The Survivor (A Mitch Rapp Novel), by Vince Flynn, Kyle Mills
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The Survivor (A Mitch Rapp Novel), by Vince Flynn, Kyle Mills
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A blistering novel that picks up where The Last Man left off, The Survivor is a no-holds-barred race to save America…and Mitch Rapp’s finest battle.When Joe “Rick” Rickman, a former golden boy of the CIA, steals a massive amount of the Agency’s most classified documents in an elaborately masterminded betrayal of his country, CIA director Irene Kennedy has no choice but to send her most dangerous weapon after him: elite covert operative Mitch Rapp. Rapp quickly dispatches the traitor, but Rickman proves to be a deadly threat to America even from beyond the grave. Eliminating Rickman didn’t solve all of the CIA’s problems—in fact, mysterious tip-offs are appearing all over the world, linking to the potentially devastating data that Rickman managed to store somewhere only he knew. It’s a deadly race to the finish as both the Pakistanis and the Americans search desperately for Rickman’s accomplices, and for the confidential documents they are slowly leaking to the world. To save his country from being held hostage to a country set on becoming the world’s newest nuclear superpower, Mitch Rapp must outrun, outthink, and outgun his deadliest enemies yet.
The Survivor (A Mitch Rapp Novel), by Vince Flynn, Kyle Mills - Amazon Sales Rank: #7594 in Books
- Published on: 2015-10-06
- Released on: 2015-10-06
- Original language: English
- Number of items: 1
- Dimensions: 9.25" h x 1.20" w x 6.12" l, .0 pounds
- Binding: Hardcover
- 400 pages
The Survivor (A Mitch Rapp Novel), by Vince Flynn, Kyle Mills Review "Flynn is a master--maybe the master--of thrillers in which the pages seem to turn themselves." (Book Reporter)"Flynn has never been better." (Providence Journal)“The biggest compliment one can give Mills is that it's totally unclear where Flynn's work ends and his begins, in The Survivor.” (San Jose Mercury News)“Mills has created a wonderful tribute to Flynn while also writing a great novel. While thriller readers and fans miss Flynn, Mills was the perfect choice, and Rapp will continue in good hands.” (Associated Press)“Mills perfectly treads the line of bringing his own considerable talent and style to the table while being respectful of the source material and seemingly channeling Flynn’s own voice.” (Bookreporter.com)“The Survivor is truly a magnificent book.” (San Diego Book Review)“The book is vintage Flynn/Rapp.” (The Post and Courier (Charleston, SC))“Superb… the greatest post 9/11 series going.” (Providence Journal)"Give this book a try." (The Daily Pundit)“For readers who enjoy great spy and clandestine espionage novels, The Survivor is an excellent read. Plan on burning the "midnight oil" once the first page is read…destined to be a great success.” (Green Valley News)
About the Author #1 New York Times bestselling author Vince Flynn (1966–2013) created one of contemporary fiction’s most popular heroes: CIA counterterrorist agent Mitch Rapp, featured in thirteen of Flynn’s acclaimed political thrillers. All of his novels are New York Times bestsellers, including his stand-alone debut novel, Term Limits. The Mitch Rapp story begins with American Assassin, followed by Kill Shot, Transfer of Power, The Third Option, Separation of Power, Executive Power, Memorial Day, Consent to Kill, Act of Treason, Protect and Defend, Extreme Measures, Pursuit of Honor, The Last Man, and The Survivor.Kyle Mills is the New York Times bestselling author of twelve books, including the latest in Robert Ludlum’s Covert-One series, The Ares Decision. Growing up in Oregon, Washington, DC, and London as the son of an FBI agent, Kyle absorbed an enormous amount about the Bureau, giving his novels their unique authenticity. He and his wife live in Wyoming where they spend their off hours rock climbing and backcountry skiing.
