by Brad Thor
Considering the Old Man’s attention to detail, Harvath wasn’t surprised when moments after stepping off the jet his cell phone rang.
“Yes, sir,” he said, moving aside for the ambulance team that was transporting Mansoor and his stretcher down the stairs.
The Old Man’s voice was as clear as if he were standing right next to Harvath. “What’s the situation there?” he asked.
“They’re transferring Massachusetts to the ambulance now,” Harvath replied, referring to Mansoor Aleem by his operational code name.
“Any change in his condition?”
“Negative.”
“Are you sure he’s not faking it? That’s textbook for these guys, you know.”
Harvath was well aware that they were taught to feign illness, severe if possible, to avoid interrogation for as long as possible. They were also taught to inflict physical harm on themselves and to blame it on their captors in hopes of having their interrogations suspended altogether.
Three SEALs Harvath knew had been accused of abusing a prisoner in Iraq after the guy had thrown himself out of the back of their truck and smashed his own head against his cell wall. The SEALs were eventually exonerated, but not until after being put through a ridiculous trial and having grandstanding members of Congress suggest that all terrorist captures be videotaped via helmet cams and that they remain under video surveillance 24/7.
Harvath had a better idea. Seeing as how most of them were of little to no intelligence value, he figured he could save the U.S. government a lot of money. The United States should simply adopt a policy of no longer capturing terrorists. If we find you, you’re dead. No Gitmo. No nothing. Just dead. It would be interesting to see what ran out first—virgins in Paradise or Muslims down on earth willing to martyr themselves.
“His heart stopped, so I don’t think he’s faking it,” replied Harvath.
“Whatever it is, there’s plenty of people there who can handle it,” said the Old Man. “I need you back here double-time.”
“What’s going on?”
“Your little friend, Moonracer, has been breaking a lot of eggs.”
Harvath knew immediately who he was talking about. His little friend was a dwarf named Nicholas, who until recently had been better known to Western intelligence agencies as the Troll. He dealt in the purchase and sale of highly sensitive and often classified information used to blackmail governments and powerful individuals.
Nicholas had a way with data—both analyzing and accessing it. He had crafted countless algorithms, and one of his trading programs had been purchased by a major international financial institution. None of his legitimate clients knew his true identity. If they had, none of them would have done business with him, rightly assuming that his products contained countless trap doors.
Harvath had crossed paths with Nicholas on multiple occasions, and their relationship had moved from one of hostility to détente to friendship. Despite his stature and various peccadilloes, he was a man of amazing abilities—abilities that Harvath recognized could be of incredible value to the United States.
Nicholas had discovered Aazim’s nephew, Mansoor, and the young man’s connection to the terrorist network. Harvath wanted Nicholas to be brought inside the Carlton Group, and the Old Man had been dead set against it. He had even threatened to terminate Harvath’s contract over the issue if Harvath didn’t drop it. Harvath didn’t drop it. Nicholas was an asset and either he could be their asset, or he could be someone else’s—or worse, continue to work on his own account.
For his role in stealing classified American intelligence, Nicholas had been made an enemy of the state. The Old Man had constructed multiple conditions before he would accept Nicholas’s involvement with the Group, of which the highest and hardest was getting Nicholas pardoned.
Presented with information on Nicholas’s valuable skills and repeated cooperation with previous clandestine assignments, a closed-door meeting of the Senate Select Committee on Intelligence decided to make a recommendation in favor of his pardon to the president. The president accepted their recommendation, but the pardon came with multiple strings attached, including the surrender of certain patents and trademarks Nicholas held, the money from which would be accepted in lieu of prison time.
While Nicholas complained that “Uncle Sugar,” as he liked to call the U.S. government, was bleeding him dry, he was happy to join the Carlton Group. Because of his size, he had spent most of his life alone. He felt ennobled to be part of something bigger than himself. Moonracer was the Group call sign he’d been issued.
When the Old Man said that Nicholas was “breaking a lot of eggs,” Harvath remembered Nicholas’s warning when he had joined the Group. His type of work wasn’t pretty. Much of it was also illegal. Breaking a lot of eggs meant he was going to have to do a lot of things Reed Carlton wouldn’t like. He promised to insulate him from as much of it as possible. That said, he was going to continue breaking eggs.
“Well, sir,” replied Harvath, “some organizations need leg breakers and some need egg breakers. At least we’ve got the best.”
“We can debate that later. I want you back here because he’s apparently broken enough eggs to put together an omelet.”
Harvath gripped his phone a bit tighter and lowered his voice. “Did we get a lead on something?”
“You’ll see when you get here. Now get that jet refueled and get moving.”
Harvath had no idea what Nicholas had uncovered, but he quietly prayed that it was something they could use to stop Karami and the other cells before they could strike again.
CHAPTER 29
SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA
Larry Salomon had finally hit the wall and asked if there was someplace he could lie down. Hank McBride showed him to the guest room. Luke Ralston, though, was too amped up to sleep. There were too many unanswered questions moving around in his head. He stayed in the kitchen, poured himself another cup of coffee, and turned the volume on the TV back up.
