by Brad Thor
Carolyn Reidy, Louise Burke, and Judith Curr are the titans who captain the S&S, Pocket, and Atria ships. Thank you for your ongoing support, wisdom, and, most of all, friendship. It is truly a joy to be working with all of you.
David Brown, or “Conan the Publicist,” as I like to refer to him, is the best P.R. person I have ever met, and I appreciate him more than I think he will ever know. Thank you for everything, David.
I also want to thank Jennifer Linnan, Alex Cannon, and the rest of the fabulous team at Sanford J. Greenburger Associates for all that they do for me all year long.
Now for my thanks to the people so intimately involved with the writing of this novel.
This novel would not have happened if not for the man it is dedicated to, James Ryan (not his real name). If you want to know whether or not our country has real-life Scot Harvaths out there in the field, away from the flagpole, taking the fight to our enemies, the answer is yes. Do we need more of them? Do they need to be better equipped and better funded? Do they need better leadership? Do they need better management? Do they need more respect and less red tape and bureaucracy? Do we need to better trust them to slip off into the dark of night to do the jobs which so desperately need to be done? Yes, yes, and yes ad infinitum.
I chose the Orwell quote at the beginning of this novel as my way of honoring James Ryan for how invaluable he has been to me throughout the writing process. I chose to dedicate the novel to him, though, because of how invaluable he has been to this nation. I have a love and admiration for this American patriot that I will never be able to fully express, as there is so much of who he is and what he does that cannot be spoken of. Suffice it to say that he personifies American exceptionalism and that never in my life have I been more honored than the first time he called me friend.
Once again, my very good friend and patriot Scott F. Hill, PhD, was a key sounding board and wellspring of creativity in writing this novel. Whenever I have a new idea for a novel, he is the first person I turn to. The example he continues to set as a selfless American and one of the best friends a person could have is a daily reminder to me of the good mankind is able to achieve in this world. Thank you for all of your help and thank you for everything you continue to do in service of our great nation.
I round out the literary triumvirate so crucial to this novel with my dear friend and patriot Rodney Cox. Rodney’s tactical expertise, excellent sense of humor, and deep military experience in Afghanistan were key resources I drew upon repeatedly throughout the writing process. Thank you for everything, including equipping me for my trip to Afghanistan and for making sure we continue to turn out the world’s most formidable warriors. We’re looking forward to seeing you and Steph real soon.
My family and I also owe a special debt of gratitude to Tim Lynch and Walter Gaffney. You gentlemen know what you did for me, and I am deeply grateful. Thank you.
I also want to thank my friend Glenn Beck. Congratulations on your success and thank you for everything you, Kevin, Chris, Stu, Dan, and everyone else have done for me. Nice guys do finish first, and you and your team have proven it.
I also want to thank the key group of warriors who not only influenced and assisted in the writing of this novel, but are also very good friends: Chuck “Eagle Eye” Fretwell, Steven Bronson, Jeff Chudwin, Shawn Dyball, Thomas Foreman, Frank Gallagher, Rob Hobart, Steve Hoffa, Carl Hospedales, Cynthia Longo, Ronald Moore, Chad Norberg, Gary Penrith, Rob Pincus, the real Roper 6-9, Jonathan Sanchez, and Mitch Shore—as well as all the people out there who asked that they not be named in this book, for their own safety. Thank you for all you do for us. Stay safe.
For their invaluable assistance I am also indebted to Chief A. M. Jacocks, Jr.—Virginia Beach Police Department, Captain Edwin Ecker—East Hampton Town Police Department, Michael Foreman—Point Blank Solutions, Steve Tuttle—TASER International, the National Executive Institute Associates (NEIA), the Major Cities Chiefs (MCC), the Major County Sheriff’s Association (MCSA), author Kathy Reichs, Jason Kohlmeyer, Esq., Stephanie Dickerson, Tom and Geri Whowell, and John Giduck (who provided several key back office elements for my trip to Afghanistan).
