He opened the drawer, swearing in Arabic as he tried to find the hidden latches that would allow him to free it. Finally, Rapp heard it drop to the concrete and he waited as the man worked the surprisingly loud combination lock. When the creak of the top opening became audible, Rapp slipped from behind the car, staying low so as to throw a minimal shadow. The man’s back was to him and Rapp’s socks made no sound at all against the garage slab. Unfortunately, his target had the sixth sense that many top operators possessed and began to spin, reaching for his gun when Rapp was still a couple of feet away.

It was too late, though. Rapp clamped a hand over his mouth and nose from behind before slamming the point of the screwdriver into the back of his head. The man’s body convulsed briefly and then went still. Rapp eased him to the ground and looked in the box he’d opened. The contents were basically what he expected—cash from various countries, passports, a few burner phones.

He took everything and then retrieved the SIG P226 holstered under the man’s arm. Well maintained, fully loaded, and completely free of wet concrete. Definitely an upgrade and the silencer in the pocket of his jacket was a flat-out godsend. Rapp screwed it on and started back toward Isa’s office. No need to be quiet. The man behind the desk would expect his compatriot to be returning right about now.

He didn’t even look up, never knowing anything about the bullet that hit him square in the forehead. Isa, however, did. He stared wide-eyed at Rapp as his freshly deceased captor slumped forward and began leaking blood onto the keyboard in front of him.

“And I thought my night couldn’t get worse,” he said in Arabic. “The years have been kind, Mitch. You look fit.”

“Really? Because you look like you’ve put on a few pounds.”

“Too much of the good life. Two wonderful children. A wife. By the looks of you, not something you have experience with.”

Rapp ignored the dig. “Are they in the house?”

Isa shook his head. “My son is at university and my wife’s visiting our daughter in Lebanon. I was to be a grandfather soon.”

“Then it’s your lucky day.”

“I don’t think being tied to a chair in front of Mitch Rapp has ever been a Muslim’s lucky day.”

“There’s a first time for everything,” Rapp said, cutting Isa’s hands free and then handing the penknife to him so he could do his legs.

“Did Irene Kennedy send you?” he asked while he used the blade.

“No. I work for Nicholas Ward.”

Isa, the consummate professional, kept his face a mask as he handed the knife back to Rapp.

“What would someone like you or Nicholas Ward want with a meaningless bureaucrat like me?”