Enemy at the Gates

Vince Flynn, Kyle Mills

• Publisher: Atria/Emily Bestler Books
• Year: 2021
• Print ISBN: 9781982165031
• eBook ISBN: 9781982164904

Mitch Rapp, the CIA’s top operative, searches for a high-level mole with the power to rewrite the world order in this riveting thriller from #1 New York Times bestselling author Vince Flynn, written by Kyle Mills.

Mitch Rapp has worked for several presidents over his career, but Anthony Cook is unlike any he’s encountered before. Cunning and autocratic, he feels no loyalty to America’s institutions and is distrustful of the influence Rapp and CIA director Irene Kennedy have in Washington.

When Kennedy discovers evidence of a mole scouring the Agency’s database for sensitive information on Nicholas Ward, the world’s first trillionaire, she assigns Rapp the task of protecting him. In doing so, he finds himself walking an impossible tightrope: Keep the man alive, but also use him as bait to uncover a traitor who has seemingly unlimited access to government secrets.

As the attacks on Ward become increasingly dire, Rapp and Kennedy are dragged into a world where the lines between governments, multinational corporations, and the hyper-wealthy fade. An environment in which liberty, nationality, and loyalty are meaningless. Only the pursuit of power remains.

With “sizzling storytelling at its level best” (The Providence Journal), Kyle Mills has created another suspenseful thriller that not only echoes the America of today, but also offers a glimpse into its possible future.

1

THE WHITE HOUSE

WASHINGTON, DC

USA

CIA director Irene Kennedy stepped into the president’s outer office and paused to take in her surroundings. The changes had continued in earnest since the last time she was there. The décor and artwork were even more modern and now the carpet had been replaced with a wood floor that bounced sound around the room.

The desk of the president’s secretary—a barely controlled disaster over the last two administrations—was now the picture of minimalist, high-tech efficiency. As was the woman sitting behind it.

The fact that so much effort was being put into something as trivial as redecorating suggested a return to what passed for normalcy in Washington. Six months ago, a terrorist group had managed to take down the entire US power grid and keep it down for more than a month. The consequences had been dire, with hundreds of thousands of Americans dead of cold, violence, and lack of medical care. Countless devastating fires caused by exploding electrical substations, sagging power lines, and desperate people trying to stay warm had raged throughout the country. And, finally, the world’s economy had collapsed in reaction to its most powerful engine being taken off-line.

The effects would reverberate for years, but the worst was over. Power had been restored to all but a few rural outposts in the Northwest, critical manufacturing and agriculture were fully back online, and areas wiped out by fires were being rebuilt. After months of world governments being too focused on the crises in front of them to create new ones, moves were once again being made on the geopolitical chessboard. Moves that it was her job to neutralize.

“Dr. Kennedy?” the president’s secretary said, glancing up from her monitor. “You can go in. He’s expecting you.”

She entered an Oval Office that was all but unrecognizable. The wallpaper was gone, as were the traditional pleated curtains. Furniture had been updated to something that leaned toward midcentury modern, and artwork had slipped into the abstract. Only the Resolute Desk and flags remained.

The man walking toward her seemed to fit perfectly with the environment he’d created. At forty-four, Anthony Cook was one of the youngest presidents in US history. He’d managed to rise from the turmoil created by the suicide of his party’s front-runner, crushing the more conventional replacement candidates endorsed by the establishment. The American people had been fed up with business as usual for a long time and that, combined with the hardship brought about by the electrical grid failure, had sent them on a search for someone different.

Anthony Cook, for better or worse, was it.

“Irene,” he said, taking her hand. “It’s good to see you.”

She wasn’t sure that was entirely true. Her relationship with his predecessor had been one of mutual respect and occasionally even warmth. Cook seemed to be incapable of either. He was a ruthless man, though one with an admittedly impressive grasp of history and America’s challenges going forward. A born politician who had spent his life immersed in that world but who still managed to portray himself as an outsider. A common man who had infiltrated the political elite and was now positioned to transform it.

None of this was necessarily bad. Politics was theater and a fair amount of melodrama was necessary to get people to the polls. But what was behind the persona Cook had created? Where was he going? What did he want? Due to his understandable focus since he took office on putting America back on track, they hadn’t interacted enough for Kennedy to get a true measure of the man.

He pointed her toward a conversation area, and she made note of his broad shoulders, narrow waist, and full head of hair. In his years as a political strategist, he’d been very different—a scrawny intellectual with fiery charisma, a gift for picking winners, and an icy, realpolitik view of the average American.

