To conclude this walk down memory lane, let's end it with how it began: Mitch Rapp. The complete Fan Fiction short, short story of the woman I think Rapp should have:
FAN FICTION – A LA MITCH RAPP
Her name is Christine Ravenswill, but it's not her real name. She's a psychiatrist who specializes in counseling veterans and operatives in elite warrior positions whether government sanctioned or not. Christine is tall, close to 5'10" with a deep blue to her eye color that sets off her long wavy natural honey blonde hair that she wears parted in the middle with bangs.
With elegant, efficient movements, Rapp wonders if she's athletic when she strides toward him to shake his hand. He deduces she's close to his age, her handshake takes a firm grip of his larger hand.
When she introduces herself, he smirks. "I assume that's not your real name."
She knows he doesn't want to be there in her office, nor does he want to talk to or confide in her. She recognizes he probably realizes he should be willing to do so, but that doesn't carry any weight as to him determining he will. She decides to go on the offensive.
"Mr. Rapp, I'm smart enough to know you don't want to be here. I get that. You're right about my name. Although Christine is my actual middle name, I chose Ravenswill for my last name when I came to terms with my dad's occupation. He too was a warrior with a similar job description and assignments as you've experienced. The last time I saw him was on my 21st birthday, but occasionally I discreetly visit his star. You would no doubt be familiar with his name if I was allowed to reveal it to you, so I apologize for not being able to share it."
She sat in one of the chairs in front of her desk that faced the one he stood stoically behind, picking up the pen and pad on it and setting them on her lap. "If you prefer to stand, I understand. I'm not here to play games with you. I respect you and what you've done for our country far too much to attempt any kind of coercion to speak with me. I of course hope that you would acquire a trust – or perhaps that's too strong a word." She briefly faltered but regrouped. "Let me put it this way: I have no way of knowing if I can offer you anything you can use or might need until I listen to what you have to say about anything that you care to offer in conversation. I've cleared my schedule for the rest of the day in order not to adhere to any annoying time requirements." She briefly looked down at the pad on her lap. Then looking directly up at the focused stare looking back at her, she said, "This is the absolute truth. I've admired you for a long time, and it's an honor to finally meet you face to face."
She noticed the brief surprise in those dark eyes, the quick parting of the lips before once again sealing shut.
"I'm very familiar with the standardized version of life in your profession. As for my life, I'm a fair marksman, know Krav Maga and Brazilian Jui-jitsu. I'm armed with my trusty Glock 19 and haven't had to kill anyone yet. I've been attacked once on the way to this office when I decided to jog to work. Fortunately, I subdued my attacker so here I am. Here you are. If there's anything you want to ask me, please do."
Rapp moved around the chair and sat in it folding his arms against his strong chest. "How much did Irene tell you?"
"Irene told me she would suggest you come to me, 'try me on for size', just for the purpose of releasing some of the pain you carry around with you because she believes it's intense. She said it in no way has affected your work, but that . . ." She stopped and studied his expression before continuing. "But that it hurt her to know you kept a lot of that pain as a constant companion in your everyday life and that just maybe you might be willing to discuss it with me – but not to count on it." She pushed herself farther back in the chair and crossed her right leg over her left.
Rapp examined her and noticed she met his gaze with an expression he rarely saw from women who looked at him. If he had to identify it, he’d call it empathy. Maybe because she’d come as close to experiencing the content of his rare lifestyle without ever physically having to live it. He dropped his defensive posture and cocked his head slightly to study her features.
Finally, he said, “You look like him, you know.” He paused. “Your father.”
Her lower lip dropped slightly, and tears instantly formed in her eyes. She reached behind to her desk for a Kleenex and blotted her eyes. “Thank you,” she replied quietly. “I didn’t know . . .”
“It can be a small world sometimes.”
Silence permeated the realization. He decided to let her take a moment, knowing the anguish that came from the remembrance. He watched her as she regained control. When he was sure she'd managed it, he added, "He was one of the few real heroes. He had a heart. That's one of the things I admired about him." Rapp stood again. "Thank you for understanding I don't want to be here, don't want to talk about myself, my pain, my life. It's not you. Seems pointless. It's done. It's not going to change. I chose this life. I'm sure the exit won't be . . . pretty."
