Rapp took a step back. "Don't think I don't know the game here. This is your stepping stone to bigger things. That's your plan, isn't it, Ross? You want to be president someday."

Ross was too angry to speak. Rapp glanced over at Gordon, who was still cool as a cucumber. "I heard you're the reasonable one. Talk some sense into him, because I promise you this…I can't make him president," Rapp pointed at Ross, "but I'll guarantee you I can make sure this is the last government job he ever holds."

Rapp grabbed the other files and stuffed them under his arm. He didn't even bother to address Ross. He looked at Gordon. "Call the IRS off by noon, or I'll see you two in the Oval Office, and I promise it'll make this look like a fucking picnic."

Gordon didn't answer. He just nodded.

Rapp left with the files and slammed the door shut behind him.

Gordon waited a few seconds and then heaved a huge sigh. He slowly began shaking his head. He looked over at his boss, and said, "I told you…"

"Don't say it," snapped Ross. "I know you told me this was a bad idea. I know you told me Rapp was the wrong guy to mess with. I know! I know! I know!" Ross sprang out of his chair. He walked over to his desk and looked out the window and down the street toward the White House. After fifteen seconds of silence, he said, "I think I should talk to the president about this."

Gordon just looked at him. "Are you out of your mind?" There was no malice in his tone. It was more clinical. Like a shrink. "Did you hear anything he just said? That was Mitch Rapp, Mark. He kills people for a living. He penetrates terrorist cells. He ran I don't know how many deep-cover ops. He's on a first-name basis with the president. Get him out of your mind. Get Coleman out of your mind. We have more than enough stuff to tackle."

Gordon watched his boss. He knew how the man thought. He knew how large the man's ego was. He knew how hard it would be for him to walk away from something like this. "Mark, this isn't worth it. It's beneath you. You're going to be president someday and when that happens, you can do whatever you want. Right now, though, we need to just walk away from it."

Ross ground his teeth and kept staring at the White House. He'd never been more humiliated in his entire life. He didn't give a crap who Mitch Rapp was. He could outmaneuver anyone in this town. Ross told himself to get control of his anger. He would regroup. Be more careful next time. Hire better people. As much as he hated to admit it, Gordon was right. It was good advice. At least for now. But if an opportunity presented itself, he would crush Mitch Rapp and make that Neanderthal pay dearly. Rapp needed to be taught his place in the natural order of things. He needed to be brought to heel at the boot of the elected officials. Ross nodded slowly, and a sly smile crept over his face. He would get even. No, he would get more than even. When the time was right he would destroy Mitch Rapp.

25

It had taken Gould the better part of the day to drive down from Montreal. The border crossing had been a joke. He put on a suit and tie. He bought a big travel mug, the kind you can purchase at any gas station in North America, and filled it with bad coffee. He put his briefcase on the front passenger seat and hung a garment bag in the back driver's side window of his rented Ford Taurus. He was just another sales rep hitting the road. He timed it so he made the crossing during the morning rush. Cars were lined up in both directions for a hundred plus meters. The customs agent at the border didn't even ask him where he was going. The woman took his Canadian passport, opened it to the first available page, hammered it with a stamp and handed it back. If she had asked, he was going to tell her he was headed to Boston for the rest of the week and would be returning on Friday. But she hadn't asked. She had a line of cars to deal with and Gould was just another calm, bored businessman doing his job.

The drive took twelve hours with a few stops along the way. He started out on Interstate 87 going south through upstate New York. It was beautiful country. The road skirted the west side of Lake Champlain. When Gould had lived in the States, he'd traveled a lot. He'd been down to Georgia and Texas. Had gone out to see Mount Rushmore and Yellowstone National Park with some of his classmates during one summer break. He'd traveled from Vancouver to San Diego and from Portland, Maine, to the Florida Keys. The one thing that always amazed him about America was its vastness, its never-ending, always-changing landscape. Each part of it was different and each part beautiful in its own way. This slice of northern New York had been no different. The fall colors were in their glory, and the towns that dotted the landscape were quaint.

He took the interstate straight south to Albany and filled up on gas, a single pastry, and some water. He paid for it all with cash. The rental car had been paid for with a credit card belonging to Peter Smith. Gould was Peter Smith. At least he was to the bank teller in Montreal where he had set up the account more than a year ago. He'd gone into the bank and opened a corporate account into which he deposited $5,000. He listed a P.O. box as the business address. Pretty standard stuff. The teller had offered him a cash card and a credit card right there on the spot. Gould had received both within a week. The credit card bill was automatically deducted from his bank account. The cards fit very nicely with the passport and driver's license he'd had forged by a close friend from his Legion days. Neither card had been used before today, and neither would be used after today.

From Albany, he took Interstate 88 to Binghamton, New York. This part of the journey wasn't as nice as the first leg, but the road was in good shape and most of the traffic moved along at 80 mph. Gould moved in packs of cars. Tried not to be the lead vehicle or the last one. He went with the flow, and stayed in the right lane as much as possible. At Binghamton, he turned south and crossed the state line into Pennsylvania. He couldn't remember if Pennsylvania was a red state or a blue state, but he did know it was a hunting state. Gould kept alert for the right type of place and found it on the outskirts of Scranton.

He pulled into the massive parking lot and walked into the equally massive building. It was some type of retail Mecca for hunters, fishermen, and outdoorsmen. A big stuffed grizzly bear greeted him at the front door, its front paws up, claws extended, ready to strike. It was an impressive beast, and made him think of Mitch Rapp for a moment. He wondered how the beast had been slain. Probably a rifle shot from a good distance. It would be far too risky to get close to an animal like this. They had a great sense of smell and good hearing and they were surprisingly quick for their size. You'd need a heavy bullet with a lot of punch to take him down. If you didn't hit him in the brain, or the spine, he'd just keep coming. Even if you hit him in the heart, he might last another ten seconds, which would give him enough time to tear your head off with one of those big paws. What a shame to kill a beast like this without ever giving him a fighting chance.

He wondered if he'd give Mitch Rapp that chance, or if he'd simply conceal himself and shoot him in the head with a long rifle shot, like this hunter had undoubtedly done. Gould honestly didn't know. Part of him wanted to see who was better. Do it up close, just to prove he was the better warrior. But that was his ego talking, and he knew it. Rapp was like this grizzly. You'd have to be crazy to go toe-to-toe with him.

Gould shook his head and turned his attention away from the stuffed bear. Canoes, kayaks, and small aluminum fishing boats hung from the ceiling. At the far back of the store was a climbing wall, replete with colorful toe- and handholds. Bright colored ropes hung from the steel girders that supported the barrel roof. Gould grabbed a shopping cart and started off in the fitness department. He picked out some sweats, a shirt, and a pair of shorts. The women's stuff was right across the aisle and he loaded the cart with the same type of clothing for Claudia. Next he grabbed a pair of running shoes and socks for himself and then for Claudia. Gould had the beginnings of a plan. At least as far as the initial reconnaissance went.