn't hear so he leaned forward and turned his head away from Rapp, offering his right ear. Rapp's left hand slid inside his jacket and around his waist. He grabbed the taser and kept it close to his body. As he started to ask the bouncer about a back door, he turned his body a shade to the left and with his right hand grabbed the tip of the taser and removed the cartridge. With the two contacts exposed he leaned in real close and placed the contacts on the man's lower back, only a few inches from his spinal column. Rapp squeezed the trigger and instantly fifty thousand volts pa.s.sed from the plastic gun into the big guy's body. While he went rigid Rapp kept the p.r.o.ngs pressed into him and was careful to make sure their bodies didn't touch. He counted to three in his head and then withdrew the taser.

Reavers was right there. As the big guy started to go down Reavers grabbed him by the shoulders and slowly lowered him so that he was lying on the steps. Rapp snapped the cartridge back into the taser and slid it back into his belt at the small of his back. At this point he didn't bother to look left or right to check on the other bouncers. He went up the stairs. When he hit the landing at the top his eyes swept the area. They were drawn to a s.p.a.ce midway down on the left. The Russian bouncer who had gestured for him to wait was talking to two guys in suits. They were both bigger than Rapp but smaller than the mammoth bouncers. These would be the real professionals. Probably former Special Forces, but not necessarily Russian. They might even be local guys, which Rapp would welcome. Beyond the three men Rapp caught a glimpse of Max Johnson sitting on the couch with two women draped over him.

The big Russian saw Rapp, said something to the man in the suit, and marched off with a really p.i.s.sed-off look on his face to intercept the two unwelcome visitors. Rapp showed his hands, palms out and up, in an effort to sucker the guy into continuing his headlong march toward him. Rapp kept moving as well, closing the distance at a deceptive pace. Rapp lowered his left hand a notch, making his right hand the more presentable target. He watched the six-and-a-half-foot-tall brown-haired Russian take the bait and begin reaching for his target. Now was the moment of decision for Rapp. At this juncture he had several options. The solar plexus was out because of the guy's girth. There were too many layers of fat to get through to deliver an incapacitating blow. The second option was the chin, but as Rapp took a final good look he noticed the guy had some pretty decent traps. Traps, short for trapeziuses, were the muscles that anch.o.r.ed a guy's head to the rest of the body and the more developed they were the harder it was to knock a guy out.

The last and best option carried a risk with it, but Rapp wasn't too worried. This wasn't exactly some innocent bystander out on the street. At the exact moment the bouncer's beefy fingertips were about to grab Rapp's right wrist, Rapp uncoiled. He sprang off his left foot and transferred about 90 percent of his weight onto his right foot as his hips rotated. The big man never saw it coming. For a move like this, both the closed fist and the open palm were too big to make the precise strike, so Rapp had to use a knuckle strike.

Rapp's first set of knuckles on his left hand folded under so the tips of his fingers were touching the pads of his palm. His left arm formed a battering ram from the elbow down to the jagged second set of knuckles. The target was one of the weakest points on the human body-the Adam's apple. Lots of cartilage and soft tissue. It didn't matter how good or tough you were, if you got hit with a direct strike to the Adam's apple you were going down. There was only one problem with the move. If it was delivered too forcefully you could kill a man. Just as Rapp was throwing the blow an image flashed before his eyes. It was of the big Russian rolling around on the carpet clutching his throat and dying from a crushed windpipe. It was that image that caused Rapp to lay off a touch, and that was his first mistake.

CHAPTER 43.

NORTHERN ARKANSAS.

