Full Black

by Brad Thor

  Christie chastised herself for having those thoughts. She refused to allow herself to look at every Muslim person as a potential terrorist. They were regular people until shown to be otherwise.

  She wondered how many others were having the same thoughts she was having. Muslims of good conscience were going to have to stand and denounce the violence. If they did that, Christie Jacobson would be proud to stand with them.

  She tried not to look at the two businessmen. Plenty of other people were probably staring at them and she didn’t want to add to their number. In fact, if she were going to look at them at all, it would be with a smile. No matter how many accusatory looks they received today, they’d remember the kind one.

  The line shuffled forward and Christie found herself in a position to deliver her encouraging smile. Catching the eyes of one of the men, she smiled and nodded. Immediately, the man’s face darkened and he turned his head away.

  His friend, though, saw Christie’s gesture and nodded curtly. He then turned to the other man and began speaking to him quietly. The man didn’t seem to care. He was concentrating on thumbing out a text or an email on his BlackBerry. Christie felt foolish.

  She tried to console herself with the notion that maybe it was a cultural difference. Maybe where these men came from, women didn’t directly engage them and smile at them. She decided to leave them alone. They didn’t have to acknowledge her kindness.

  To take her mind off the interminably long and slow-moving line, she scanned the other faces in the crowd. She enjoyed people watching. It was fun imagining people’s backgrounds and what their professions might be.

  There were plenty who might have been incredibly interesting, but most just kind of looked blah and unkempt. The game was more fun to play with unusual-looking people. Though she’d never confess it to her husband, Christie found the game the most fun with unusually good-looking people, like the man who was standing several steps back from her.

  Because of the way the line wrapped around, they were now facing each other. She tried not to stare, but it was hard. He was really good-looking. The man was over six feet with bright blue eyes and one of those taut jawlines that screamed physically fit.

  Studying the man, she tried to imagine what his profession might be. He was big enough to have been a professional athlete of some sort. He was probably in his early to mid forties. Bush pilot had a nice ring to it and seemed a good fit.

  Not wanting to stare, she had averted her gaze, but as she now risked a glance back at him, she noticed his expression had changed. There was suddenly an intensity to his face that was very unsettling. He was moving away from her. That’s when she saw him draw the gun.

  “Show me your hands!” he yelled. “Open palms! Away from your body! Do it now!”

  It took Christie a moment to realize that he wasn’t talking to her, but rather the two Middle Eastern men. Half the people standing in line had dropped to the floor, while the other half were quickly backing away, knocking over the retracta-belts and stanchions.

  Intuitively sensing she was in the way, Christie dropped to the floor. No sooner had she hit than she heard the earsplitting thunder of the man’s weapon going off.

  She looked up to see the head of the man she had smiled at snap backward as a pink mist materialized in the air. All around people were screaming.

  She looked at the other Middle Eastern man. His hand looked to be wrapped in a death grip around the handle of his rolling bag.

  As the man plunged the handle down, she was reminded of an old-fashioned dynamite detonator box.

  If there was any consolation, it was that the explosion was so intense that Christie Jacobson and the others in the terminal never felt any pain.

  CHAPTER 55

  Harvath had hopped into the Escalade’s driver’s seat and was halfway down to the ground floor when he heard the explosion. “What the hell just happened?” he demanded.

  “One of the bombers detonated,” replied Nicholas. “Terminal Two.”

  “Damn it,” he shouted.

  “The Lincoln Town Car is on the move.”

  Harvath accelerated.

  “Stop. Stop. Stop,” Nicholas ordered. “He’s going up.”

  “Up? Why the hell would he be going up?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Harvath threw the big SUV into reverse and stepped on the accelerator. He only made it thirty feet before a car suddenly appeared in his rearview mirror. Slamming on his brakes, he threw the Escalade into drive and raced down the ramp. “I can’t get back up this way,” he said as Sarhan bounced around in back. “I have to use the up ramp. Watch that Town Car and tell me what he does.”

