The Last Patriot

The apartment believed to be Dodd’s was on the top floor facing the street. Ozbek signaled Rasmussen, who headed into the main hallway toward the front stairs.

Ozbek counted to ten and then crept up the moldy back stairwell.

As he neared the third story, he depressed his own transmit button for a final sit rep from Whitcomb.

She toggled back the all clear just as a gloved hand dropped in front of her face and clamped down across her mouth.

CHAPTER 52

Dodd sank the straight razor in deep and drew it in one fluid slash across the woman’s throat, severing both her carotid arteries and her windpipe.

Quickly, he disconnected her bone mike and transmitter.

As the woman bled to death, the assassin lowered her body to the ground and stripped off her shirt to get to her bulletproof vest. It wouldn’t be a perfect fit, but it was better than nothing.

She carried a Glock 19, a sound suppressor, and two additional mags, but no identification whatsoever. Though Dodd couldn’t be certain, he felt confident that she was CIA. The only question was how many others had she come with?

After putting on her bloodstained vest, Dodd clipped the woman’s radio to his belt, inserted the earpiece, and wrapped the transmit button around his own left index finger.

As he zipped up his jacket, he studied the thermal imaging device. It was a nice piece of equipment, expensive. Whoever this woman was, Dodd was now even more convinced that she was CIA. The only reason you didn’t carry ID was if you were working undercover and nobody but CIA would be working undercover with gear like this. This kind of device screamed high-end law enforcement or intelligence operation.

Dodd raised it to his eyes and studied his apartment. He counted two heat signatures inside. Slowly, he scanned the rest of the area.

Three people was an odd number to be traveling with, even for the CIA. If it hadn’t been for the illegally parked vehicle he’d seen when coming back from the airport, he might never have noticed the woman surveilling his apartment.

Dodd knew most of the cars in his neighborhood, which made the ones that didn’t belong there stand out even more. The black Denali had Virginia license plates and had been parked in front of a hydrant. Everyone on Butchers Hill knew how tough it was to find parking, they also knew how merciless the police were in ticketing and towing. Whoever owned that vehicle was obviously a newcomer to the neighborhood or in a big hurry.

What also had caught Dodd’s attention was that a light rain had fallen at some point during the evening. All the cars had dry spots underneath except for the Denali, which meant that it had been recently parked. Holding his hand above the warm hood was the only confirmation he needed.

The assassin retrieved the long straight razor he carried in his shaving kit. It didn’t take him long to find and dispose of the spotter. Now it was time to eliminate whoever was inside his apartment.

Certain that his adversary felt that they had the outside covered, Dodd crossed the street and headed for his front door. Tucking the imaging device under his arm, he screwed the suppressor onto the Glock and slid the spare magazines into his waistband so he could get at them quickly if he needed to.

Dodd unlocked the front door and slipped inside. He knew every creak in every stair up to his apartment and ascended like a ghost.

He kept his eyes peeled for any portable intrusion detectors that may have been placed along the stairwell, but saw none. Near the final landing, he raised the imaging device to his eyes and once more searched for the forms inside his apartment. He found them just as he set foot on the third floor.

Moving into the hallway for the best possible shot, Dodd leveled his weapon at the drywall and began pulling the trigger.

CHAPTER 53

Ozbek had no idea what had happened until he heard Rasmussen yell, “I’m hit,” and then things all around him started exploding.

He leapt into the bathroom and dove into its cast iron tub just as rounds began pinging off of it. Whoever was shooting at them was doing so with a suppressed weapon and was firing right through the drywall. Activating his bone mike, he said, “Raz, how bad are you hit?”

“Bad,” replied Rasmussen. “Motherfucker shot me in the leg! It’s bleeding all over.”

Both men were wearing low profile cargo-style pants by Blackhawk Industries that included a revolutionary integrated tourniquet system. “Clamp it,” ordered Ozbek, though he knew Rasmussen was probably already doing it.

He could hear Rasmussen shout from the other room as he lifted the flap on his pants and spun the carbon fiber bar that tightened a cord in the fabric around his upper thigh and cut off the blood flow. The pants had been designed to help minimize loss of blood and get you back in the fight as fast as possible. Everyone on Ozbek’s team wore them and had trained with them extensively.