Brad Thor Collectors' Edition #3

by Brad Thor

  In its day, Bishop’s Gate must have been a real espionage paradise because beneath its sturdy foundation, it was replete with secret rooms and passages. Harvath was amazed that the ONI had never discovered them. Then again, maybe they had, but out of respect had left them untouched.

  Harvath, though, had seen their incredible potential and had put the best of the passages and subterranean chambers to use.

  He had uncovered them when trying to move the baptismal font to the other side of the church. The font contained an intricate locking mechanism that took Harvath an entire week to repair. Once he had it working, he discovered that the church’s stone altar could be moved forty-five degrees, revealing a narrow set of circular stairs that led into an area Harvath fondly referred to as his “crypt.”

  Harvath winced as he squeezed down the stairs and remembered what a royal pain in the ass it had been getting all of the materials down there. But it had been worth it. Here, Harvath stored the tools of his trade.

  A hidden ventilation system assured a constant flow of fresh air which concealed dehumidifiers dried and circulated. The crypt maintained a constant temperature and electricity was provided via a set of rechargeable marine batteries which powered the overhead lights.

  Harvath flipped on the light switch and the long, slightly rectangular room was bathed in a fluorescent glow. Steel racks lined each wall, while a wide stainless steel table ran down the center of the room.

  Scot Harvath had a lot of friends, both within the special operations community and within the community of those dedicated to providing America’s top operatives with all the gear and equipment they needed to get the job done and get it done right.

  A fellow SEAL who had started the world’s preeminent tactical equipment company, Black-hawk Industries, made sure that Harvath had every item they had ever made. Harvath had introduced them to a brilliant young frontline doctor who had designed a new battle dress uniform with built-in tourniquets that was going to revolutionize what military and law enforcement members wore into battle. Blackhawk had snatched the doctor up and now hanging in one of Harvath’s steel cages were several pairs of new tourniquet pants, which every military expert was saying was the greatest battlefield innovation since body armor.

  Beyond Harvath’s collection of Blackhawk Warrior Wear, Under Armour clothing, demolitions gear, communications equipment, night vision accoutrements, his pistols and his knives was finally, his heavy equipment.

  Next to his Beretta, Benelli, Remington, and Mossberg shotguns were two pristine Robar RC 50 rifles and hanging next to those works of art were his heavy-use items.

  Having contributed multiple design suggestions to H&K while with the SEALs’ Dev Group, Harvath had one of almost every Heckler & Koch machine and submachine gun model produced in the last twenty years. He also had variants of M16 Clinic’s awesome Viper.

  While they were all exceptional, Harvath’s most lethal, most effective and most accurate piece came out of a quiet, sophisticated shop in Leander, Texas, called LaRue Tactical that stamped all of their gear Live Free or Die.

  Harvath’s pal and his dog’s namesake, Bullet Bob Herrington, had turned him on to Mark LaRue, and no matter what crazy requests Harvath had ever thrown at his shop, the folks at LaRue Tactical had always come back with something better than he had asked for. Many people joked that Mark was a Texas version of James Bond’s Q and that as a proud Texan, maybe his codename should be BB-Q. LaRue Tactical was a SEAL and Delta Force–preferred supplier, and it was easy to understand why.

  Harvath reached over and took down his custom built, short-barreled LaRue M4 “stealth” tactical rifle. It looked like an ordinary door-kicker weapon, but it was anything but. It was so incredibly accurate that with the right high-powered optics on it Harvath could shoot three-inch groups at six hundred yards.

  With an Aimpoint CompM4 red dot sight system for day-to-day usage, a Xiphos NT rail light, and an FSL Laserlyte laser, the weapon was one of his most prized possessions. In honor of Harvath’s Norseman call sign, Mark LaRue had laser-engraved the magazine well with the mythological hammer of Thor, the Norse god of thunder.