  “Will do.”

  Racing onto the up ramp, Harvath backed off the gas just a bit. If the Town Car was a VBIED as they believed, rolling up on him way too quickly was only going to spook the driver into detonating in the garage. Surely he had heard the explosion as well, and knew that the attack was on. That meant Harvath needed to be doubly careful. One wrong move and it was all over.

  “He’s just exited the ramp on the third floor,” said Nicholas.

  Why the third floor? Harvath wondered.

  Nicholas had the answer seconds later. “He’s going to try to exit onto the upper-deck roadway through the entrance.”

  “Doesn’t it have spikes?”

  “If it does, he doesn’t seem to care.”

  Harvath pushed the Escalade faster. He pulled the wheel hard to the side, popped up onto the third floor, and raced for the upper-deck roadway.

  Nicholas’s voice came over his earbud. “He jumped the curb and took out the ticket machine! The far left lane!”

  “Which way did he turn?”

  “To the right. He’s headed toward Terminal Two!”

  Harvath pinned the gas pedal to the floor. “Have all the other bombers in the other terminals been interdicted?”

  “Affirmative.”

  “What about the other VBIEDs?”

  “LAPD is trying to move in on them now.”

  The entire upper deck was going to be crowded with people, especially outside Terminal Two, where the explosion had happened. “Tell LAPD that they can’t ram the vehicles,” Harvath insisted. “They have to shoot the drivers. Tell TSA to try to get everyone off the sidewalks. Now!”

  Harvath had no idea if the other three vehicles had started their run or not. All he knew was that his best option was to get the Town Car. The LAPD would have to get the others. He just hoped they’d all be able to do their jobs on time.

  Racing toward the entrance, Harvath could see where the Town Car had made its exit. Hitting the curb at over sixty miles an hour, he applied his brakes and pulled the wheel hard to the right as he shot out of the parking structure.

  He came barreling out in the wrong direction and sideswiped two oncoming vehicles. It was a lucky break. If they hadn’t been there, he might very well have flipped the Escalade as he spun out of the garage and pulled hard to his right.

  Punching the accelerator again, he raced ahead. There was no need to ask Nicholas where the Town Car was headed. It had to be Terminal Two. That was where it was going to do the most damage.

  Seconds later, he veered onto the main upper-deck roadway that circled the airport. He could see Terminal Two dead ahead. He could also see the Town Car. There was no way he was going to catch it in time.

  He heard the rapid crack of weapons fire as law enforcement officers engaged the Town Car, and Harvath watched in horror as the vehicle headed right for them.

  Terrified civilians ran in multiple directions, some even right out into the street, all trying to get away from the danger. Harvath had to swerve to avoid hitting a large group.

  No sooner had he regained control of his vehicle than he saw the Town Car plow into two patrol cars and the team of LAPD officers who had bravely stood their ground firing.

  Harvath brought his Escalade to a screeching halt and leaped out. Holding his wallet in the air half-opened, s
o as not to be mistaken as a threat and shot, Harvath blatantly misrepresented himself. “FBI!” he yelled, and advanced on the twisted mass of vehicles. They had all been pushed up onto the sidewalk. Harvath couldn’t see any of the officers.

  He was less than ten feet away when the door of the Town Car was thrown open. Dropping his wallet, Harvath raised his pistol in both hands.

  The driver swung out one leg and then the other. Harvath shot him in each knee and raced forward. The driver raised a pistol and began firing wildly.

  Harvath dropped to the ground and returned fire. He put round after round on target, ripping through the open driver’s-side door.

  In one fluid motion, he depressed his pistol’s magazine release and flicked the empty magazine out of the butt of the weapon. Before it had even clattered onto the pavement several yards away, he had inserted a fresh mag, snapped the slide back to chamber his first round, and was firing yet again.

  As he did, he came up on his feet and rushed the Town Car. The driver didn’t return fire.