Helicopter footage was being broadcast on all the local channels split-screened with live shots of reporters speaking outside the gates to Larry Salomon’s home. Comparisons to the Tate-LaBianca murders, Phil Spector, and even Nicole Simpson were being made, though none of those murders were directly comparable to what had happened.
The only thing they had in common was that celebrity was involved, and that was all that the Los Angeles newscasters needed. As macabre as it was, people loved stories like these and it was where the phrase “If it bleeds, it leads” came from. Toss in a ton of money and more than a little dash of Hollywood, and the story was destined to bust out as a national news phenomenon.
The reporters still had very little to go on. They knew that there were multiple fatalities inside the house and that the residence belonged to legendary movie producer Lawrence Salomon. There was no mention of Russian Spetsnaz. There was no mention of the two dead documentary filmmakers. And there was no mention of a search under way for either Salomon or Ralston. Ralston had no doubt, though, that it was on. Big-time.
In fact, there were probably police officers going through his house right now. More officers would be talking to his neighbors. Detectives would be pulling his phone records as well as Salomon’s to see who each had been talking to in the hours leading up to the events at Salomon’s house. When the restaurant where Larry had left his car opened up, they’d be calling the authorities and more officers would swoop down on the restaurant, the vehicle would be impounded, and staff would be questioned, all in the hope of uncovering even the smallest detail that might explain what had happened.
Even though the murders had happened further up in Coldwater Canyon, it would still be in the LAPD’s jurisdiction. That meant that some of the best detectives in the country would be working the case. Ralston wondered how long it would take for them to uncover his background. Probably a while. The Army was very protective of the identity of its Special Operations Forces, especially Tier One Delta operators. Considering th
e magnitude of what had happened, though, his background wouldn’t stay hidden forever.
In the meantime, he had to hope that the LAPD detectives working the case were going to look at the size of those Russians and start putting things together. What worried Ralston, though, was that without anyone to explain who the bad guys were, the Russians might be viewed as Salomon’s security, who’d all been taken out in an attempt to kidnap the famous film producer.
The more Ralston thought of it, the more he started to worry that that might end up being the working hypothesis. Salomon didn’t have lots of people up to his house. Ever since Rachael had been murdered he hadn’t been the same, and his friends and colleagues would tell the police as much. Hell, even Ralston’s visits to the house seemed to be happening less often. He hadn’t even known about the documentary Salomon had been putting together right in his home office.
As good as the LAPD detectives were, they would still be tempted to take the path of least resistance. Too often in law enforcement, investigations could be more about closing the file than about solving the case.
Without any witnesses, the police would be operating in a vacuum. They’d be going strictly on the forensics. Ralston went through in his mind what they’d probably already assembled.
Outside the home, they had his wrecked 911, a Ford Econoline van, and one very mangled body. Maybe they had found the getaway driver’s shotgun. Inside the house, the man named Jeremy lay dead in the kitchen and Chip in the home office. One dead Russian lay near the dining room, and two more lay upstairs, one having been shot from inside Salomon’s closet cum safe room. Finally, two of Salomon’s vehicles were not in the garage. No jewelry, cash, artwork, or other valuables were apparently missing.
Ralston asked himself what he’d be thinking right now if he was an LAPD detective.
The Russian on the first floor with his throat cut would be one of his primary focal points. The body of the young filmmaker, Jeremy, would be the other. One had been killed with a gun, the other a knife. In fact, Ralston had left the fillet knife right there on the floor next to the first Russian he had killed. Though no law enforcement agency had his fingerprints on file, once the prints were lifted off the knife they’d be sent for verification to the Army and that’s where the unraveling of his background would begin.
Even someone who wasn’t a detective would be able to figure out that the fillet knife had come from the block in the kitchen. It meant that whoever had cut the throat of the man outside the dining room hadn’t come to the house prepared. That said a lot about motive.
What he also hoped would be apparent was the chronology of events on the first floor. Killing the man outside the dining room with a knife meant that Ralston didn’t have a gun at the time. Jeremy had been killed in the kitchen while eating a bowl of cereal. Only an idiot would assume that Ralston had breezed through the kitchen, grabbed a knife, moved on and sliced the throat of the man outside the dining room, only to return to the kitchen and shoot Jeremy. That would just be stupid.
And while all of this seemed obvious to Ralston, he realized he had the benefit of knowing everything that had happened. He couldn’t trust that the police would put things together the same way.
Retracing his steps in his mind’s eye, he went through Salomon’s office and up the back stairs. On the floor of the hallway was another very large and very dead man. The more he thought of it, the more he realized how their look screamed “private security.”
What didn’t scream private security and should be a dead giveaway to the cops was the fact that none of them was carrying an ID. Ralston had patted two of them down and had not been able to find anything. That was a pretty strong calling card for contract killers.
