Use of Force

by Brad Thor

  “What do you want us to do?” Haney asked.

  “Take one of these cars and bring back our vehicles.”

  “Then what?”

  Harvath grabbed the Libyan by the back of the neck and pushed him toward the gate to open it for them. “I haven’t gotten that far yet,” he said. “Just get going.”

  “Roger that,” the men replied. They chose an old LC70 pickup. As Haney fired it up, Staelin used the butt of his weapon to smash the taillights. The less attention they drew to themselves outside the compound, the better.

  Turning the headlights off, they rolled out of the compound back toward where they had left the team’s SUV and the technical.

  As the little Libyan closed the gate, Barton appeared in the courtyard. Harvath handed him over and pulled out his satellite phone.

  Back at the CIA, Harvath’s call was picked up on the second ring. He gave a quick rundown of the situation, rattled off the telephone number of the cell phone he had taken off the Libyan, and told them what he was looking for.

  He figured it would take Langley at least five minutes. They called back in three. The NSA had been patched in on the call. It wasn’t good news.

  “It looks like someone stepped on an anthill,” the voice from the NSA said. “All of the Libya Liberation Front phones we’re tracking are lighting up. The number you just sent us has sent text messages to at least six of the numbers we’ve been monitoring.”

  That was exactly what Harvath was worried about. “Understood. Keep an eye on them. Let me know as soon as they start moving.”

  “They’re already moving,” the voice replied. “You should think about doing the same.”

  Harvath thanked them and disconnected the call. Raising Gage, he said, “Company’s coming, Jack. I want you up near the gate. You see anything but our guys, you shoot. Copy?”

  “Good copy,” he replied. “Shit’s gettin’ real.”

  “It’s gettin’ real, all right, but we’re going to be long gone before it gets here.”

  Harvath was halfway across the courtyard, running the route to the safe house through his head, when the leader of the drone team hailed him.

  “It looks like the Liberation Front is setting up a perimeter,” the voice said. “There’s already two roadblocks outside the town. You guys need to haul ass.”

  Block the exits, and then send in an assault team to clear out the threat. It was smart, and what Harvath would have done if the situation had been reversed. Whoever had trained them had trained them well.

  Ending his transmission with the drone team, he radioed Haney. “Mikey, what’s your status?”

  “We’re inbound to you. Thirty seconds.”

  “Roger that,” Harvath replied, as he hailed Gage. “Jack, open the gates for them.”

  “Copy that,” said the Green Beret.

  Hurrying into the main house, Harvath checked on the status of the prisoners.

  The little Libyan was lying facedown on the floor in the bedroom. Halim’s flex-cuffs, which had secured him to the chair, had been cut away and a new set put on. An additional pair had been doubled up and pulled extra tight as a tourniquet to reduce the blood flow to his injured hand. The blood from his broken nose had slowed to a trickle. Each man had been gagged with a piece of duct tape.

  “We all good to go here?” Harvath asked as he stepped into the room.

  Morrison and Barton flashed him the thumbs-up.

  Removing two hoods from his pocket, Harvath placed one over each of the prisoner’s heads and gave the command to move out.

  By the time they stepped outside, Staelin and Haney were already in the courtyard, engines running, doors open.

  While Morrison and Barton loaded the two Libyans into the cargo area of the Land Cruiser, Harvath laid a map out on the hood and illuminated it.

  According to the NSA and the drone team, militia fighters were headed toward them from all directions.

  The only way to avoid contact was to stay off the main paved roads. Crisscrossing the desert was a series of dirt roads predominantly used by local farmers. They’d be tough as hell to follow, but Harvath had a plan.

  Quickly indicating the route he wanted to take, he told everybody to mount up, and then he let the drone team know they were rolling.

  Outside the gates, they slowed only long enough for Haney to pick up Gage, and then put the pedal to the metal.

  They were going to punch right through the center of the trap. There was only one way it could go wrong.

  CHAPTER 28

  * * *

  * * *

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  The woman looked at him as if he was crazy. “You want me to put a full package on Lydia Ryan? The Deputy fucking Director of the CIA. Are you nuts?”

  “Keep your voice down,” Andrew Jordan cautioned.

  They were sitting at a small table in the back of the oldest bar and restaurant in town, the Old Ebbitt Grill. It was a popular spot for D.C. power players, just a stone’s throw from the White House. And while Andrew Jordan didn’t look it, he definitely considered himself a power player.

  He was the hidden force behind Page Partners, Ltd. Without him, Paul Page would be nothing and would have nothing.

  But unlike Paul, he had to keep a low profile. Every penny he made from his share of Page Partners, Ltd., was deposited into offshore accounts. From there it flowed into a series of shell corporations that invested in real estate and various foreign business ventures.

  All of it stayed outside the United States, beyond the prying eyes of his employer, the Central Intelligence Agency. Nothing triggered an investigation faster than a report that you were believed to be living beyond your means.

  To avoid getting flagged, he was extremely judicious with everything. He maxed out his retirement plans, had a mortgage below what he qualified for, drove a predriven car, vacationed modestly, and contributed generously to a handful of charities.