HAKIM took a bit of comfort in the fact that the old woman had died in her sleep. He wasn't in the room when it had happened, but he'd heard the mechanical clank of the slide jerk back and then forward and the spit of the 9mm round as the gases were vented through the silencer. He'd watched the old man die on the porch first. He didn't know why, but he wanted to see it with his own eyes. With his broken and bruised body he pulled himself out of bed and hobbled his way to the front of the RV. He watched his friend raise the gun and shoot the old man from a distance of no more than a few feet. There was another brief flash from the muzzle and the body convulsed one last time. took a bit of comfort in the fact that the old woman had died in her sleep. He wasn't in the room when it had happened, but he'd heard the mechanical clank of the slide jerk back and then forward and the spit of the 9mm round as the gases were vented through the silencer. He'd watched the old man die on the porch first. He didn't know why, but he wanted to see it with his own eyes. With his broken and bruised body he pulled himself out of bed and hobbled his way to the front of the RV. He watched his friend raise the gun and shoot the old man from a distance of no more than a few feet. There was another brief flash from the muzzle and the body convulsed one last time.

Hakim had killed before, in the mountains of Afghanistan and Pakistan, but never so close-so personal. They were just silhouettes in the distance. He considered how difficult it must be to see every wrinkle and misplaced hair. To know the exact eye color of the person whose life you were extinguishing. Would those eyes come back to haunt your dreams? For Hakim the answer was yes, but for his friend he wondered. Did anything really get to him? Was there a line he would not cross?

Hakim stared through the windscreen and then watched with increasing concern as his friend climbed the porch steps and moved into the house. With great effort, Hakim climbed down the RV steps and moved as quickly as his broken and battered body would allow. He climbed the porch steps no more than five seconds behind Karim. He looked down at the lifeless carca.s.s of the dog and the old man, who had been literally shot between the eyes. He moved with increasing alarm. He didn't know why but he was convinced there were children in the house. No matter what the maniacal clerics said, Allah would never condone the killing of children.

In the foyer Hakim paused. There was a staircase straight ahead and a hallway just to the left. Farther to the left there was a TV room. There was a big leather chair and a matching footstool. A blanket was in a pile on the floor. That must have been where the old man was when they pulled in. That would explain why he was up so fast and was able to intercept Karim outside. He hobbled over to the chair to confirm his theory. He touched the leather chair. It was still warm from the body heat of the man.

That was when he heard the faint yet distinctly mechanical clank and spit of the suppressed Glock firing a round. The sound did not come from the second floor. The headlights of the RV were still spilling through the big picture window on his left. As he looked in the direction of the sound he saw Karim come through a doorway at the back of the house. He raised his weapon and pointed it directly at Hakim. And then something very strange happened. Hakim had thought of death before, but he had never welcomed it. Now it felt like a warm blanket against a cold biting wind. He was ready to wrap himself in it and fade away. Face whatever judgment waited for him in the afterlife. Based on what he had allowed to happen the last few days, he doubted he would see paradise.

"You idiot," Karim's voice cut like a knife through the dark, still house. "I nearly shot you." He moved across the room quickly, his footfalls silent on the carpet. "Stay put while I check upstairs."

As he walked past, Hakim reached out and grabbed his arm. "We do not have to kill every person we encounter."

His friend angrily shook himself free and moved swiftly upstairs. After he had disappeared, Hakim walked to the back of the house. He stood at the bedroom door and hesitated. It was dark inside, but he could easily discern the shape of the bed and the nightstands and lamps. The near side of the bed was flat and undisturbed. The far side had a lump. Hakim sighed and without making a conscious decision his feet were moving. They carried him across the room to the side of the bed where he guessed the man's wife had been lying, doing what billions of people do every night-sleep. How had she offended Islam? Could someone be an infidel if she was asleep in her own house thousands of miles from the heart of Islam, in a largely Christian country?

Hakim stood over the shape and willed himself to look closer, to confront yet another evil perpetrated by his best friend. At first he could only make out a silhouette under the covers and a head on a white pillowcase. He bent farther and the features of the woman's face became clearer. Then he saw it. A dark circle at the woman's temple no bigger than a small coin. Hakim reached out and turned on the bedside lamp. The red pucker mark was surrounded by a circle of gray. Karim had shot her point-blank, the tip of the muzzle no more than a few inches from her skin. He had expected to see an elderly woman, but instead saw someone who looked to be in her early sixties with many years left to live. Until they picked her house.