She stood, carefully judging her motive first and then her next move. "Mr. Rapp–"
"It's Rapp or Mitch."
"Rapp, would you consider having lunch with me? I'm starving and it would be good to have lunch in a non-professional environment. If you have time. I'm not the kind of girl who's going to analyze your every word and response in conversation. I usually eat alone. It would feel good to spend some time having a 'normal' lunch. Are you game?"
He gave her a look with a barely there smile. "Can I trust you?"
She let out an abrupt laugh. "I don't know, can you?"
Rapp started for the door and looked back, “Coming? I’ll drive.”
“We can go in separate vehicles if you’d be more comfortable,” she offered, suddenly feeling a bit intimidated by the prospect of having asked this man she’d long admired to lunch.
He paused with his hand on the doorknob. “I thought you said you wanted a ‘normal’ lunch. I’m taking you to lunch. Is that ‘normal’ enough for you?”
She walked quickly toward him. “Yes, sir, it is.”
He gave a rare laugh and held the door open for her. She walked out in front of him.
Once inside his armored BMW X8, he asked, “Where to?”
“It’s fairly out of the way. You like Italian food?” she asked hopefully.
“I do.”
“Head south.”
He noticed as he repeatedly and routinely checked his mirrors she did the same. Conditioned probably from an early age by her father and now because of who her father was. Rapp knew there was simply no way you could hide from everyone. No matter how much you wanted to or how hard you tried.
“How long have you known Irene?”
She cut her gaze away from the mirror to look at him and followed it with staring out the windshield. “About 18 years or so. I don’t get to see her often, but we try to communicate fairly regularly and if possible to have lunch once a month. Doesn’t always happen, but it’s always good when it does. She’s recommended several clients over the years. It’s rewarding to have someone like her have that confidence in me. Truthfully, for her to recommend me to you? Priceless. I didn’t think you’d show up.” She quickly shot a glance at his profile.
“Not sure why I did,” he replied after a few moments passed.
She gave him further directions. He pulled into the tiny parking lot and backed into a spot near the entrance to what resembled a small restaurant where he once had dinner in Rome. Strange to have that memory surface.
Christine collected her purse from the floor and began to open the door.
“Sit tight, Doc.” He got out and did a careful but casual assessment as he rounded the front of the car to open her door.
Once inside the restaurant, they were greeted by a man who immediately extended his hand to grasp Christine’s and bring it to his lips.
“So good to see you again, Christine.” Returning her hand, he extended his to Rapp. “It’s a pleasure, sir." He shook it firmly.
“Follow me. I have your usual table available, cara mia.”
“Thank you, Paolo. How is Rose?”
He led them to the table as he spoke. “She is wonderful as always.” A genuine smile accompanied his words.
Rapp noted it was situated so both of their chairs faced the front door and maintained a clear view of the kitchen’s entrance. He ordered a black espresso, she a tonic water with lime.
“You come here often,” he stated.
“Often as I can which hasn’t been often enough lately.”
A young man with olive skin and a dark ponytail tied back low on his neck set their beverages and menus before them, nodded and left them alone.
Perusing the menus, they closed them simultaneously and sipped their drinks.
“I’m not great at making conversation.”
“A man of few words. I can appreciate that.”
“What about you?”
She gave a brief laugh. “I have a tendency to spill my guts with little provocation. An open book mostly. Except where work is concerned.”
She noticed he gave her that almost smile.
“Husband, boyfriend?” He caught her quick look away and back to him.
“I believe we share a similar circumstance in our distant pasts. My fiancé was KIA. We were told it was in Afghanistan, but I suspect that was a ruse.” She adjusted her posture. “No one even remotely serious since.”
He studied her. She didn’t flinch. “But many have tried?”
She smiled, slightly embarrassed. “Some.”
The young man returned with pad and pencil. Rapp nodded at Christine and she gave him her order. Rapp followed with his. He thanked them and quickly returned to refresh Rapp’s coffee with the dark brew.
“So, you want to ‘spill your guts’ to me? Outside of work of course.”
