Who the hell is he? asked McMahon. "He's the best sniper I've ever seen. He can track anything." "He works for you now?" "Yep." "Lovely. God, I hope … - Consent to Kill

Who do you think? "I don't know," growled an angry Abel.
"Mitch Rapp."
Abel stopped pacing. "How? That's impossible."
"Apparently not."

He was wearing jeans, hiking boots, and a black Mountain Hard-wear fleece jacket. He had a large black rubber dive watch on his right wrist, his hair was dark and shaggy, and although he was a good seventy-five pounds lighter than the FBI agent, McMahon had no doubt the little scrapper could kill him without breaking a sweat. This guy was Special Forces from head to toe.

Hold on a minute. We haven't done anything wrong. "You're kidding...right?" Rapp looked at him like he'd lost his mind. "Well... nothing recently. I mean for Christ's sake, we're on the same team. Aren't we?"