In Washington, D.C., I continue to be grateful for the assistance of my friends Patrick Doak and David Vennett.
Friends Richard and Anne Levy always do the voodoo that they do so well with the assistance of a beguiling young woman known from Kolkata to Kowloon simply as Alice. Thank you for everything. We’ll see you in Munich.
Thank you to all the members of BradThor.com forum, a.k.a. the Thorum. There are too many of you to thank by name, but please know that I appreciate you all so much and love conversing with you online every day.
My attorney, Scottie Schwimer, continues to amaze with his magical powers in Hollywood. In a town where beauty is only skin-deep, Scottie’s beauty and talent go right to the bone. Thank you for all you do for me, my friend.
Finally, none of this would be possible without my gorgeous wife, Trish. I cannot count the nights and weekends she backed me up at home so I could stay in my office and get this novel completed. For those of you who want to know the secret to a happy marriage, marry someone kinder, smarter, funnier, and more patient than you are. You will never regret it. I know I haven’t. . . .
Thank you, my love.
I’ll be back next year with an all-new Scot Harvath adventure. In the meantime, I highly recommend reading the authors of the International Thriller Writers Association. Visit their website at www.ThrillerWriters.org.
Reader’s Companion
Please enjoy this Reader’s Companion of additional content, including a sample chapter from Brad Thor’s Black List.
Emily Bestler Books/Atria
Proudly Presents
BLACK LIST
BY
BRAD THOR
Turn the page for a preview of Black List . . .
PROLOGUE
PENTAGON CITY
PRESENT DAY
There were a lot of places in which Caroline Romero could envision being murdered—a dark alley, a parking lot, even a nature preserve—but a shopping mall in broad daylight wasn’t one of them. Especially not one just steps away from the Pentagon. Nevertheless, here she was.
The team following her appeared to be made up of three men, one of whom she recognized, a tall man with almost translucent white skin and a head of thick, white hair. The trio took turns rotating in and out of view. There was no misconstruing their intention. The speed with which they had uncovered what she was up to and had locked onto her was astounding. As good as she was, they were better.
It wasn’t a matter of simply being careful or of properly covering her tracks either. She had done all of that. The organization was just too big, too omnipresent to escape. Now it was coming after her.
She needed to work fast. When the team moved in, there’d be nothing anyone could, or would, do to stop them. First they would interrogate her and then they would kill her. She couldn’t let them take her or what she was carrying.
The mall was large, with lots of upscale shops and closed-circuit cameras. They would be tapped into that system, watching her. She knew it because she had done it herself countless times. Knowing how they worked was the only thing that gave her an advantage.
She walked with a moderate pace, purposeful, but not frightened. If they sensed any panic in her, they’d know she was on to them—they would close ranks immediately and snatch her. She couldn’t allow that to happen, not until she finished one last thing.
All around her, shoppers ambled in and out of stores, woefully unaware of what was taking place in the world just outside. It was their world too, after all, and she wanted to shake them. She wanted to wake them up. She knew, though, that they’d only look at her like she was crazy. In fact, until very recently, she probably would have agreed with them. What she had discovered, though, was beyond crazy. It was insane; frighteningly insane.
Her job had been pretty simple, with one primary directive: to tie up loose ends by cl
ipping the loose threads. But along the way, she had committed a cardinal sin. Instead of clipping threads, she had begun to pull on one, and now she was about to pay the ultimate price.
In the first store she entered, she paid cash and bought multiple items in order to hide what she was doing. She politely told the clerk that she didn’t need a receipt.
Back out in the mall, she merged with the stream of people and tried to keep her anxiety under control. She took a deep breath through her nose and shoved the fear as far down as it would go. Only one more step, she told herself.