  For his sidearm, Harvath selected an HK 45 caliber USP Tactical, 230-grain Winchester SXT&P ammo and extra mags along with Gemtech suppressors for both weapons. He then unfolded a cleaning mat on the table and set about cleaning and oiling each weapon to make sure they were in absolutely perfect working order.

  After loading several black polymer Magpul magazines with twenty-eight rounds of 77-grain Black Hills Mk262 ammo, he loaded the tactical rifle, its suppressor and mags into a special case while everything else went into a low-profile, Blackhawk messenger-style over-the-shoulder bag. Harvath then shut down the lights and exited the crypt.

  After putting the altar back in place, he assembled his gear near the front door and walked back into the kitchen. Professor Nichols was at the stove scrambling eggs while Lawlor sat at the table reading his handwritten list.

  “Is that it?” Harvath asked as he entered.

  Lawlor pushed the piece of paper to the edge of the table and took off his glasses. “That’s it,” he said.

  “Do you want breakfast before you go?” asked Nichols as he lifted Tracy’s cast iron skillet off the stove.

  “Sure,” replied Harvath, hoping that he wouldn’t need any of the equipment he had just spent all that time assembling.

  Nevertheless, Better to have it and not need it was one of Harvath’s favorite maxims. Actually his favorite maxim was Better to have a lot of it and not need it, but that was beside the point. If anything happened, he wanted to make sure that he was prepared.

  CHAPTER 57

  Even though it was Saturday, Harvath hadn’t been able to find parking right away. Like any college campus, street parking at UVA was on a first-come-first-served basis. As a result, he ended up having to park several blocks away from the Corcoran Department of History.

  He didn’t mind. After the drive down, it felt good to get out and stretch his legs. It also felt nice to be on a university campus again. He was surprised to see how busy and vibrant it was even on a weekend.

  After a short walk, Harvath arrived at a three-story brick building called Randall Hall. Nichols’ office was on the second floor, and Harvath used the keys the professor had given him to let himself in. He was quite surprised at what he found. It was a lot different than he had expected.

  Instead of vintage academia, the décor was quite stylish. The furniture was sleek and modern. Oil paintings of early American scenes were interspersed with tasteful black-and-white photography. Nichols was turning out to be somewhat of an iconoclast.

  The focal point of the room was a stunning, dark wooden Bauhaus desk positioned in front of the windows with a ribbed leather desk chair and matching blotter. A vintage 1930s black Bakelite telephone retrofitted for modern use sat next to a sleek Apple computer. The desk was polished to such a shine that Harvath could actually see his reflection in it.

  Wooden file cabinets ran the length of one wall while bookshelves ran the length of the other. There were the requisite historical texts one would expect to find in the office of a Jefferson scholar, as well as tomes by leading Democratic authors from the last several decades. Removing a couple of them, Harvath noticed that many had been signed. It was an impressive collection.

  He tracked down the two Jefferson volumes the professor had asked for and slid them into his bag.

  In the far corner of the room, just as Nichols had said it would be, was his blue KIVA-brand athletic bag with a tennis racquet and info on UVA’s Snyder Tennis Center sticking out of it. Though Nichols claimed he was the only one with keys to his office, Harvath had worried that his choice of a hiding spot for his flash drive might have been a little too attractive for thieves.

  Unzipping the main compartment of the bag, Harvath removed a pair of shorts and a Clinton/Gore T-shirt, and then found what he was looking for.

  Pulling the plastic lid off a can of tennis ball
s, he dumped them into his hand. He had to give the professor credit. In practice, it actually was a rather ingenious way to hide his flash drive. Harvath probably never would have looked there. He found the razor-thin incision in the last ball and ripped it the rest of the way open.

  The flash drive had fit perfectly inside. So snug was it that someone could have bounced the tennis ball and not even heard the device rattling within. Harvath removed the drive and slid it into his pocket. He had at least a two-hour drive in front of him and he still needed to swing by Nichols’ house to pick up his clothes, as well as some other items. Exiting the professor’s office, he pulled the door shut and locked it behind him.