She laughed. “Okay. I’m willing to tell you some things that Irene wouldn’t have mentioned and that you possibly might not appreciate.”
“Intriguing.”
She spoke directly to him, her tone firm and serious. “Not that ‘intriguing’, Rapp, but very real to me. I’m a Christian.”
She watched as the expressionless mask took over his face but not before she caught the minute moment of a reaction in his eyes.
The waiter arrived and carefully placed their plates in front of them. He spoke for the first time. “If you need anything at all, please don’t hesitate to ask. I’ll be back with a refill of your drink and more espresso.”
“I’m not surprised,” he said after they’d both taken a few bites and got their beverages refilled.
She set her fork down and took a drink from her glass. “Well, I’m surprised that you’re not.” She smiled at him.
He too set his fork down, sat back a bit, and looked at his plate, pensive.
She waited, her glass on the table still in her hand.
“As you’re well aware, we come across all kinds of people in this world. I’ve seen some of the worst.” He paused and grasped his cup but left it on the table. “You could say I’ve had to look the devil in the eye.”
She waited.
“I’ve wondered how I’ve managed to make it this far.”
He picked up his fork and went back to his meal as did she.
“I see why this is a favorite place of yours. Great food, nice atmosphere, good people. Feels good to have a few ‘normal’ minutes.” He took a drink of his espresso. “So what else?”
It took her a moment to realize his reference, but she added, “I love to hike, but I can’t do heights or cliffs. Really can’t. As a kid, I rode my bike everywhere, but I hate bike riding and bike riders now – at least those who think they should have equal space with cars.”
He gave one of his rare laughs but sobered quickly. “Yeah, thought I’d take up biking for a brief stint.” He paused. “Didn’t work out.” He finished his espresso. “Heights I can do. It’s caves for me. Do my best to stay out of them.”
She felt her face heat briefly as she considered what to say next.
“What?”
She glanced up from a quick look at her plate.
“It’ll no doubt strike you as silly, and comparably it’s downright ridiculous,” she said with a brief shake of her head.
“Let’s have it.”
“I,” she looked away and then sat up straighter. “I’ve taken some private military instruction with various weapons combined with my self-defense classes. I’ve learned so much, and, please don’t take this wrong, but I’ve found it to be quite fulfilling as I’ve accomplished certain challenges.” She knew she blushed. “It’s nothing like what you’ve had to do,” her voice dipping.
He cocked his head slightly and watched her. “I respect that,” he said after several moments. “Did your dad suggest you do that at some point?”
“He did.”
“He must’ve known you had the talent and drive to do it.”
“He didn’t want me to get involved in . . . in what he did, but apparently he thought I could have. My brain kind of operated the way his did, and he told me I was gifted with a gun. He was my hero, you know, so his praise meant everything to me.” She reached for her napkin and quickly patted under her eyes. “I’m sorry, Rapp. I didn’t mean to make this conversation about me.”
“That’s the best part of this conversation. I prefer not making it about me.”
She took another drink and hesitated briefly before saying, “Is there anything you want to tell me or ask me? I know you’ve been trained to evaluate people. Not only because of your line of work but because of your innate sense of self-preservation, you won’t easily trust me if ever at all. If you don’t want to be my client, I would hope that somehow we might be able to cultivate a friendship. Do you think that could ever be feasible?”
Rapp decided right then that he liked this woman. She was truthful and had no obvious desire to play games. She didn’t pry into his life even though he suspected she knew a fair amount about him, having said as much in her office when she told him she’d admired him for some time. He considered her offer.
“If you had to choose, which one would you take?”
“Friendship, hands down,” she replied without hesitation. “But before that could happen, I have a confession to make. Not here though.”
The waiter collected their plates, asked about their beverages, and replied he’d bring their check when Rapp asked for it. He returned quickly with two carefully wrapped dessert boxes.
“Compliments of Paolo. He said he knew you wouldn’t stay for dessert.” He set the bill next to Rapp who picked it up, glanced at it and handed him a hundred-dollar bill.
“Keep the change,” he said as he stood. “And please express our thanks for these and the perfect lunch.”
Once inside the car with their desserts in her lap, Christine said, “I won’t keep you long at the office, Rapp. I just need to speak with you for a couple of minutes.”
