Gould said, his gun still trained on Rapp’s head. “Either you’re slipping or your reputation came right out of the CIA’s marketing department.” Rapp remained completely still, eyes locked on the Glock 17. Tom Lewis’s psychological profile of Gould portrayed him as a narcissistic sociopath. Once again, the shrink’s insights proved correct. The Frenchman had already managed to completely suppress the past, unable to admit that he could ever have been bested. Now he was busy building himself up into the legend he believed he deserved to be. It was a weakness that could be exploited, but even with that possibility, Rapp recognized that this was about as deadly a situation as he’d ever faced. Nutcase or no, Gould wasn’t going to miss at this or any other range. The merc in Rapp’s peripheral vision had a crimson puddle growing around his left foot but the blood loss and pain weren’t preventing him from holding the MP5 rock steady. Finally, the man who’d shoved Hurley through the door was undoubtedly still standing right on the other side of it.