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. PRELUDE Istanbul, Turkey Scott Coleman turned away from the color monitor and glanced right. The panel van seemed almost like a toy by American standards, barely large enough to get him and his surveillance gear in the back. Even tighter was the front seat, where Joe Maslick’s two-hundred-and-twenty-pound frame was wedged behind the wheel. Raindrops were collecting on the windshield, blurring ancient row houses and a street narrow enough that passing required having two wheels on the sidewalk. After days on the move in a city where good driving etiquette meant clipping fewer than three people a week, they’d resigned themselves to the impossibility of staying with a pedestrian target. Since then, they’d been bouncing from illegal parking space to illegal parking space trying to maximize their surveillance camera’s signal strength. No small feat in a city constructed almost entirely of stone. “How you doing up there, Joe?” “Fine.” It was a lie, of course. But it was the expected lie. In fact, the former Delta soldier had recently been shot in a Kabul ambush that had left twenty-one Afghan cops dead, put Mitch Rapp way too close to an explosion of his own making, and forced an agonizing alliance with Louis Gould, the assassin who had killed Rapp’s family. Maslick should have been at home rehabbing his shoulder, but he’d insisted on being included on this op. It was a tough call, but Coleman had decided to bring him along. The docs were concerned about permanent nerve damage, but sometimes it was better to get back in the saddle as soon as possible. Before doubt started to creep in. “Glad to hear you’re having such a good time. Right now our feed looks solid, moving north on a pretty open street. We should be able to stay here for a little while, but be ready to move.” “Right.” Maslick’s one-word answers had nothing to do with what must have been the considerable pain in his shoulder. He’d always resisted stringing more than two or three together unless it was absolutely necessary. Coleman refocused his attention on the screen secured to the side of the van. The image rocked wildly as the purse the camera was hidden in swung from its owner’s hand. Sky. A feral cat lounging on a Dumpster. Thick ankles overflowing a pair of sensible shoes. The legs and Hush Puppies belonged to Bebe Kincaid, a plump, grey-haired woman who was the most unlikely employee of his company, SEAL Demolition and Salvage. She’d spent much of her life as a surveillance expert at the FBI based on two considerable natural gifts. First, her bland features, formless figure, and slightly bowed shuffle made her as anonymous as a fire hydrant. But more importantly, she had a photographic memory. It was a label that was often thrown around to describe people who didn’t forget much, but Bebe was the rare real thing. In fact, it was her flawless memory that had gotten her eased into early retirement by the FBI’s psychologists. The older she got, the more she struggled to differentiate between things that had happened yesterday and things that had happened years—even decades—ago. To her, the memories were all equally vivid. Perhaps not Bureau material anymore, but Mitch Rapp had been on the phone to her before she’d even finished cleaning out her desk. Coleman had to admit that he’d been a little irritated when a woman who reminded him of his mother showed up at his company’s purposely nondescript door to thank him not only for the job but for the generous mental health benefits. As usual, though, Rapp had been right. Bebe was worth her considerable weight in gold. Coleman glanced at a second screen that displayed a satellite image of Istanbul with a single blue dot representing Bebe’s position. It suddenly took a hard left and started down a set of stairs toward the waterfront. “Okay, Joe. She’s turned east and we’re going to lose her. Can we close in?” “Old lady gets around,” Maslick said, grudging respect audible beneath his irritation at having to wade back into city traffic. Coleman smiled as they pulled away from the curb. His men were all former special forces, primarily SEALs, Delta, and Recon marines. With the right set of support hose, though, he wasn’t sure that Bebe couldn’t run them all into the ground. He wedged a foot against his state-of-the-art electronics to keep them from shifting as the van struggled up a rain slickened hill. On the main monitor Bebe’s camera swept briefly across the man they were following. He wasn’t much to look at. Five foot eight, a slight Asian tilt to his features, and a mediocre suit pulled closed at the front against the rain. In reality, though, Vasily Zhutov was the CIA’s highest-placed mole in Russia’s Foreign Intelligence Service. Code-named Sitting Bull, he was among the agency’s most critical and hard-won assets. The problem was that no one was sure if his identity was still a secret. Worse, it wasn’t just his cover that had potentially been blown: it was the cover of virtually every CIA asset recruited in the last quarter century. Teams like Coleman’s had been deployed across the globe—spread way too thin and able to do little more than make educated guesses as to who might be targeted. And it was all because of one man: the late Joseph “Rick” Rickman. Rickman had been stationed in Jalalabad for the last eight years and had pretty much run the