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Back Enemy at the Gates Save as PDF
Chapters (57)
  1. Cover
  2. Title Page
  3. ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
  4. PROLOGUE
  5. 1
  6. 2
  7. 3
  8. 4
  9. 5
  10. 6
  11. 7
  12. 8
  13. 9
  14. 10
  15. 11
  16. 12
  17. 13
  18. 14
  19. 15
  20. 16
  21. 17
  22. 18
  23. 19
  24. 20
  25. 21
  26. 22
  27. 23
  28. 24
  29. 25
  30. 26
  31. 27
  32. 28
  33. 29
  34. 30
  35. 31
  36. 32
  37. 33
  38. 34
  39. 35
  40. 36
  41. 37
  42. 38
  43. 39
  44. 40
  45. 41
  46. 42
  47. 43
  48. 44
  49. 45
  50. 46
  51. 47
  52. 48
  53. 49
  54. EPILOGUE
  55. More from the Authors
  56. ABOUT THE AUTHORS
  57. Novels by Vince Flynn

Man, he could use a beer. But that wouldn’t be particularly good for his cover. An Iraqi seeking booze in a Muslim country was just another way to push himself onto the GID’s radar. Instead, he shut down the news app and launched one connected to the tracker on Muhammad Singh’s car. Despite having been in place for more than twenty-four hours, it still had a seventy percent charge. Not that there was much reason for it to be drained. It only ran when in motion and Singh led what appeared to be a pretty quiet life. Other than going to his cover job at ARAMCO, and a quick trip to the grocery store, he spent his time holed up in his apartment two floors above. Had the GID gotten soft on loose ends? Was Singh a more critical player than they thought and thus immune to being disappeared? At some point, Rapp was just going to have to jump in the elevator and pay his target a visit.

But that came with significant risks. While everyone in Saudi Arabia was being watched to some extent, a man like Singh would be absolutely lousy with surveillance. Rapp doubted it would be possible to swing a dead cat around the man’s apartment without hitting a hidden listening device or camera. And the tracker he’d put on Singh’s car was probably only one of many much more sophisticated ones put in place by his handlers. And then there was the fact that he almost certainly had significant training in resisting interrogation.

At half past midnight, Rapp finally rolled off the sofa, tossed the remnants of his dinner in the garbage, and headed for bed.

Rapp’s eyes opened to a rendition of Creedence Clearwater Revival’s “Fortunate Son” emanating from his phone. That particular song meant only one thing: Singh’s car was on the move.

He glanced at the alarm clock on the bedside table, squinting at the reddish glow of the numbers. Just after two thirty in the morning.

Was Singh making a quick run to his favorite twenty-four-hour falafel shop? Based on his habits so far, probably not. It would take something more pressing to pry him out of his apartment at this hour.

Rapp flipped on the light and grabbed his jeans off the floor. Maybe the GID wasn’t getting soft after all.

37

RAPP was already hanging back far enough that he couldn’t see Singh’s vehicle. Still, he exited the highway when the navigation program on his phone made the suggestion.