Hakim felt sickened by the whole thing. He turned off the lamp and walked back into the TV room. He stopped at the fireplace and looked at the photos arrayed on the mantel. Lots of kids. School photos, sports photos, and photos of family vacations. Hakim guessed they were grandchildren. He could barely breathe. He closed his eyes and prayed and listened. Listened for the clank and the spit of Karim's gun. He prayed that the kids were not here. He could not take any more senseless killing. Not tonight. Maybe never again. He asked Allah for guidance, asked him if this was truly what he wanted, and when he didn't hear from him he made a promise to Allah. It was a bargain. He would follow through on his end of the deal, and he hoped that Allah would keep up his end of the bargain.

Shortly after that Karim came downstairs and announced that the upstairs was empty. Then he radioed Ahmed and told him to make a quick sweep of the perimeter before coming in. Hakim breathed a sigh of relief, but he didn't have much time to enjoy it. He felt a slight tickle in his throat and then he began to cough. At first it didn't seem unusual, but then he felt the coppery taste of blood in his mouth. He moved to the chair where the man had been sitting and managed to fall into it just as he blacked out.

CHAPTER 44.

WASHINGTON, D.C.

THIS Russian was quicker than he looked. Rapp figured he must have twisted into the blow at the last second, blunting Rapp's strike and causing him to miss by a fraction. The Russian's throat would be a little sore in the morning and he wouldn't be eating any tacos for a few days, but his windpipe was intact and in working condition. That meant he would have no trouble sucking oxygen into those big lungs and in turn providing fresh blood to those big arms, and that was a problem. Russian was quicker than he looked. Rapp figured he must have twisted into the blow at the last second, blunting Rapp's strike and causing him to miss by a fraction. The Russian's throat would be a little sore in the morning and he wouldn't be eating any tacos for a few days, but his windpipe was intact and in working condition. That meant he would have no trouble sucking oxygen into those big lungs and in turn providing fresh blood to those big arms, and that was a problem.

Fights tended to follow a pattern, and for Rapp it was usually pretty predictable. It started and five seconds later it was over, Rapp on his feet, and the other guy on the ground clutching some part of his body that would need a doctor to fix. So, when his first strike missed it was like a symphony conductor hearing a poorly played note. The audience might not have caught it, but he knew it, and he knew he had to do something fast or this big guy would get hold of him, and he'd be the one in need of a doctor's attention. The other thing Rapp did was re-evaluate his opponent. Moving into a blow was not the tactic of an amateur. Pros leaned in, rookies leaned back, and if you never learned to move into the blow, you weren't long for this rough-and-tumble world.

As Rapp withdrew his strike he felt the hand of the Russian clamping down on his right wrist. Rapp yanked his right hand down hard and rotated it clockwise. At the same time he delivered a quick rabbit punch to the Russian's nose, not hard enough to break it, but enough to make him bleed and maybe stun him for a second. Rapp made his first retreat. With his right wrist free, he hopped back a step, and that was when he felt more than saw the guy's ma.s.sive right fist screaming toward the left side of his head. Another move every fighter has to learn is a standing turtle. There's nothing pretty about it, you simply tuck your chin into your chest, bring your shoulders up, and prepare to receive a few blows.

The punch glanced off the top left side of Rapp's head. Rapp registered the stinging pain, but ignored it. When a guy this big throws that big a punch he almost always leaves himself open. Rapp found the opening. He ducked, slid to the left, and delivered a hammer punch just beneath the guy's right armpit, where the ribs are most exposed. The brutal punch stood the big man up as he arched his back and tried to step away from the next blow. Then three things happened in quick succession. Rapp eyed his spot. It was the back of the guy's right knee, just above the top of the calf. Always the knees with these big guys. That was their most vulnerable point. Rapp stomped down hard with his right foot. This time the joint would be working with him. The guy wouldn't go to the hospital, but he would be going down, and for now that was all Rapp cared about. He had other things to do that were more important. As the big Russian started his tumble, Reavers stepped in and hit him with a perfectly placed right hook that snapped the Russian's head a quarter turn to the right.