He glanced at her noticing the subtle worry on her face. “Okay.”
After arriving in the private parking area, he turned to her. “You seem worried about something. Want to tell me why?”
“I do. I’ve been given something to give to you. Many years ago. It’s a letter from my father addressed to you. He instructed me not to read it but to give it to you if I ever had the opportunity. I’ve kept it with me wherever I’ve been and gone. It was one of the last things he gave me on that fateful 21st birthday.” She dropped her head and took a deep breath. Sitting back upright and looking straight ahead, she said, “He gave me one also. About you. My instructions were to read it if and only when I ever felt truly threatened. I haven’t read it yet.” She looked at him and met his serious gaze.
He undid his seatbelt and said, “Well, let’s get to it then.” He got out, did his usual inspection as he walked around to let her out. Before she got out, she left his dessert on the console.
Once inside her office, Rapp took his seat, relaxed. He watched her set her dessert on the desk and quickly attend to the phone. Keeping her purse, she came around her desk to sit across from him, unzipped a compartment of the large leather bag and pulled out two long envelopes, handing both of them to him.
Picking up on her nervousness, he listened as she said, “I apologize for the wear and tear. I did my best to keep them somewhat pristine. I know Dad wrote them in his own script, and I was afraid the ink might bleed or something might interfere with his message.” She stopped.
“One of these is yours.”
“I know, but I want you to read it. In case there’s anything in there you’d rather I didn’t know.” She looked down at her hands, having not felt this nervous since she couldn’t remember when.
“What do you think is in it?”
She looked directly at him, knowing he could see her discomfort. “I suspect he was truly concerned that at some point his family would be in danger due to his –”
“I get it. Definitely a concern. So you assume he wanted you to contact me somehow if you suspected your life might be threatened?”
She nodded, thinking she might not be able to utter another word without either saying something stupid or resorting to ugly crying, both of which she considered embarrassingly unprofessional. The loss of her dad still resurrected that intense grief, something she'd never displayed so openly with anyone else, keeping it well-hidden until now.
He stood. She stood, clutching her purse, then quickly set it on the chair, trying to hold his gaze and find her voice.
"I'll call you," he said.
"Thank you." It came out just above a whisper.
He turned and left her office, quietly shutting the door behind him.
Back in the car, he put the key in the ignition but didn’t start it. Instead he took the envelope addressed to him and used his knife to slice it open. Unfolding the letter, he scanned the handwriting. Easy to read, so he began.
Hello, Mitch.
This is no doubt an unusual circumstance if you’re now reading this. I’m assuming I got to know you a whole lot more since writing this. We’ve met in passing, and I’ve talked to Stan about you. I won’t bother writing his colorful reply, but beneath all the rhetoric he had a certain gleam in his eye when he spoke of you.
I’m sure you can relate to that innate trust factor which very few people in this world inspire in us. It’s the nature of the beast. I knew the first time I spoke with you on the one assignment where our paths crossed that I had it in you. It was instantaneous for me, and, because of that, I’m writing this to you with specific instructions for my daughter which I know she’ll respect and obey.
Personal experience tells us there’s potential for our loved ones to come under threats and terrible danger – some we see coming, and those we don’t. I’ve done my best to educate my daughter and teach her “the ropes” of self-defense. You know the drill. Know this: if you ever have the pleasure of meeting her – which I hope the reason for that isn’t because she’s in terrible danger – she probably could’ve been one of us with her talents, but her tender heart would’ve prevented it, and I’m grateful for that. I’ve told her to change her name as a professional, but her real name I want you to know: Raven Christine – and you know my surname. Her first name was decided upon by something significant between her mother and me.
All of that brief background to say this: I’m asking you, if there’s any possible way that you can, if you will rescue her if she is in trouble. There is no one else I trust to do what will need to be done. Since her mother’s death, we’re all we have, and we don’t have near enough time together. And if I’m around when you need anything, don’t hesitate to ask. I’ll be there for you no matter what. Just, please, if you can, take care of my daughter if I’m unable to do so.
