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

Who's your friend?
Coleman started to answer, and then McMahon put his and out and cut him off. "Never mind," the agent said. "I don't want to know. Do I?"
Coleman shrugged. "It wasn't like I was going to give you his real name."

"Easy doesn't factor into it for me, Senator. I'm talking about right and wrong." - Rapp

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.