  Once outside, Harvath headed toward the central part of campus where his SUV was parked.

  He entered the dramatic, colonnade-lined commons known as the Lawn. At the very top was the Rotunda, the architectural and intellectual heart of UVA, which Jefferson had designed himself and based upon the Pantheon in Rome.

  The thought of the Pantheon brought back a flood of memories for Harvath. The last time he had seen it he’d almost been killed.

  With that realization, a strange feeling washed over him. It took him a moment to realize that the feeling had nothing to do with cheating death all those years ago in Italy. It had to do with right here and right now.

  As the hair on the back of his neck stood up, Harvath’s hand slid into his bag and searched for the butt of his Heckler & Koch.

  Somebody was following him.

  CHAPTER 58

  Hamza Ayyad and Rafiq Sa’id were no strangers to killing. Ex–Saudi Intelligence operatives, they had been steeped in every facet of tradecraft and the black arts known to man.

  As well as being especially skilled at taking lives, they were exceptional stalkers who could seemingly appear and disappear at will. At least that was how things operated in the Middle East. In the United States, it was a bit different.

  While the two men were of average height and unremarkable facial features, their Arab appearance made it harder for them to blend into American crowds, even on a diverse campus like UVA. What’s more, they were stalking a professional—someone who instinctively checked for tails.

  Failing to kill Andrew Salam when Hamza and Rafiq had had the chance was an unforgivable offense. Salam should have died alongside Nura Khalifa. The only thing that had redeemed the two Saudi operatives in Sheik Omar’s eyes was the exceptional job they had done planting the evidence of a failed relationship between the young man and woman.

  Mistakes did happen, but that was not what Hamza and Rafiq were being paid for. Omar had brought them to America for results. He would not react well to another failure, which was all the more reason they had to succeed now.

  Monitoring Randall Hall and Professor Nichols’ campus apartment had been a tedious chore, but Omar had insisted on it. The operation in Paris had been a total failure and the sheik was beyond angry.

  Al-Din, Omar’s American assassin, had e-mailed the sheik French security-cam photos of the man and woman who had been helping Nichols. Hamza and Rafiq had been told by Omar in no uncertain terms what he expected them to do if they came across Nichols or any of his associates.

  Hamza had been surveilling Randall Hall when the man had shown up. After checking his photo against the one he’d been given by Omar, he called Rafiq and instructed him to pick up their car and get over to Randall Hall as soon as possible.

  They both carried pistols, but they were for self-defense only. Even suppressed firearms made noise and could draw unwanted attention. Any killing these men did was usually up close and personal, with their bare hands or a wide variety of quiet weapons like knives, needles, karambits, or any one of dozens of everyday items.

  Just by how the man acted and carried himself while walking into Randall Hall, Hamza could tell that he was a professional. He was fit and agile, his eyes wary and alert. Though he dressed down with the clothes he wore, the man also had a formidable build. Even with the element of surprise, Hamza knew he would not be an easy kill. Too many things could go wrong and that was something they could not afford. That was why he had called for Rafiq. Together, the two of them could take him down without incident.

  That was until he had suddenly left the building.

  The man had been inside for less than ten minutes. As Hamza waited and then fell in a safe distance behind him, he used his Bluetooth headset to carry on a conversation with Rafiq and keep him informed of their position.

  Dressed in jeans and hiking boots with a windbreaker over a denim shirt, Hamza carried a small backpack to better blend in with the student body population. It was a beneficial side effect of the 9/11 attacks that while Americans might be more suspicious of people who appeared to be Muslim, they had tied themselves in such politically correct knots that even campus police, fearing professional and personal discrimination lawsuits, would think four times before questioning someone who looked like Rafiq or Hamza. As a result, the two Saudi hit men had been able to roam the UVA campus with impunity.

  Now, their problem was how to apprehend their target. Snatching someone off a crowded public street in Riyadh or Medina was extremely complicated. In America, it was all but impossible. The target would either have to be coerced into their vehicle or forced into an isolated area where he could be taken out.