By the time he’d thrown his own hat into the ring, though, he’d reinvented himself. President Cook was good looking, physically imposing, and impeccably dressed. He oozed concern for every one of the three hundred and thirty million people under his care. He was the man with the answers. The man who would lead America into a future so bright it was blinding.

“I’m not sure you know our guest, Irene.”

From behind, the man sitting on one of the sofas looked very much like everyone else in Washington—blue suit, nice posture, expensive haircut with a little gray at the temples. But when he put down his coffee cup and stood, he proved to be much more than one of the political operatives that infested the beltway.

As the world’s first trillionaire, Nicholas Ward needed little introduction. He was a genius in every sense of the word who had stepped back from controlling his business empire to run a massive foundation that he’d charged with nothing less ambitious than solving the problems of humanity. Health care, renewable energy, employment, violence, poverty—if something had plagued society since the dawn of time, Ward figured he could fix it in the next twenty years.

A bit optimistic in her estimation, but he was a hard man to dismiss. Impossible, really.

“You look good, Nick. Africa seems to agree with you.”

“Don’t be fooled. It’s all biting insects and sunburn.”

She leaned in and he kissed her on the cheek.

“I take it you do know each other,” the president said, failing to hide a hint of irritation that Kennedy found a bit worrying. She hadn’t been told what this meeting was about or that the most powerful private citizen in the world would be in attendance. Had it been an attempt at a subtle power play that had now backfired?

Not yet sure how to navigate the environment that Cook had created, she was grateful when Ward answered.

“Irene and I are in the same business—we both want to keep people safe and healthy. That’s landed us at a few of the same conferences and participating on the same panels.” He flashed the everyman smile that he was known for. “I figure the fact that she hasn’t had me killed yet makes us friends.”

Fairly close friends, in fact. Their relationship had been cemented by a recent bioterrorism event that she’d had no choice but to bring him in on. The long days, long nights, and logistical nightmares they’d faced had given her a healthy respect and personal affection for the man. He was one of the most impressive people she had ever met and seemed to honestly have the good of mankind at heart. The fact that some of his views were a bit naïve was more than overcome by his enthusiasm and almost supernatural competence.

“I heard what happened in Uganda, but the details that have reached my desk are still sketchy. We have limited resources in that area and I’m not sure the local government’s fully on top of things.”

“I can guarantee you they’re not. That’s why I’m here.”

“Why don’t you give us the rundown on what you know,” the president said, reasserting his dominance by pointing everyone to a seat and then taking one himself.

“Our facility was attacked by Gideon Auma’s forces. The hospital director managed to evacuate most of the people before it happened, but the ones who stayed—including him—were killed. The exception may be David Chism and his two research assistants. They were there at the outset of the attack, but now they’ve disappeared.”

“My understanding is that the facility burned,” Kennedy said. “It seems likely that they were inside.”

“That was our assumption, but our people are going through the rubble and haven’t found any bodies.”

“Are you sure that Auma doesn’t have them?” Kennedy said. “I wouldn’t be surprised if you got a call pretty soon asking for ransom. In fact, it seems to be the most likely reason he’d attack a facility that has nothing he needs and that’s well outside his normal operating theater.”

“It’s possible,” Ward admitted. “But we have people on the ground telling us that there’s significant guerrilla activity in the forest to the east of the facility. As though they’re searching for something.”

“Irene?” the president prompted.

She leaned back and instinctively reached for a cup of tea that wasn’t there. Another reminder that the Alexander administration was gone.

“I understand the importance of David Chism, Nick. Believe me I do. But the chances that he’s still alive seem low to me. More likely he was hiding in the building when it started to burn. Maybe even in a safe room designed specifically for this kind of event. My guess is that a more thorough search of the ruins will turn up his body and the bodies of his team.”

“But are you sure?”

“No,” she admitted.

“What if they escaped into the jungle?”

“That’s a big ‘what if,’ ” the president said.

“But with what’s on the line, it seems like one worth pursuing.”

The two men locked eyes for a moment, but it was hard to know exactly what passed between them. The fact that they had crossed swords years ago when Cook was the governor of California was well known.

“When you say this is worth pursuing, I assume you mean by me?” Cook said a bit coldly.

“The Ugandan government has some rescue workers on-site, but they’re already starting to pull out. And they say they don’t want to bring in troops to search for my people because they’re concerned that the Congolese will see it as a provocation. In truth, though, it’s more likely that they’re not prepared to engage Auma right now for political reasons.”

“And they’re making the assumption that Chism’s dead,” Cook said, standing. “Which is almost certainly correct.” He offered his hand. “Thanks for bringing this to our attention, Nicholas. Irene and I will talk about it and let you know what we come up with.”