Before that step, though, she needed to lay a little more cover. Paying cash again at two additional stores, she emerged toting two bags filled with nonessentials that would hopefully further mislead her pursuers. Her plan was to fill the figurative theater with so much smoke that no one would know where the fire was until it was too late.
The last store was the most important. It was also the biggest roll of the dice. Everything depended on it, and if it didn’t go perfectly, her entire operation and everything she had risked would be for naught.
Entering the lingerie store, Caroline scanned for cameras. There were three—two covered the store itself, a third was trained on the sales desk where the registers were.
She moved casually from rack to rack examining items. As she moved, she looked to see if any of the men had followed her inside. She doubted it. While male customers might come in to buy items for their wives or girlfriends, they wouldn’t loiter. Nothing would grab unwanted attention faster than a man aimlessly hanging around a women’s lingerie store.
The team following her seemed to have realized that and had stayed outside, exactly what she had prayed they would do. It was time to make her final move.
With several items in hand, Caroline asked for access to a dressing room. As a clerk showed her into the dressing area, Caroline was relieved to see there were no cameras overhead.
The clerk unlocked one of the rooms and Caroline entered. Setting her bags down as the door clicked shut behind her, she removed several items and quickly got to work. Time was of the essence. The organization following her didn’t like it when people fell into “shadows” and couldn’t be monitored.
Cracking the dressing room door, Caroline extended a camisole and asked the clerk if she could bring her a larger size. When the clerk had walked back out onto the floor, Caroline closed the door and, keeping her voice as quiet as possible, recorded her transmission.
Now came the difficult part—sending it. This was where she had decided to go as low-tech as possible. It was the only way it had any hope of sneaking by unnoticed. She prayed to God it would work.
Exiting the dressing room, Caroline strode purposefully toward the sales desk, fighting to appear relaxed as she conducted her transaction. It took everything she had to maintain her smile and laugh with the chatty clerk. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the white-haired man pass the store entrance.
Once the purchase was complete, Caroline accepted the latest addition to her collection of shopping bags, squared her shoulders, and left the boutique. She had done it.
As she stepped outside, her heart began to pound. There was nothing else for her to do, nowhere else for her to go. She knew how this had to end. Threading her way through the crowd of people heading toward one of the mall’s busiest exits, she spotted the row of glass doors and began to pick up her pace.
The urge to run was overwhelming. She couldn’t fight it anymore. The team that was following her seemed to know exactly what she was thinking, because that’s when they struck.
But they were already too late.
CHAPTER 1
RURAL VIRGINIA
FRIDAY
FORTY-EIGHT HOURS LATER
Kurt Schroeder glanced down at his iPhone while his Nissan sub-compact crunched across the estate’s pebbled motor court. No signal. It was the same with his navigation system. He didn’t need to turn on his satellite radio, it wouldn’t have a signal either. Everything had been blacked out about a mile before the gates—just as it was supposed to be.
None of the locals had ever made a connection between the signal loss and the fact that it only happened when the owners of the estate were in residence.
Some blamed atmospheric conditions, while a few local conspiracy theorists pointed to the government as neighbors laughed them off. Little did those neighbors know how close to the truth the conspiracy theorists were.
A company called Adaptive Technology Solutions had developed the signal blocking technology for the use of the U.S. military in Afghanistan and Iraq. ATS was one of the most successful American tech companies most people had never heard of.
Practically an arm of, and indistinguishable from, the National Security Agency, ATS also conducted highly sensitive work for the Office of the Director of National Intelligence, the Central Intelligence Agency, the Defense Department, the State Department, the Federal Bureau of Investigation, the Department of Homeland Security, the Treasury Department, the Department of Justice, and a host of other agencies, including the little-known United States Cyber Command—the group in charge of centralizing U.S. cyberspace operations.
Whether via software, hardware, personnel, or training, there wasn’t a move the United States government made in relation to the Internet that didn’t somehow involve ATS.