It was as if someone unplugged the guy. He went down on one knee, his arms dangled, his shoulders slouched, he started to topple forward, and although Rapp couldn't see it, he knew the guy's eyes were rolling back in his head. That was when the third thing happened. Rapp spun to go after Max Johnson and found himself face-to-face with the muzzle of a Sig Sauer pistol.

"One more f.u.c.king move and I blow your head off."

The English was perfect. The accent a slight southern drawl. Most likely Texas or Oklahoma. The face, lined and weathered. Rapp guessed him to be in his midthirties. "You wanna shoot a federal agent in the head you go right ahead. They'll ship you back to Texas and fry your a.s.s!"

The guy blinked, thought about it for a minute, and said, "Show me your ID. Nice and slow."

Rapp carefully reached into his jacket pocket, withdrew his ID, and flipped it open. He watched as the bodyguard glanced back and forth between Rapp's face and the ID. Rapp knew what was going through his mind, so he asked, "Who do you work for?"

"Triple Canopy."

They were good. One of the best, which meant this guy was more than likely pretty level-headed. "I'm OGA . . . attached to Homeland Security, while I'm back here in the States. You guys do a lot of work with us over in Afghanistan and Iraq."

The guy nodded.

Rapp hadn't said a lot but he didn't need to. OGA stood for Other Government Agency, which anyone who worked for Triple Canopy, and had been over to the Sand Box, knew was a polite way of saying CIA. Mentioning all of the work that Triple Canopy did for Langley was a subtle reminder that while Sidorov might be paying a small fortune for protection, the CIA, the State Department, and the DOD were paying a real fortune, to the tune of about a half billion a year, to Triple Canopy and its subsidiaries.

Rapp said, "I just need a word with your employer."

"Not going to happen. He won't talk to anyone who has anything to do with our government. You're supposed to go through his lawyers."

Rapp wondered what kind of trouble Sidorov had gotten himself into. He motioned for the guy to point his gun in a less-threatening direction.

The guy took a step back and pointed his weapon at the floor.

Rapp asked, "You spend any time in Moscow?"

The guy shook his head.

"Well I have, and let me tell you something. They don't use warrants over there. If the FSB wants to talk to you . . . they don't ask for permission. They talk to you, and it's typically not very pleasant. Now, I don't want Sidorov. At least not yet, but if he p.i.s.ses me off any more than he already has I'm going to take a real hard look at him and it won't be pleasant. The guy I want is sitting right over there." Rapp pointed to the big horseshoe sitting area where Sidorov and his party were set up. There were only four men. The rest were women.

The bodyguard turned. "You mean the older guy in the jeans and loud shirt?"

"And funny gla.s.ses. That's him." Rapp shook his head. Johnson was dressed like one of the twenty-five-year-old kids on the dance floor. He hadn't seen him in maybe a year, but he still recognized him. He'd grown his hair out a bit and even in the soft light of the lounge area Rapp could tell he was dyeing it dark brown. It also looked as if he had grown a patch of hair under his bottom lip in an effort to look hip.

The guy holstered his sidearm. "Let me see what Sidorov says. Wait here."

As the first guy retreated to talk to his boss, the second guy filled his place and blocked the path. Rapp frowned and stepped forward to talk to him. "Marines . . . Army . . . Navy?"

"SEALs."

Rapp laughed. The guy was a virtual replica of Reavers. Normally SEALs were of the smaller variety. As Rapp motioned for Reavers to join him, he made eye contact with Johnson, who had finally managed to tear his eyes away from the well-endowed woman sitting on his left.