  Hamza was weighing the possibility of getting in close enough to use his knife when the subject suddenly turned.

  CHAPTER 59

  After doubling back, twice, Harvath began to believe he had imagined the whole thing. Nobody was on his tail.

  When he was within half a block of his SUV, Harvath checked his six one more time, and decided to go for it.

  With one hand on his remote key fob and the other gripped around the butt of his HK inside his bag, Harvath quickly closed the distance to his black Chevy Trailblazer.

  After checking the street for suspicious vehicles, he scanned the sidewalks in all directions and then approached his SUV. He checked the cars parked both in front of and behind his. Then, pretending like he was going to cross the street, he stopped short, popped the lock on his truck, opened the door and hopped in.

  As fast as he could, Harvath slid the key into the ignition and fired up the engine. His eyes flicked back and forth from the mirrors to the sidewalks on both sides of him. There was a white minivan coming from the end of the block behind him and he kept his eyes glued to it as he backed up his SUV in anticipation of vacating his parking spot.

  Behind the minivan was a blue Nissan, several car lengths back, which must have discovered someone else leaving their spot as the driver had come to a stop and had applied his right turn signal indicating his intent.

  Harvath waited for the minivan to pass him and then he turned his front wheels out toward the street and began to exit the space.

  No sooner had he done so than the blue Nissan slammed into the side of his SUV, thrusting its nose back into the space and pinning his door shut. Running up hard on his passenger side was a short, dark-skinned man in a windbreaker and blue jeans. As he ran, one of his hands disappeared beneath his jacket.

  Harvath got his head down just as a storm of bullets raked his Trailblazer.

  The shots were being fired one at a time, probably by the driver of the Nissan and probably via a semiautomatic pistol of some sort. These guys apparently hadn’t come loaded for bear. They were going to regret that.

  Harvath reached behind his seat, flipped up the lid on his Storm case and snatched his modified LaRue M4.

  By the time he was back, the guy in the windbreaker already had his weapon out and was firing rounds through his windshield. Harvath leveled his sights and returned fire.

  With the suppressor affixed, the weapon was amazingly quiet in comparison with the weapons his attackers were using.

  Harvath’s rounds found their mark and he put two tight groups into the chest and head of the man in the windbreaker. He then swung the weapon to his left.

  Jabbing the M4
through his broken window, Harvath ignored the rounds coming at him from the Nissan and depressed his trigger. When he hit the final round, he dropped his spent magazine and reloaded with a spare from the reserve carrier in record time.

  After whipping his head around in search of any additional threats, Harvath fired fifteen more rounds into his attackers’ vehicle and then exited the passenger side of his SUV.

  As he crept to the back of his Trailblazer, his head was on a swivel. Scan and breathe, he told himself. Scan and breathe. Don’t get taken by surprise.

  His weapon was up and in the firing position as he slipped out from behind his vehicle and approached the blue Nissan. All around him, UVA students were screaming and running for cover.

  When he drew even with the driver’s side window he saw that the driver had sustained multiple shots to his head and torso and was definitely dead.

  In the distance, Harvath could hear the staccato cry of approaching police cars. He opened the Nissan’s door and pulled the driver’s corpse out onto the street. He patted him down, but didn’t find any identification. He assumed it would probably be the same for his partner lying dead on the sidewalk.

  Harvath swung his head around once again and this time caught some imbecile with a camera phone actually trying to take his picture. Without even thinking, he raised his weapon and pointed it at him. “Drop it,” he ordered.

  The terrified student did as he was told.

  “Now get lost,” ordered Harvath.

  As he watched the idiot take off, he walked over and retrieved the phone. The sound of police cars was getting closer. Harvath didn’t have much time.

  Hopping in the still idling Nissan, he threw it in reverse and backed up enough to be able to get his SUV out. Then, careful not to leave any prints, he did a quick sweep of the car for anything that might tell him who these guys were or who they worked for—visors, center console, glove box; all of it was empty.