So intertwined was it with America’s political, military, and intelligence DNA, that it was hard to discern where Uncle Sam stopped and ATS began. Very little was known about the organization, which was exactly what ATS wanted. Had its board of directors ever been published, it would have read like a who’s who of D.C. power. In addition to two former intelligence chiefs, it included a former Vice President, three retired Federal judges, a former Attorney General, a former Secretary of State, a former Federal Reserve Chairman, two former Secretaries of the Treasury, three former Senators, and a former Secretary of Defense.
Some believed that ATS was a front for the NSA, while others speculated that the CIA might have been involved in its creation. All, of course, pure speculation. Anyone who knew anything about ATS only really knew about that particular facet they were dealing with, and even then, they didn’t know much. The highly secretive company had worked for decades concealing its true breadth and scope. What was visible above the waterline was only the tip of the iceberg.
The organization was also exceedingly careful about whom they brought inside. Nowhere was the selection process as rigorous as at ATS. Its members shared a very particular worldview, along with a deeply held belief that not only could they shape domestic and international events, it was their duty to do so. Their goals were not the kinds of things they wanted discussed in newspapers and on the Internet. They took great pride in their anonymity.
The corporation’s retreat, with its sophisticated countersurveillance and anti-eavesdropping measures, sat on more than two hundred rural Virginia acres of rolling green countryside. It featured a clutch of buildings, the centerpiece of which was a large, redbrick neoclassical home fronted by thick white columns.
The estate had been named Walworth after the ruins of a small, walled farm at the south end of the property predating the Revolutionary War. Its ownership was hidden behind blind land trusts and offshore corporations. No records existed at the county recorder’s office, and no overhead imagery of the property could be accessed via satellite. For all intents and purposes, the estate didn’t even exist, which was exactly what the powerful forces behind Adaptive Technology Solutions wanted.
Kurt Schroeder had been to Walworth a handful of times, having helped to oversee the installation of several of its computer and security upgrades. But he’d never been to the property for a gathering of the firm’s board of directors. He had only seen the full board together on one occasion, when he had been invited to accompany his boss to a winter board meeting at the ATS property on Grand Cayman.
With its vast wealth, the company hierarchy never failed to do things first-class. The motor
court of the Virginia estate looked like the parking lot of a luxury European car dealership, with multiple BMWs, Audis, Mercedes, and Range Rovers. Off to the side, the security teams had parked their armored, black Chevy Suburbans.
Schroeder located an empty spot and parked. He looked into the mirror and dried the perspiration on his forehead. Tightening the knot in his tie, he took a deep breath. His boss, the man who ran ATS, was a lot like his deceased mother. Both had considerably volatile tempers.
Schroeder climbed out of his unimpressive yet efficient Nissan and detected the scent of woodsmoke from one of the house’s many chimneys as he walked across the motor court. Martin Vignon, the head of corporate security, met him at the door. Like the rest of the team, Vignon wore a dark suit and had a Secret Service–style earpiece protruding from one ear. He was a tall man with impossibly pale skin and neatly combed white hair. Behind his back, the boss—who seemed to have a demeaning nickname for everyone—referred to Vignon as “Powder.” Whenever he threw the slur around, most of the employees uncomfortably laughed it off or pretended they hadn’t heard it.
Schroeder didn’t know much about where Vignon had come from nor how he’d secured his job with the organization. Some said he was former military, others said he was former intelligence. Nevertheless, it was widely agreed that the man was discourteous and off-putting. Schroeder had looked into his background once, but the man was a black hole. Everything had been erased. The sick joke that had sprung up around his cold demeanor was that he was possessed of unusual powers; instead of seeing dead people, he created them.
He was the only American on the security team; the rest were Israelis, all handpicked by the security chief himself.
Vignon gave Schroeder a curt nod and waved him toward two of his men, one of whom was holding a metal detector wand. Considering all he was entrusted with at ATS, being wanded was an indignity. These wannabe Secret Service morons were out of control.