  Coming up on the open door, Harvath saw the man’s legs first. Then he saw the rest of him, slumped over the armrest, half onto the passenger side.

  “Hands!” Harvath yelled. “Let me see your hands!”

  Moving more to his left, Harvath got a better view into the car. The driver’s empty pistol, with its slide locked back, lay on the floor. But there was something else in the driver’s hand and seeing it, Harvath’s blood turned to ice.

  Harvath’s first shot blew the man’s thumb completely off. He put the next four into the driver’s head. Even then, he still wasn’t sure and shot the man five more times.

  Tentatively, Harvath crawled into the Town Car and retrieved the cell phone the driver had been fumbling with. There was a number on the screen that Harvath was certain corresponded to a cell phone detonator somewhere inside the Town Car. Had the man been able to hit Send, the car would have exploded.

  Harvath carefully removed the battery from the phone, set both pieces on the dash, and crawled back out of the car.

  Popping the trunk of one of the patrol cars, he extracted a medical kit and rushed to the fallen law enforcement officers. Two of them were already dead and several more were badly injured. Gunfire continued to rage across the airport. It was like being in a war zone.

  “You, you, and you!” shouted Harvath to a group of onlookers who had taken cover nearby. “These men need your help.”

  The civilians came over as he ripped open multiple vacuum-sealed packets. He rapidly applied pressure dressings and Israeli bandages, as well as two tourniquets, and sent an additional onlooker to the other patrol car for more medical supplies.

  Explaining how to keep the officers stable, he left the onlookers in charge and called in “Officers down” over one of the police radios, giving the location and range of injuries.

  That was all he could do for them. He needed to get back in the fight. Running back to the Escalade, he picked up his wallet, got inside, and quickly drove away.

  CHAPTER 56

  As Harvath raced toward the Tom Bradley Terminal, Nicholas informed him that the fight was over. The LAPD and DHS operators had been able to neutralize the other VBIEDs. All of the terrorists were dead. All, that is, except for Tariq Sarhan, who was still unconscious in the Escalade’s backseat.

  The word had also already gone out to airports across the country to expect similar attacks. Two had already been uncovered and prevented. Nicholas had been right when he had stated that the attacks they had stopped only months before were just the precursor to a tidal wave set to crash down on the United States. Every time they faced down an attack, more popped up. Where would it end?

  Harvath returned to the parking structure and located his rental car. After wrapping Sarhan’s knee in a hillbilly bandage, he dumped him in the trunk. As he got into his car, he told Nicholas to make sure to erase any of the airport’s CCTV footage of him.

  As he drove out of the airport, a tidal wave of emergency vehicles rushed past him going in the opposite direction. They served as a reminder of the need to arrange for transport for himself and Sarhan. He asked Nicholas to get Carlton on the line. When he came on, Harvath said, “How soon until we can get a Sentinel jet out here to pick us up?”

  “I’ll look into it now,” replied the Old Man. “How bad is his condition?”

  “He tried to suck on a cigarette lighter and also managed to Tase himself before shooting himself in the knee, but he’ll live.”

  “Understood. We’ll figure out how close the nearest aircraft is and then we’ll decide on an airport. LAX has been shut down and probably won’t reopen for a few days.”

  “We’re also going to need someone to sanitize the house I was using,” said Harvath. “I left all the surveillance gear in there.”

  “We’ll have someone handle it.”

  “You should have a team go through Sarhan’s house as well.”

  “We’ll get on that, too,” replied Carlton, who then shifted gears. “In the meantime, I’m assuming you took an unattributable phone with you?”

  “Of course I did. Why?”

  “You’ve had two urgent calls from a man named Hank McBride.”

  Harvath recognized the name immediately. Hank had been one of his father’s SEAL team buddies who used to come by the house and check on things when Harvath was a kid and his father was deployed. He was still very close with Harvath’s mom and his call could only mean one thing. “Did he say what it was about?”