Daniel Wilson
Mitch lowered the letter to his lap and stared straight ahead through his bulletproof windshield. He remembered Daniel well as he’d told his daughter. Respected his skills, professionalism, but mostly his heart. He didn’t “eliminate” unnecessarily. Their “jobs” made them cynical at best, but he also noted it could make psychopaths out of some, sociopaths of others, and almost suicidal and broken operators of still more. As he’d admitted to Christine, he’d wondered why and how he was still around – especially of late.
Should he read the letter addressed to Daniel’s daughter? Picking it up off the console where his dessert rested, he slit it open and began to read.
Hey, Sweet Girl.
No time to waste here if you’ve opened this. You must find a way to contact Mitch Rapp. If you can’t locate him quickly, get to Irene Kennedy for assistance immediately on one of those burner phones I told you to keep handy.
Mitch is the best of the best. I’ve worked with the best and have even been the best at one time, but Rapp is the absolute top of the line. He’s around your age, and if anyone can help, it will be him.
I hope you will meet him one day simply because you need to know that there are others out there giving their all in this thing we do. He’s young, focused, and utterly skilled. He knows good and evil and never confuses them. He’s had to do things – as I have – which are soul-crushing, but he’s withstood them and will continue to.
If you’re in trouble, find him, Sweet Girl. Do it quickly. Tell him I sent you. I love you more than life itself, and I hope I can always be there for you, but you know that’s not a given. Take good care, Raven. I love you.
Always,
Dad
What hit him first was that he wasn’t “young” anymore and was truly astounded that Daniel Wilson had given him that much credit so many years ago when the letter had been written, before he became more experienced – back when Irene was constantly running interference for him after his assignments.
And then it occurred to him that Daniel had an inkling of his approaching death.
He inserted the letter back into its envelope, grabbed both letters and his dessert and got out of his car, locked it, and headed back up to “Raven’s” office.
She tossed her purse to the floor and sat down hard on the chair, pushed off her shoes, folded her arms and crossed her legs. She forced back the tears and grief and frowned at her behavior. Completely at odds with how she’d conducted herself in front of Mitch Rapp, she admitted to herself that in person he personified the previously ill-defined cliché “larger than life”. Now she knew exactly how the expression translated in real time.
Over lunch, it had been easy. He, as expected, didn’t want to discuss himself and preferred she speak freely about herself which was easy to do on a surface level. Admitting her Christianity got the response she anticipated. Not negative. A moment of surprise quickly concealed.
A light knuckle tap on her door brought her abruptly to her feet giving a quick glance at the wall clock, knowing she had nothing expected for the rest of the day. She walked across the room to answer it after seeing Rapp on the camera image mounted beside her door. She quickly opened it wide for him and saw his dessert box and the two letters in hand. He walked in and she closed the door.
“We didn’t finish our lunch,” he said, continuing to the chair he’d adopted.
“You’re right.” She took her box off her desk, kicked her shoes out of the way, and once again sat across from him. “I have trays in the closet if you think we need them,” she offered.
“I’m good,” he said, placing the letters on the arm of his chair and opening his box.
It took him no time to unwrap the napkin and fork inside, taking a bite. “Wow. This is as good as the rest of the meal.”
She quickly sampled hers. “Mmmm.”
After a few bites, Rapp said, “So, Raven, I read both letters.” He looked directly at her, watching her startled expression.
Something happens inside a woman when a man she admires or is attracted to uses her real name and says it with deliberation, firmness, and just a hint of affection. Whether it’s actually chemical or some kind of romantic hit-piece to the heart, the sound taps a target, strikes its mark, and causes an unscheduled emotional reaction close to an inflamed melt-down – all of which must not appear visible to his naked eye.
With an extreme effort to keep her voice and expression neutral, she responded, “And . . .”
“Your assumption regarding your father’s intent in writing the letters is correct.”
She struggled hard to compose herself while he finished his dessert.
“If he was presumptuous in any way, I—”
“Don’t.” He said it without hesitation. “I get it. And if you know anything about me, you know I get it.”
“I do know that,” she responded quietly.
He put his fork and napkin inside the box and held it up as a request for where to deposit it. She turned in her chair and pointed to the waste basket beside her desk.
He returned to his chair and looked at her. She forced herself to meet his gaze.