CIA’s side of the war in Afghanistan. Word was that he had an IQ just north of two hundred, and based on Coleman’s interactions with the man, he had no reason to dispute that figure. The better part of a billion dollars had flowed through Rickman’s hands over the years, funding weapons purchases and construction projects, bribing local politicians, and God knew what else. Rick had a relationship with virtually every player in the country and had an uncanny ability to track the complex forces tearing the region apart. If asked about the economic effect of the heroin trade on the insurgency, he could lecture like a Harvard PhD. Conversely, asked about some dispute between two mountain villages no one had ever heard of, he’d speak with equal authority about how it had all started with an arranged marriage a hundred and forty years ago. The only person at the Agency who could even hope to keep up with what was going on in that man’s head was Irene Kennedy, and she had too many other things on her plate to try. Unfortunately, the house of cards Rickman had built all came crashing down last month when the man completely lost his mind. Whether it was the pressure of the job, family problems, or just the chaos and hopelessness of Afghanistan, no one knew. What they did know, though, was that Rickman had hatched a plot with Akhtar Durrani, the deputy general of Pakistan’s ISI, to betray the CIA and the people he’d fought beside for his entire career. Rickman had killed his bodyguards and faked his own kidnapping, going so far as to release a gut-wrenching video of him being tortured by two men posing as Muslim extremists. It had been like setting off a bomb in the U.S. intelligence community. With his incredible intellect and decades of CIA ops under his belt, there was no way for anyone to know what information he was privy to and how much of it he’d give up when the hot pokers came out. Panic ensued, with countless undercover assets requesting extraction, demanding asylum at U.S. embassies, and generally drawing a lot of unwanted attention to America’s spy network. During his faked interrogation, Rickman had blurted out a number of names, but one in particular had generated a wave of dread in Langley: Sitting Bull. Russia hadn’t been Rick’s theater of operation, and the identity of the man was one of the CIA’s most closely held secrets. Was it a red herring? Nothing more than a couple meaningless words he’d overheard and socked away in that magnificent brain of his? Or had he actually gotten hold of enough information to compromise the Russian? It was the question Coleman was in Istanbul to answer. Zhutov turned left into an alley, and Bebe hung back. Istanbul’s streets were generally packed with people this time of afternoon, but they were moving into a neighborhood made up of dilapidated, unoccupied houses. Based on the shaky camera feed, there were only a couple people on the street. “Joe,” Coleman said. “Are you watching the map? He’s cutting through the alley in front of Bebe. Can we get ahead of him?” “Maybe. Lots of traffic,” Maslick muttered, rerouting onto the sidewalk to get around a delivery truck. “Bebe, we’re coming around,” Coleman said into a microphone clipped to his collar. “Give that alley a miss and take the one to its south. They end up on the same square.” “One south. Roger that.” The money was good, but Coleman was starting to wonder how much longer he could stand being stuck on a surveillance detail that was looking more and more like a waste of time. Both Rickman and Durrani were dead, which should have been the end of it. On the other hand, it didn’t pay to underestimate Rickman’s ability to plan fifteen steps ahead. Everyone at the Agency believed that there was more classified information floating around than what the world had seen on the torture video Rickman posted to the Internet. Kennedy had gone one step further, though. She was concerned that Rickman might have figured out a way to keep his vendetta against the Agency moving forward from beyond the grave. It seemed a little paranoid to Coleman, but then, he was just a soldier. Better to leave the strategizing to Kennedy and Rapp. They were good at it. “Scott,” Bebe said over the radio. “Are you getting this?” The swinging image that Coleman had gotten so accustomed to stabilized as Bebe aimed the purse-mounted camera toward a man wearing a leather jacket and jeans. He was lighting a cigarette and looked pretty much like the other million or so Turks his age living in the city. “I’ve seen him before,” Bebe said. “Two days ago. By the trolley up on the shopping street. He came out of a store and followed the subject for six and a half blocks before turning off.” Coleman cursed under his breath as the man started casually down the alley the Russian had disappeared into. Normally this was when he’d ask if she was certain, but there was no point. As far as anyone could tell, Bebe had never made a mistake with regard to a face. “What do you think, Bebe? Any chance it could be a coincidence?” “Million to one.” “Okay. Continue to the next alley and let’s see if this guy trades off to someone else you recognize.” “On it,” she said. Coleman reached for a secure satellite phone feeling a vague sense of foreboding. Rapp was not going to be happy. CHAPTER 1 The Farm Near Harpers Ferry, West Virginia, USA The safe house was beginning to take