SMALL SPOILERS for Seventeen IN SECOND PART/ standard fanfic disclaimers
a/n This is a silly two part continuation of Seventeen...the upcoming Eighteen. It probably won't make sense unless you've read my other stories. LOL It may not make sense anyway, just - - -go with it , okay?
Eighteen Seconds
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Prolog
[Ranger]
Eighteen seconds...that's how long it took me to say yes to Stephanie's invitation to spend two luxurious weeks in Thailand...with her. Alone. Just about as far from Trenton as we can get without going to the moon, I thought.
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Part One: I am not a Fiction Hero
[Anthony, four months earlier]
They gave us rooms in the officers' quarters at the Air Force base outside Kandahar, Afghanistan. We had finished a job and were waiting for an exfiltration thing in the morning.
A week ago Ranger had taken one good look at the only five star hotel in Kabul and refused to stay there. "The room has red walls." So we were stuck here instead.
Now we entered the officers mess, looking for a beer and a burger. The assorted officers gave us a few curious looks but no one challenged our right to eat with the officers. Ranger has that aura, ya know? And I suppose the army and AF guys were fairly used to scruffy spec ops agents in plain clothes wandering through their hallowed officers' areas. Probably some of them recognized us, despite our current disguises as local goatherds. Not that we cared.
The food there was pretty good and Lester and I chomped our burgers and fries with gusto. Ranger picked at grilled chicken, his eyes slowly wandering the room. He was giving off unhappy Ranger vibes but Les and I were tired and hungry and we ignored him.
"You know, Anthony, maybe you should buy a house here," he finally said to me.
"Here? In Afghanistan?"
"Somewhere in this hemisphere..."
"Afghanistan hasn't got any beaches, bro. Maybe...Thailand?"
...where the walls aren't red."
"Dubai?"
Ranger pinched the bridge of his nose like he was getting a migraine.
Lester said helpfully, "The walls here at the base are taupe, boss."
"Taupe. Why the fuck do they paint the walls taupe? Who the hell says taupe, anyway , Santos?"
"They say taupe is very soothing, boss."
"...Soothing."
"Yeah."
"And we want our soldiers mellow?" snarked Ranger. "Maybe Goa?" he adds in my direction.
I took a swig of my beer and opened my mouth to tell Ranger I'd look into beachfront real estate somewhere nearby, but I was interrupted by the approach of a stern buzzcut-headed man in camouflage fatigues with eagles on the collar and a hopeful gleam in his eye. We looked up but didn't rise.
Ranger nodded a greeting. The officer said, "May I join you?"
Ranger stared at him but I waved my fork and said, "Have a seat."
The colonel—that's what the eagles meant, that he is a colonel...said, ''Do you know who I am?"
Les and I peered at the name tag. Nope. Never heard of him.
Ranger chewed, swallowed, and said, ''Do you know who I am?''
The colonel held out his hand, "Tom Gillespie, Fourth Joint Special Forces. And yes, you're Carlos Manoso, right?"
We shook the man's hand but neither Lester nor I added our names. I sat silently and dialed "beachfront homes in A-stan" into the search window of my iPhone and listened to the colonel's pitch.
"We need a favor, Colonel Manoso."
"A favor?" echoed Ranger. Ranger doesn't like the word favor. It rhymes with freebie and that is just so not him. Believe it or not Ranger can do a five (oh, okay, two,) minute monolog on how he is not running a charity, RMPMC is not the Salvation Army etc etc etc.
But sometimes favors are like money in the bank and this guy was a spec ops group leader who might come in handy.
We did him the courtesy of at least listening to his request.
...
The favor? Some rug merchant that the CIA is watching closely for ties to the Taliban or al-Qaeda, whoever. He is new in the city, comes and goes at random times, has a stall in the local open air market that caters to tourists and locals alike.
"We're picking up a strange source of downloads, a new wireless connection in his rooms." Seems the man stays at a cheap boarding house when he comes in on market days. Sleeps over, uses the unknown wireless device, then heads back to the hills."
We nod a little.
"The CIA people think his behavior is very suspicious," Gillespie had said.
"And? Where do you come in?" asked Ranger. "In fact, where do we come in?" He was being fairly polite but he still sounded cranky. And a little tired. Prob'ly only discernable to me, of course.
"Look, Colonel Manoso, I am just the messenger! CIA heard you're here and asked me to ask you if...?"
"They were too chickenshit to ask me themselves?''
"They were worried they can't afford you. Plus the DC red tape and all. You know?"
Sigh. "Go on."
"They asked me to approach you, see if you'd take the job."
''You want him dead?''
''No! No, and I myself don't want any part of this. And the Agency just wants you to talk to him!"
"Why can't the spooks from Langley talk to him?" I asked.
"He only seems to speak a mountain dialect, and right now they, the CIA?—and we, meaning the local military—have no one who can talk to this guy. We can't interrogate if we can't communicate. They can't, I mean."
...
So here we are, an hour or two later creeping down the smelly halls in the flophouse, avoiding unknown stains on the stairs and trying to remember not to breathe through our noses. We are still dressed as locals and all have grown beards for the real op the other night. I had to do the dye thing but Ranger and Lester look dark and scary, especially Ranger, with a week old beard.