  He had no vices, save one—from time to time, he liked to go out for a good meal. This time, it was dinner at the Old Ebbitt. With him was a contractor who did a lot of off-the-books work for the Central Intelligence Agency.

  Unless someone from the Directorate of Operations had walked in, no one in the restaurant would have recognized either of them. And even then, it was highly unlikely they would have recognized the contractor. She was a discreet source whom Jordan had spent a lot of time quietly developing.

  The woman’s name was Susan Viscovich. She had been in Army Intelligence, then the NSA, and eventually had gone out on her own. She was in her late thirties, but took very good care of herself and looked ten years younger.

  She had long blonde hair, which tonight she wore up in a tight bun. This was business. And from what she had just been told, it was dangerous business.

  Leaning over the table, she lowered her voice and asked, “Why the hell would you want a full electronic surveillance package on Ryan?”

  “I’m not at liberty to discuss that,” he replied.

  Picking up her wineglass, she leaned back in her chair and said, “Find somebody else.”

  “There is nobody else. You’re the best.”

  Viscovich took a sip of her wine, but remained silent. She didn’t want this job. No good would come of it.

  “I’m willing to double your fee.”

  “I’ll bet you are,” she replied. Holding up her glass to get their server’s attention, she signaled that she was ready for another one. “You?”

  He nodded and Viscovich motioned for a full round.

  There were a dozen large oysters in front of them. She chose one and added some mignonette sauce. Then, she raised the shell to her mouth, tipped her head back, and let it slide down her throat.

  Jordan watched, his appreciation for how she consumed her oysters a bit too obvious.

  “Is there a problem?” she asked.

  “No, I was just thinking—”

  “I know what you were thinking. Knock it off.”

 
He held up his hands. “This is just business. That’s all this is.”

  “You’re damn right that’s all this is.”

  Reaching down, she prepared another oyster and was about to eat it when she set it back onto her plate. “I understand why I get the kinds of jobs I do from you. It’s not necessarily because they’re hard, though most of them are, but rather because if I get caught, the Agency can deny any knowledge of me.”

  “Correct.”

  “And I’m okay with that,” she stated. “But this is different. Why does the Agency want to run covert surveillance on its own Deputy DCI?”

  “I told you it’s—”

  She raised her hand and cut him off. “Don’t bullshit me, Andy. Not if you seriously want me to consider this job. And if that’s what you want, you must have come here knowing that I’d expect an explanation.”

  He saw their waiter approaching and waited until he had set the drinks on the table and had walked away before responding.

  “Ryan is leaving the Agency.”

  “Interesting,” she replied, pouring what was left of her wine into the new glass and then taking a sip. “What do you care?”

  “Have you heard of the Carlton Group?”

  Viscovich smiled. “Everybody worth their salt in our game has heard of the Carlton Group.”

  “That’s where she’s going.”

  “Again, why do you care?”

  Jordan loaded up an oyster with horseradish and cocktail sauce. “Because she’s not going alone. She’s going to be taking key people with her.”

  “Is that a crime?”

  “It depends.”

  “Then why not bring in the FBI?”

  “It’s tricky,” he said, as he raised the overloaded oyster to his mouth, slurped it back, and continued to talk as he chewed. “Ryan may be sharing some things with her new employer that neither they nor the FBI should be hearing.”

  Viscovich ignored the man’s poor table manners and redirected. “So use your own people to surveil her.”

  “Therein lies our problem. Lydia Ryan has been at CIA a long time; everybody likes her. She’s got friends everywhere. We can’t do this internally.”

  “It sounds like you’ve got a pretty serious problem.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  Taking another sip, she swirled the wine in her glass and asked, “Who knows about your investigation?”

  “It’s a tight circle,” he said as he loaded up another oyster. “And needless to say, none of what we have discussed here goes any further.”

  Viscovich rolled her eyes. “Give me a break. I know how this works. Is the Director involved?”

  Without missing a beat, Jordan looked up from his oyster, smiled at her, and lied. “DCI McGee? Of course. He’s running the entire investigation. One hundred percent.”

  “Good. From what I hear, he’s a reasonable man. He’ll understand I expect you to triple my fee,”

  Jordan squinted at her.

  “And,” she added, “I want an official finding, signed by the Director, on his letterhead, authorizing me to do what you’re asking.”

  He shook his head. “No way. He’ll never go for it.”

  “Those are my terms. You either meet them, or I walk.”

  For several moments, he pretended to think about her demands. Finally, he said, “I think I can probably get McGee to agree to that. But for triple your fee, it’s going to need to include another surveillance package.”

  “That depends. Who’s the target?”

  “Ryan’s new boss,” said Jordan. “Reed Carlton.”

  CHAPTER 29

  * * *

  * * *

  LIBYA

  Completely blacked out, Harvath’s two-vehicle convoy pounded through the desert, using their night vision goggles to guide them.

  Night vision goggles, though, depended on ambient light—something they had too little of.

  Usually on an operation like this, the vehicles would have been outfitted with infrared headlights or some other sort of IR. But this wasn’t a normal operation, and Harvath had known that even under the best of conditions, the dirt roads were going to be tough to follow. Fortunately, he had come up with a solution.