on the feeling of a prison for Kennedy. She’d sat through too many of these post-operation debriefings to begin to count, but over her thirty-plus-year career at the CIA it was safe to say the number was in the triple digits. The pungent scent of cigarettes, too much coffee, not enough sleep, and too few workouts combined to throw off an all-too-familiar smell. For her part she got to leave. Had to, really. As director of the CIA she couldn’t simply vanish for a week straight. She spent almost all her days locked behind the soundproof door of her seventh-floor office at Langley trying to sort out the mess that had come to be known as the Rickman Affair. And even that had raised some eyebrows. The damage was bad, as it always was with this type of thing, but the question was how bad. Kennedy didn’t fault Rapp for killing her Near East Black Ops Chief. Getting him out of Pakistan would have proved problematic, especially after that duplicitous bastard Lieutenant General Durrani, was killed. Even so, had Rapp managed to keep Rickman alive they would have been left with a man whose twisted intellect was capable of sowing so many seeds of disinformation and dissent that the CIA would have been eating itself from the inside out by the time he was done. No, they were all better off with Rickman out of the picture. As Hurley was fond of saying, “Dead men tell no lies.” They also offered no information, which was what Kennedy had been trying to assess during the days locked behind her door. Rapp had recovered a laptop as well as some hard drives from General Durrani’s house. They were Rickman’s, and her best people were poring over the encrypted CIA files trying to determine what assets, operatives, and agents may have been compromised. One operation, due to its current sensitivity, had her particularly worried, and there were already some signs that things might be going off the tracks, which in this case was a very appropriate metaphor. “What are we going to do with him?” Kennedy slowly closed the red file on the kitchen table, removed her brown glasses, and rubbed her tired eyes. Mike Nash set a fresh cup of tea in front of her and took a seat. “Thank you.” After a moment she added, “I’m not sure what we’re going to do with him. I’ve left it up to those two for now.” Nash looked out the sliding glass door, where night was falling on Mitch Rapp and Stan Hurley. Kennedy had forced them to go outside to smoke. Nash couldn’t tell, but they probably were also drinking bourbon or something brown. “I don’t mean Gould. I mean I care about what we do with him, but for the moment, I’m more worried about what we’re going to do with Mitch.” Kennedy was growing tired of this. She’d talked to their resident shrink about the tension between Nash and Rapp, and for the most part they were on the same page. Rapp was Nash’s senior by a few years, and through some pretty impressive maneuvering Rapp had been able to end Nash’s covert career. The how and why were a bit complicated, but in the end it was plainly a noble gesture. Nash had a wife and four kids, and Rapp didn’t want to see all that thrown away on a dangerous life that someone else could handle. Nash for his part felt betrayed by Rapp. Their closeness was a natural casualty as Rapp began to share fewer and fewer operational details with his friend who now spent his time at Langley and on Capitol Hill. “I know you’re worried,” Kennedy said, but you have to stop trying to control him. Trust me, I’ve spent twenty years trying, and the best I can do is nudge him in a general direction.” Nash frowned. “He’s going to end up just like Stan. A bitter, lonely old man who’s dying of lung cancer. Look at him . . . even now he can’t put those damn things down.” “Don’t judge, Mike,” Kennedy said with a wary tone. “He’s been through a lot. How he chooses to go out is no one’s business other than his own.” “But Mitch . . . it’s as plain as day. That’s the road he’s heading down.” Kennedy thought about it for a long moment, taking a sip of tea. “We’re not all made for white picket fences and nine-to-five jobs. He most certainly isn’t.” “No, but each time he goes out the odds are stacked against him.” “I used to think so.” Kennedy smiled. “And then I came to a very simple conclusion . . .” “What’s that?” “He’s a survivor.” |The Survivor
CHAPTER 1
THE FARM NEAR HARPERS FERRY WEST VIRGINIA U.S.A. THE safe house was beginning to take on the feeling of a prison for Kennedy. She’d sat through too many of these post-operation debriefings to begin to count, but over her thirty-plus-year career at the CIA it was safe to say the numbers were in the triple digits. The pungent smell of cigarettes, too much coffee, not enough sleep, and too few workouts combined to throw off an all-too-familiar funk. For her part she got to leave. Had to, really. As director of the CIA, she couldn’t simply vanish for a week straight. She spent her days locked almost entirely behind the soundproof door of her seventh-floor office at Langley trying to sort out the mess that had come to be known as the Rickman Affair. And even that had raised some eyebrows. The damage was bad, as it always was with this type of thing, but the question was how bad. Kennedy didn’t fault Rapp for killing her Near East black ops chief. Getting him out of Pakistan would have proved problematic, especially after that duplicitous bastard