We listen at the door. Nothing. Ranger kicks the door in. He's smiling. He is having fun, migraine, exhaustion and crankiness all gone. Ranger loves the hunt.
We burst in, weapons drawn, and rather small young man in Afghan clothing jumps away from the rickety table, his chair crashing to the floor behind him. He has a plate of food and a glass of tea on the bare table. Next to his meal is a tablet device, like my iPhone. The wireless connection in question no doubt.
The man is bug-eyed and terrified, he backs away with his hands held in the air. He looks like he might cry.
I am guessing he is in his mid-twenties, at the most.
Les subdues the subject and Ranger keeps him quiet by pointing his Glock at the guy's head. While they ask him his name and essentials, I pick up the tablet device and look it over.
It is not a phone or high tech network device. The tablet is a Kindle. I press the on button and it opens to a page in English. Huh. Ranger is speaking to the man in his dialect and the guy is protesting in the same language. I think he thinks we are the terrorists. I scan the page, then check the title.
"Yo. Ranger. This is the wireless device."
''Yeah?''
"He's reading the new Vince Flynn Mitch Rapp book. It just came out." The man nods vigorously. I add, "In English."
Ranger turns to the man. "You read English? You understand me?" He has switched to speaking English, of course.
The man nods again. "Mitch Rapp. He is very cool operator! I buy the day it comes out! Very exciting books."
Lester finishes emptying the man's pockets, puts a small handful of coins and pocket crap on the rickety table. No weapons, not even a penknife.
The man, whose name turns out to be Bashir looks at Ranger. "Mitch Rapp is make-believe hero, I was thinking. But maybe he is real? You are him?" The man looks awed.
Even with the beard Ranger is handsomer and cooler than the fictitious Mitch Rapp. I tell the man, "Mitch is a thug. A hero but a thug; he's not just an assassin; he gets into it, he'll do the dirty work, interrogations, all kinds of stuff. He's a real badass."
The man nods happily.
I tell Ranger, "Mitch Rapp works for the CIA."
Ranger who has been spending too much time with Stephanie Plum rolls his eyes and says, "I know who Mitch Rapp is! Shut up! I am not Mitch Rapp." Ranger is rubbing his forehead again; his migraine is back. He looks at all three of us. We nod. No one argues with Mitch Rapp. I mean Ranger.
Ranger turns away and runs his free hand through the man's meager pocket change. One coin is shiny and large. Ranger looks more closely, hands it to me. I ask Bashir, "What are you doing with a casino chip from MGM Grand in Vegas?"
"Is my good luck token."
We stare at him.
"I have dream. Someday I go to America, drive a cab in Las Vegas. You see?" Bashir points at the Kindle. "I come to the city..." We all look around, what city? "...to download American books onto my Kindle. Here in Kandahar we have Wi-Fi. I read Vince Flynn books and learn English, learn about America. Because someday..." He hopefully raises his eyes to Ranger.
Ranger up rights the chair, points to it. Tells Bashir, "Sit."
"Please, you sit too, Mr. Rapp. You will all have tea?" The regular people of the 'Stans are hospitable and polite; poor Bashir is offering his best if meagre welcome to his intruders, us. Ranger puts his Glock away, tucks it in the small of his back, in his waistband. Bashir watches the practiced motions with starry eyes. Yeah. Ranger is cool, man.
There are only two chairs so Lester and I prop ourselves up against the dusty wall, Lester behind Ranger, myself across the room behind our new friend. We don't put our weapons away.
We have tea. In silence. Ranger is thinking. He doesn't have to beat the crap out of these guys. Sometimes he can just—tell. And in this case we could pretty much all tell, no ESP needed. Bashir is a nice young guy who likes American thrillers and action heroes. He is not an Islamic extremist and certainly no terrorist.
Ranger turns the Kindle slowly in his hands. Finally he says to Bashir, "I regret to tell you this, but the United States does not usually grant permanent work visas to people they think are, ah, plotting against us."
"What does that mean, Mr. Rapp?"
"Ranger. My name is Ranger."
"Yes...?"
"It means that..." Ranger meets my eyes.
I come over, stand across from Bashir. "It means that you should turn off your Wi-Fi after you download, dude," I tell him.
"That is all?" asks Bashir. His dark gaze searches Ranger's eyes, then mine, Lester's.
"I'll see what I can do for you, Bashir. I'll be in touch." Ranger pushes the casino chip across the table. "Don't lose this. It's worth a lot of money in Vegas—one thousand American dollars. And...enjoy your book." Ranger gently shoves the Kindle after the chip. I look down. On the screen Mitch Rapp is telling an old pal from his Clandestine service days in Europe, "You're looking well, Donny..." Donatella Rahm is an ex-girlfriend/ assassin, ex-Mossad, in the series. The sexy Armani model does the purring thing and kisses Mitch on the lips. I touch the screen to continue. She tells Mitch, "It will be nice working with proper villains again! "
I grin. Looks like Mitch is on the job one more time.
TBC: part two in a couple days
a/n so far as I recall Mitch has not hooked up with Donatella again, since the assassination attempt in Separation Of Power . But maybe someday?
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Mitch Rapp series by Vince Flynn. (Mitch is a thug. But he's cool. Good series.) I did not consider this a crossover story; if I'm wrong, ooops?