  Keying up his radio, he had asked the drone team to “sparkle” the roads for him.

  Onboard the Reaper was a powerful infrared laser that acted like a giant laser pointer. It not only helped illuminate their route, but it also helped direct them where they needed to go.

  Light on the infrared spectrum was invisible to the naked eye and could only be seen with night vision. It was a very useful tool, which gave them an exceptional advantage.

  The advantage, however, was short-lived.

  Harvath’s plan had been to stay on the desert roads until just south of the tiny fishing village of Abu Kammash, not far from the Tunisian border. There, provided no one was on their tail, they could cut back south along the coast and pick up the road that would take them back to the safe house.

  That plan was scrapped when the drone team alerted Harvath that his convoy had vehicles converging on it from multiple directions.

  How the hell was that possible? “Off sparkle,” he ordered.

  “Roger that. Off sparkle,” the drone team leader replied.

  The effect was like someone turning off a streetlight. Their visibility instantly dropped. Staelin, who was piloting their Land Cruiser, had no choice but to slow down.

  They went from doing more than sixty miles an hour, to less than twenty. Harvath, who was riding shotgun, leaned forward to get a better view through the windshield, but it was no use.

  Behind them, Haney slowed the technical. Compared to how fast they had been going, they were now moving at a snail’s pace.

  “What are the hostile vehicles doing now?” Harvath asked over the radio.

  “Same thing you are,” the voice replied.

  Harvath had been afraid of that. It looked as if they had night vision as well. It was the weak spot in his plan. And while he couldn’t know for sure how the Libya Liberation Front had gotten their hands on such highly restricted technology, he had a pretty good idea.

  A few years ago, American Special Forces soldiers had set up a secret training camp on an old military base in this part of Libya. It was called Camp 27 because it was at the 27 kilometer marker on the road from Tripoli to Tunis.

  Its goal was to help train up a team of one hundred high-speed Libyan counterterrorism fighters. The United States had provided them with Glock pistols, M4 rifles, and other essential equipment, including night vision goggles.

  Several months later, when no U.S. personnel were present, two local militias and a jihadist group sympathetic to Al Qaeda overran the camp. None of the American-supplied gear was ever seen again.

  Harvath was willing to bet that the night vision the militia was using, as well as the three Glocks he had taken off the dead militia members at the electronics shop in Al Jmail, were from Camp 27.

  Not that any of that information was of any help to him. Right now, they had to shake those vehicles that were barreling down on them.

  Speaking with the drone team leader, Harvath said, “Can you turn the sparkle back on and lead them in a different direction?”

  “Roger that. But are you sure you want us to leave you blind?”

  “If you can get those guys off our ass, it’ll be a fair tradeoff.”

  “Copy that,” the drone team leader replied. “Adjusting course.” Moments later, he added, “Sparkle in five, four, three, two, one. Sparkle engaged.”

  Without the powerful IR laser helping to guide them, trying to make it all the way back via the desert would take hours. They were going to have to risk a shortcut.

  Harvath studied his map. They were just outside the town of Zelten. If they could get to the other side, they could pick up the coastal road and be home free.

  “Let’s pull over here,” he said to Staelin. Behind them, Haney also pulled to the side of the road.


  The dome lights had been deactivated, but nevertheless Harvath double-checked before opening his door.

  It felt good to get out of the car and stretch his legs. Morrison and Barton hopped out too, but stayed near the rear of the SUV to keep an eye on their two Libyan prisoners.

  When Harvath walked back to the technical, Haney was standing next to it taking a piss. Gage was busy packing a new wad of chaw into his mouth.

  “When we get back to the house,” the Green Beret said, “I’m ordering in pizza and a six-pack.”

  “Fuck that,” Haney replied. “We’re getting Chinese. And then we’re going to the Holiday Inn up the street. I hear they’ve got an awesome cover band. Bomb Jovi.”

  Harvath couldn’t help but laugh. Next to the action, one of the biggest things he missed when he was back home was the sense of humor so many operators had.

  “Here’s where I’m at,” he said. “Using the IR from the drone is no longer an option. But without it, going the back roads under NVGs will take us all night.

  “Even so, we can flip our headlights back on and press our luck through the desert. Maybe some farmer sees us and calls it in to the bad guys, maybe he doesn’t. Or we can cut through this town up ahead, roll for the coast, and be drinking mai tais in under an hour. Thoughts?”

  “Frankly,” said Gage. “I think mai tais are elitist. But I like the idea of being home in under an hour. I say cut through town.”

  Harvath looked at Haney. While he respected everyone on the team, his was the opinion he valued the most.

  “A lot more eyeballs and cell phones in town,” he said, rubbing the stubble along his jaw. “Much higher potential for being spotted, even at four in the morning.”

  “True.”

  “We don’t know what we’re riding into. There could be some leave behinds. Who knows if every militia member saddled up and rode out? All it takes is one guy in a window or on a rooftop, and we’re screwed.”

  Harvath was about to respond when Staelin walked up.