Lieutenant General Durrani was killed. Had Rapp managed to keep Rickman alive they would have been left with a man whose twisted intellect was capable of sowing so many seeds of disinformation and dissent that the CIA would have been eating itself from the inside out by the time he was done. No, they were all better off with Rickman out of the picture. As Hurley was fond of saying, “Dead men tell no lies.” They also offered no information, which was what Kennedy had been trying to assess during her days locked behind her door. Rapp had recovered a laptop as well as some hard drives from General Durrani’s house. They were Rickman’s, and her best people were poring over the encrypted CIA files, trying to determine what assets, operatives, and agents may have been compromised. One operation, due to its current sensitivity, had her particularly worried, and there were already some signs that things might be going off the tracks, which in this particular case was a very appropriate metaphor. “What are we going to do with him?” Kennedy slowly closed the red file on the kitchen table, removed her brown glasses, and rubbed her tired eyes. Mike Nash set a fresh cup of tea in front of her and took a seat. “Thank you.” After a moment she added, “I’m not sure what we’re going to do with him. I’ve left it up to those two for now.” Nash looked out the sliding glass door where night was falling on Mitch Rapp and Stan Hurley. Kennedy had forced them to go outside to smoke. Nash couldn’t tell for sure, but they probably were also drinking bourbon. “I don’t mean Gould. I mean I care about what we do with him, but for the moment, I’m more worried about what we’re going to do with Mitch.” Kennedy was growing tired of this. She’d talked to their resident shrink about the tension between Nash and Rapp and for the most part they were on the same page. Rapp was Nash’s senior by a few years, and through some pretty impressive maneuvering Rapp had been able to end Nash’s covert career. The how and why were a bit complicated, but in the end it was plainly a noble gesture. Nash had a wife and four kids, and Rapp didn’t want to see all that thrown away on a dangerous life that someone else could handle. Nash for his part felt betrayed by Rapp. Their closeness was a natural casualty as Rapp began to share fewer and fewer operational details with his friend, who now spent his time at Langley and on Capitol Hill. “I know you’re worried,” Kennedy said, “but you have to stop trying to control him. Trust me, I’ve spent twenty years trying and the best I can do is nudge him in a general direction.” Nash frowned. “He’s going to end up just like Stan. A bitter, lonely old man who’s dying of lung cancer. Look at Stan . . . even now he can’t put those damn things down.” “Don’t judge, Mike,” Kennedy said with a weary tone. “He’s been through a lot. How he chooses to go out is no one’s business but his own.” “But Mitch . . . it’s as plain as day. That’s the road he’s on.” Kennedy thought about it for a long moment, taking a sip of tea. “We’re not all made for white picket fences and nine-to-five jobs. He most certainly isn’t.” “No, but each time he goes out the odds are stacked against him.” “I used to think so.” Kennedy smiled. “And then I came to a very simple conclusion . . .” “What’s that?” “He’s a survivor.”
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178 of 188 people found the following review helpful. Rapp is back and he is as good as ever! By B Costello Rapp is back and he is as strong as ever in The Survivor, the return of Vince Flynn’s Mitch Rapp series. Of course for fans of Rapp and Flynn, The Survivor is more than just your typical novel. With the tragic passing of Vince Flynn in 2013 many were left to wonder if Flynn’s final novel The Last Man would be the last time we saw Rapp. Thankfully for fans of the counter-terrorism operative, Rapp has returned do to the outstanding work of novelist Kyle Mills. Up front I have to say that I am a huge Flynn fan. I started reading Flynn in the summer of 2000 and found him to be one of the best novelists of the past two decades. To me he helped define what a thriller should be in the post 9-11 world. As a result while I was thrilled to hear Rapp would return, I was also very wary if anyone could produce a Rapp novel anywhere near the quality of what Flynn wrote. Well I’m thrilled to say Kyle Mills has delivered a Rapp novel that exceeded everyone of my expectations. To me The Survivor is a top 5 Rapp novel. Mills did something I didn’t think was possible, he made me forget that The Survivor wasn’t written by Vince Flynn.The tone, style, pace and voice of the novel is Flynn. I’m not sure how Kyle Mills pulled this off but I can’t compliment him enough for this. The task of carrying on for Flynn must have been beyond stressful. The fact that he produces such a home run of a novel in his first attempt with Rapp makes me beyond thrilled to see what happens in the next novel. The Survivor checks off all the must haves of a Mitch Rapp novel. The pace and thrills are non-stop. The action as always is top shelf and among the strongest in the genre. In particular I have to give Mills an amazing amount of credit for what I believe to be one of the best action set pieces in Rapp history. The sequence takes place in Germany and the pacing and writing is world class. I won’t give anything away about