American Assassin by Vince Flynn

Lewis didn’t know him well enough to gauge whether it was sincere, but there was something about this Mitch Rapp fellow that suggested great possibilities. There was a casualness on the surface that helped mask something far more complex.
    Lewis considered reaching for the notepad and pen. It was a way of establishing authority, and creating stress for the subject. Making him feel the pressure of possibly giving incorrect answers. Lewis decided against it. From what he’d witnessed over the last three days, it was highly unlikely that the ploy would fluster this one. Nothing else had so far.
    Going on a hunch, Hurley clasped his hands behind his head and casually asked, “You know what you’re getting yourself into?”
    Rapp looked at him with his dark brown eyes and shrugged as if to say it wasn’t worth acknowledging the obvious.
    “I don’t read minds,” Lewis said, only half serious. “I’m going to need you to verbalize your answers.”
    “Hopefully, you’re going to turn me into a weapon … a killer.”
    Lewis considered the straightforward answer and then said, “Not me specifically, but in essence, yes, that is what we are going to do.”
    Rapp gave a slight nod as if that was just fine with him and continued to look right back into the bright blue eyes of the man who had been watching him from a safe distance.
    “Do you have any reservations?”
    “Not really.”
    Lewis placed his palm on the desk, and after staring at the back of his hand for a long moment said, “it would be normal if you did.”
    Rapp cracked a thin smile. “I suppose it would.”
    “So do you have any reservations?”
    It was a pretty vague question, and Rapp didn’t like vague. “In terms of what?”
    “This is a big commitment. Most of your friends are probably taking jobs with Kodak or Xerox.”
    More than a few of them were, but Rapp simply nodded.
    Lewis noted that Rapp was not jumping out of his chair trying to please him with earnest answers. Nor was he displaying the open disrespect that many of the candidates would employ as a defense mechanism. He was striking the perfect balance. Lewis decided to skip his standard twenty minutes of preamble and get to the heart of the matter. “Have you ever wondered what it’s like to kill a man?”
    Rapp nodded. He had spent more time wondering about it than he would ever admit to this guy, or anybody else.
    “Do you think that’s healthy?”
    This time Rapp let out a small laugh.
    Lewis noted the classic deflection technique, but didn’t want to seem judgmental, so he smiled along with Rapp. “What’s so funny?”
    “I can answer your question six ways, and depending on your mood, you might find all of the answers acceptable, or none of them.”
    “How do you mean?”
    “It’s all in the context.”
    “Context is important,” Lewis agreed. “Give me an example.”
    Rapp thought about it for a moment and then said, “If I’m lying awake at night thinking about killing the guy who broke into my car and ripped me off, it’s probably safe to say that I have some anger issues, and a poor grasp of what constitutes just punishment.” Rapp put his tanned arm over the back of the chair and looked out the window for a second, wondering how much he should admit. “But if I lie awake at night thinking about sticking a knife through the eye socket of a terrorist who’s killed a couple hundred innocent civilians,” Rapp shrugged, “I think that’s probably not so far out there.”
    Lewis appreciated the blunt answer. Wanting a deeper reaction, he asked, “Do you miss your girlfriend?”
    Rapp gave Lewis a disappointed look and shook his head.
    “What’s wrong? Did I say something that offended you?”
    “No … not really…”
    “From the look on your face it would appear that I did.”
    “I volunteered for this, but I hate playing all these games.”
    “Games?” Lewis asked with an arched brow.
    “You’re a shrink, right?” Rapp didn’t give him a chance