Eventually, he assumed, ballistics would show that Jeremy and the man lying in the hallway upstairs had been killed with the same weapon. Would they figure out that Ralston had taken it from the dead Russian downstairs after cutting his throat?
Then there was the man in the bathroom whom Salomon had blown a hole through with his shotgun. With the fireplace tool nearby on the bathroom floor and the ripped-up drywall, even a neophyte would have been able to tell what happened there.
That being the case, Ralston still tried to imagine any other way it could have been interpreted. He couldn’t come up with anything. It was just too obvious that the dead man in the bathroom was trying to tear his way into the safe room and that someone, presumably Salomon, had blown him away. Tests for gunpowder residue inside the closet would confirm that.
Based on the wounds the man in the hallway had received, one round beneath the nose and another through the throat, what conclusions would the police draw? Ralston wondered. That kind of shot placement coupled with the knife work he’d done downstairs would signal a high degree of skill. They’d know Salomon didn’t do those things. Those things had to have been done by a professional.
Firing from inside the closet with a shotgun, though, in their minds would be consistent with something Salomon would do. The question was, would the detectives put it all together this way?
It seemed to Ralston that the evidence should be crystal clear. Salomon had been under siege and Ralston had rescued him. There was only one problem, and the movie producer had called it right at the crime scene—innocent people don’t flee.
That would be the one glaring thing that didn’t make sense. No matter how clear the evidence was, there could only be one reason in a detective’s mind for why Salomon and Ralston had fled—they were guilty of something.
From there it was only one step to any number of harebrained motives the cops might come up with. Ralston and Salomon had had an argument. Ralston had kidnapped Salomon. Ralston intended to do away with Salomon, but decided to finish the job somewhere else.
It didn’t matter whether it made sense or not. Ralston had been around long enough to know that with a big enough hammer and the right amount of force, a square peg could be pounded through a round hole.
The longer it took for the police to find them, the more they were going to believe that at least one of them was guilty of something. Ralston didn’t have to wonder which one of them that would be. He knew all too well.
He also knew how his military background would be used as an excuse to allocate significant and extraordinary resources to the investigation. That was something he hadn’t thought of at first. The LAPD had a very deep bench, but when it came to hunting a guy like him, they would not be shy about asking for help. Very soon, they were going to have a former operator, if not a team of them, out looking for him. As soon as that happened, it was going to be nearly impossible for him to get to the bottom of what had happened. Every time he thought he understood his window of opportunity, it was suddenly slammed shut.
There was too much at stake, though, to let that deter him. If there was one thing he had learned early on at Delta it was that when God closes a window, it just means you need to kick open a door.
Whoever had sent that wet work team to Larry Salomon’s house was going to learn what a mistake it was to fuck with a Tier 1 door kicker.
But first he was going to need to figure out exactly who had sent that wet work team. For that to happen, he was going to need access to very special information—information that would not be easy to come by.
He knew who he had to call. He also knew that person had promised to kill him if and when he ever did.
CHAPTER 30
“Not only do you have a lot of nerve, calling me,” said the voice on the other end of the line, “but you lied to my assistant, lied to her about one of my kids, to pull me out of a meeting?”
“I’m sorry,” replied Ralston. “I knew you wouldn’t take the call unless—”
“You’re damn right I wouldn’t have taken your call. In fact, I have no idea why I’m even still talking to you.”
Ralston knew why she was still talking to him, but he kept his mouth shut. They both knew. His giving voice to it would have only made her angrier, though,
and that would have guaranteed the end of the conversation. Hot tempers ran in their family.
“Ali, listen,” he began.
“You don’t get to call me Ali.”
“Okay. Alisa,” said Ralston, relenting. He’d burned this bridge and he’d have to eat as much crow as she chose to dish out in order to be able to get across this river.
“In fact,” the woman plowed on, “the last time we spoke, I told you never to call me again.”
“I know you did. I wouldn’t call you unless it was important.”
“Important? You want to talk about important? My sister’s trial. That was important.”
Ralston had known, before even dialing her number, that she would go there. She still resented him. He didn’t blame her. Had their roles been reversed, he might have felt the same way.
“You were the only one,” she said. “The only one.”
She took a breath and Ralston didn’t attempt to fill the silence. She needed to vent, to be angry.
“Everyone testified against those two monsters,” she began again. “Everyone but you. And it’s because of you that those bastards never went to prison. They never served a single, solitary day for what they did to my sister. So fuck you, Luke. Fuck you.”
Ralston had met Alisa Sevan’s younger sister, Ava, not long after arriving in Los Angeles. He had been invited to his first “Hollywood” party, a Saturday afternoon barbecue at a director’s home in Malibu.
He saw Ava chatting with a group of friends out by the pool. She was stunning. She was wearing a bikini with a brightly colored sarong tied provocatively around her hips. Her thick black hair spilled over her shoulders. Ralston had never seen a more gorgeous woman in his life.