it, but I had to highlight it because as a fan of the genre I find myself constantly re-reading this entire portion of the novel. Mills is the real deal and anyone questioning if he could pull off a Rapp novel should stop worrying about that after you read this portion of the novel. The Survivor gives you all the action you’ve come to know and love from Rapp. Perhaps the most surprising element of The Survivor however has nothing to do with the twists and turns you see in every Rapp adventure. What surprised me the most was the way in which Kyle Mills decides to explore the soul of Mitch Rapp. For fans of the Rapp series, we know in many ways Rapp has been a tortured soul since the events in Consent to Kill. In many ways he became detached from his emotions throughout the novels that followed. In The Survivor, Mills begins to explore the evolution of Rapp and where he might go with himself in the future. It’s a testament to Mills that he takes the series in this direction. This brings an added layer to the character of Rapp and I’m really intrigued to see how Mills explores this area in future novels.From beginning to end The Survivor is a true hit. I can not recommend this book enough. Mitch Rapp is in great hands with Kyle Mills. The book is a fitting tribute to Vince Flynn and his legacy. While Vince is no longer with us, the universe he created is still going strong. VInce created a character in Rapp that will always be the gold standard for the thriller genre. The great news is that in Kyle Mills we now have an author that will give us all something we have been in desperate need of. MORE RAPP! Buy The Survivor now!
146 of 155 people found the following review helpful. Excellent Story Continuing the Saga of America's Version of James Bond. Worth Every Penny. By Bill Anderson Length: 400 pages.Before proceeding, I want to note that recent years have witnessed the death of several of my favorite singers, actors, and writers: Pete Seeger; Johnny Cash; Tom Laughlin; James Garner; Michael Crichton; Vince Flynn.With the passing of Flynn, it appeared one of the all-time great characters, Mitch Rapp, would become a relic lost to the dustbin of history.I will let you read this latest installment and decide just how closely the characters continue to replicate that bigger-than-life hero. For this review, however, I will jot down my perspective insofar as this book, commenced by Vince Flynn but completed by Kyle Mills.Questions I had when I opened the book were:Is this a stand alone novel, or must readers read one or more of the previous books? Yes, it is stand alone, although I recommend reading the entire series first, simply because it is a great story.Second, is there a cliffhanger ending? No. Despite the new writer having been commissioned to write three books, this is, thankfully, free of a cliffhanger.Third, does it feel, smell and taste like Mitch Rapp? Yes, but the basic storyline, other than Rapp, himself, does have a somewhat different feel. I'm grateful for this, for the writer is not merely counterfeiting Flynn. Mills is allowing himself latitude sufficient to stamp his own imprint upon the franchise.I was concerned that Mills would so tightly parrot Flynn that the story would lose the soul, if you will, and be merely a means for the publisher to keep cashing in on the efforts of a great writer. I needn't have worried, for Mills is a seasoned writer of merit and has, for me, co-authored an incredible story worth my time and the money I spent.Can't wait for the movie!
52 of 54 people found the following review helpful. Nice First Try by Mills By Socal444 Kyle Mills had his work cut out taking over the Mitch Rapp franchise. If you didn't know better, from the book's jacket, you would assume that Vince Flynn wrote it with minor assistance from Mills. Not the case, as this book was most likely just an idea, maybe an outline, when Flynn became severely ill. Mills most likely had a thousand editors looking over his shoulder and making tweaks and changes. The Rapp series has always been about the individual. The plots were good, but it was Rapp, Coleman, Irene Kennedy, Stan Hurley and the interplay among them that made it special. The Survivor is more plot driven, with less attention paid to Mitch's character. I missed the fondness between Kennedy and Rapp and the grudging respect between Hurley and Rapp. This interplay was completely missing from the book's first half. Having said that, there was humor in this book that was noticeably absent from prior books. This was a welcome addition. The plot really gets rolling in the second half, and the characters begin to appear (finally!), as in the first half all of the characters were dry and colorless. Perhaps this was by design to enable Mills to get the feel of the personalities, especially Rapp. It will take a couple more books in the series for Mills to get comfortable in Rapp's world. One major mistake, and this is not a spoiler, in spite of Louis Gould getting back in the assassination business, Rapp decides to let him live, and in fact, be a part of the team for one of their adventures. Never would have happened after what happened in previous books. In spite of these shortcomings, it is difficult to imagine anybody doing a better job than Mills, and I look forward to the next book in the series.
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