To his credit, the wealthiest man in history took being dismissed gracefully, shaking hands with the president, and nodding in Kennedy’s direction before leaving the Oval Office.

“Thoughts?” Cook said, taking a seat again.

“Setting David Chism aside for a moment, Gideon Auma is the leader of a terrorist organization that’s allied with Islamic extrem—”

“But he’s a regional threat,” Cook interrupted, once again displaying his grasp of international issues. “And he’s only a Muslim when it’s convenient to him. He uses Christianity, animism, and anything else he can come up with just as easily. The truth is that he’s a messianic cult leader who’s never going to stir up any trouble outside of Uganda and the DRC.”

Stir up any trouble was a disturbingly trivial assessment of the situation on the ground. The level of brutality Gideon Auma had unleashed on that part of Africa would shock even a hardened ISIS operative. The human suffering was hard to ignore, though Cook had a gift for that when the cameras weren’t on him.

“Regional threats have a way of expanding in unpredictable ways, Mr. President. It’s a lesson we’ve learned over and over.”

He frowned and folded his arms across his chest. “I’m not convinced. And as far as Chism goes, you and I both know he’s dead. Scientists don’t just run through flaming buildings and then turn into Rambo in the African jungle.”

“But if he’s not? Based on what I know about his work, it would be hard to overstate his importance—both to America and to mankind in general. Another concern I have is that if he is alive and Auma captures him, Nick will pay whatever it takes to get him back. With a few hundred million dollars in his pocket, Auma could expand his influence.”

“Next steps?”

“Send Mitch Rapp to Uganda. Let him make a recommendation from the ground.”

“No. Not Rapp.”

“Why not?”

“He’s too valuable an asset and we both know this is a waste of time.” He stood again and it was Kennedy’s turn to be dismissed. “Keep my people posted of any developments and in the meantime, I’ll give this some thought. Until you hear from me, though, we’re staying out of it.”

“Yes, sir.”

He started back to his desk as she crossed the office toward the door. Her hand had barely touched the knob when he spoke again.

“And on the subject of Mitch Rapp. I’d like to meet him.”

“I’ll let him know, sir.”

---

“But what are the chances that Chism is alive? Ten percent? Less?”

Anthony Cook’s wife, Catherine, saw everything in terms of numbers. It was a bias that had served her well during her time as one of the world’s most successful hedge fund managers. And it had been even more helpful during his rise through the political swamp. Simply put, he wouldn’t be sitting in the White House residence without her icy calculations.

“Can’t be much more than that,” Cook agreed.

She took a seat on a sofa across from him and looked up, staring at a blank white section of the ceiling to collect her thoughts. She was still extremely attractive at forty-two, with long dark hair pulled back, an athletic build maintained with the same diligence as his own, and a pale, unlined face. Their union had produced two sons—one with significant potential and one completely useless—but the bond between them had never really been sexual. In fact, he wouldn’t bet his life on the fact that she was even attracted to men. It didn’t matter, though. Their goals were perfectly aligned, and neither was interested in anything that didn’t relate to the achievement of those goals.

“I’ve quietly sold all our stock relating to Nick’s health care companies and reinvested the money in competitors who’ll benefit from Chism’s death. Valuations are already starting to move based on the rumors coming out of Uganda. We’ve made millions since the markets opened and stand to make tens of millions more. And so do a lot of other people. I don’t think a lot of tears will be shed around the world if Nicholas Ward takes a hit.”

What sh...

Table of contents

• Cover
• Title Page
• Acknowledgements
• Prologue
• Chapter 1
• Chapter 2
• Chapter 3
• Chapter 4
• Chapter 5
• Chapter 6
• Chapter 7
• Chapter 8
• Chapter 9
• Chapter 10
• Chapter 11
• Chapter 12
• Chapter 13
• Chapter 14
• Chapter 15
• Chapter 16
• Chapter 17
• Chapter 18
• Chapter 19
• Chapter 20
• Chapter 21
• Chapter 22
• Chapter 23
• Chapter 24
• Chapter 25
• Chapter 26
• Chapter 27
• Chapter 28
• Chapter 29
• Chapter 30
• Chapter 31
• Chapter 32
• Chapter 33
• Chapter 34
• Chapter 35
• Chapter 36
• Chapter 37
• Chapter 38
• Chapter 39
• Chapter 40
• Chapter 41
• Chapter 42
• Chapter 43
• Chapter 44
• Chapter 45
• Chapter 46
• Chapter 47
• Chapter 48
• Chapter 49
• Epilogue
• ‘Oath of Loyalty’ Teaser
• About the Authors
• Copyright