“So you want to be friends.”
A statement. “I do.”
“I don’t know how good at it I’d be.”
She kept quiet for a moment as she pondered how to respond. “I have no demands,” she finally said.
He stood. She stood, set her empty box on her desk, grabbed a business card and a pen, wrote her private Sat-phone number on the back of it, and handed it to him.
He examined it. “Can I call you Raven?”
“Yes,” she forced out, knowing her voice sounded unsteady.
“Thanks for some ‘normal’ time,” he said.
“Thank you.”
He made it to the door as she followed him before turning back to her, pulled a scrunched piece of paper from his jeans’ pocket and wrote something on it against the door before handing it to her.
“I plan on honoring your dad’s request.”
With that, he gave her a final nod and walked out, once again quietly closing her door. As she walked back to her desk, she noticed he'd left her letter on the arm of the chair.
She picked it up as she moved past to sit behind her desk. Stared at the envelope. Considered not reading it – only because she knew the grief would erupt all over again, and she acknowledged to herself, maybe for the first time, she was weary of it. Tired of the intense pain of having lost both of her beloved parents. And later her fiancé.
She rarely addressed her loneliness, settling for busy-ness, indulging herself in her physical training and weaponry use, forcing herself to excel, to improve. Attending an occasional seminar specific to her area of expertise. She gave an abbreviated hard laugh at the thought: it surely didn’t seem like her specialty with high level operatives did much good for Mitch Rapp.
She ripped the letter out of the envelope and began reading it. Yes, the tears fell as the words registered and reminded her of her dad’s devotion and love and the stark and very telling instruction to find Mitch Rapp if she was ever in real trouble.
His final words confirmed what she’d suspected but had never admitted to herself prior to reading them: he suspected he might be heading into a potentially deadly situation. That 21st birthday celebration where he’d taken her to dinner, made a concentrated effort to listen to everything she probably babbled about that night, presented her with the engraved ring she wore on her right ring finger with a stunning birthstone sapphire arranged between two diamonds on a platinum band: Forever, Dad.
She placed the letter on her desk and stared away into her memories as the tears dried.
When she heard the knuckle tap on her door again, she pushed away from her desk and quickly covered the distance once again to see Rapp on the other side.
After she hurriedly pulled it open, he leaned against the jam, folded his arms, and with that almost smile in place, he said, “I figured you might need a friend.”
She outright laughed and losing all sense of decorum, she put her arms around that solid body and embraced him. “I do.”
Realizing quickly how presumptuous she’d been, she pulled back. “I’m so sorry, Rapp.”
“You said you had the rest of the day,” he said without reacting to her hug or her apology.
“Yes.”
“I know a place. You want to go?”
The gratitude she experienced from his offer threatened tears again. She forced herself to get control. “I’ll get my purse.” Pull yourself together now! She grabbed it and walked out the door in front of him.
Rapp knew better than to start something he never intended to finish. Why he’d come to her office in the first place was still a mystery to him other than to placate Irene. He and Irene had survived some treacherous things through the years but not without the residual pain and scars.
As a tribute to Daniel Wilson, he would help Raven if ever she got in over her head, but why was he inviting her now to do this? Hadn’t those scars and that pain been enough in his life? Hadn’t the regrets piled up to an untenable pile of memories he couldn’t seem to diffuse?
These useless thoughts assaulted him as they walked to his car. As he opened the door for her, she looked directly at him and spoke quietly.
“I can almost physically feel the conflict you’re experiencing with having invited me to go with you. I won’t be insulted if you want to withdraw your invitation, Rapp. I don’t want to contribute in any way to your adding unnecessary relationships or infringing upon your hard-earned freedom from the weights of this life.”
He returned her direct stare, noticing the blue of her eyes and the sincerity they divulged.
“Not a lot gets by you, does it?” he finally said.
“More than I care to admit, I’m afraid.”
“Get in,” he said gently.
Father, thank you for the life and work of Vince Flynn and those who've bravely stepped in to continue the iconic saga. Please bless the journey of Don Bentley now as he tackles the stories that Vince started. Encourage him as only you can do. In the Name of Jesus, Amen.
Into the Fire 