  “Negative. He just left a number and asked you to call him as soon as possible.”

  Harvath took the number, told Carlton he would call him back, and made for the entrance to the 405 freeway headed south. His mother still lived on Coronado Island across the bay from San Diego.

  Speeding through an intersection and a light that had already turned red, Harvath narrowly missed being hit by two cars as he dialed Hank McBride’s number.

  “This is Hank,” the old SEAL said as he answered the call.

  “Hank, it’s Scot,” Harvath replied. “What’s going on with my mom?”

  “Your mom’s fine, relax.”

  “What happened?”

  “Nothing, I didn’t call about your mom. I need a favor.”

  Harvath backed off his speed. “Mom’s okay?”

  “She’s fine,” insisted McBride. “I saw her a couple of days ago when I was down her way. Actually, she looks great.”

  Thank God, he thought as his heart rate began to lower. “Hank, I’m in the middle of an assignment right now. I’m going to have to call you back.”

  “When?”

  “I don’t know,” said Harvath. “I’ll get back to you.”

  The old SEAL wasn’t going to take no for an answer. “Scot, I wouldn’t have tracked you down and left two messages at your office if it wasn’t important.”

  Already navigating the freeway on ramp, Harvath decided to give him until the next exit to explain what he wanted. “What do you need, Hank?”

  “It’s not for me. It’s for a friend of mine.”

  Having worked for a prior president, Harvath was used to people reaching out to him for help with things in D.C. “I can save you some time. I’ve got no pull with the current administration.”

  “That’s not what this is about.”

  “I don’t want to be rude, Hank, but you need to get to the point. I’m really busy right now.”

  Hank didn’t waste any more time. “Do you know who Larry Salomon is?”

  “The movie producer? Of course I do.”

  “Someone sent a Spetsnaz team to whack him.”

  “When?” replied Harvath.

  “The night before last,” said Hank. “It was all over the news. At least it was until those fuckers blew up all of those theaters. My God, what are they going to do next?”

  “Turn on your TV. They just hit LAX.”

  “They what?”

  “That’s part of why I’m so busy right now, Hank. S
o is Salomon dead?”

  The old SEAL, who hesitated as he tried to flip his TV on in the background, finally said, “The technical adviser on all his films is a former Unit guy named Luke Ralston. He’s a pal of mine and he was with Salomon when he came home and found those guys. The two of them killed the entire Spetsnaz team.”

  “Salomon and the guy from the Unit?”

  “Yeah, it’s a long story.”

  “Which they probably ought to be telling the police.”

  “That’s just it,” said Hank. “They can’t. At least not yet. But here’s the good part. Ralston knows who helped coordinate the hit.”

  “And he’s not talking to the police?” replied Harvath. “Hank, let me give you a piece of advice. Steer clear of this entire thing. If they can’t take this to the cops, there’s something very wrong.”

  “That’s why I’m trying to help them, Junior.”

  Harvath hadn’t had McBride call him Junior since he was a kid and had gotten in trouble for fighting back when he was in school. The tone no longer intimidated him, but it did catch his attention.

  “So what is it you want from me?” asked Harvath.

  “All my contacts, and all Luke’s, for that matter, are pretty much in the Special Operations community. We don’t know many secret squirrel types, at least none that we trust. You, on the other hand, are very well plugged in.”

  “I know some people in Russian intelligence, if that would help, but it’s going to have to wait until—”

  “No,” interrupted McBride. “We already crossed that bridge. The man who brought the talent into L.A. for the hit was a former FSB operative based here. The man who ordered the hit, though, was British intelligence.”

  “British intelligence?”

  “MI5, to be exact.”

  Hank had to have gotten his facts wrong. “Why would somebody from Britain’s domestic intelligence service want to splash a Hollywood movie producer?”

  “That’s what we need to figure out. Do you have any contacts you could reach out to?”