Use of Force_A Thriller

by Brad Thor

  The team’s hopes were dashed, though, when all they found underneath was the same battered linoleum tile that covered the rest of the office.

  Taking his eyes from the map, Harvath looked down at the floor beneath his boots. The tiles here, as best he could tell through the gray-green of his night vision goggles, looked less worn than the rest of the others.

  Crouching, he ran his fingertips across the top of them. At first, he didn’t feel anything. Then on his second pass, as he moved his fingers more slowly, he felt it.

  There were two extremely fine grooves. Waving Haney over, he showed him what he had found.

  It took them five minutes to discover the release mechanism. Once they did, there was a click, and the center filing cabinet popped out a quarter of an inch.

  It was on wheels, and by grabbing hold of the top, they were able to pull it into the room and reveal a small passageway behind.

  Radioing Gage, Harvath stated that they had found what they were looking for and to meet him at the warehouse door.

  He wanted his full team there for what they were about to do.

  CHAPTER 25

  * * *

  * * *

  Morrison studied the wire connected to the filing cabinet release. He wanted to make sure it wasn’t attached to a signaling device that might somehow alert Halim and his men that they were coming.

  “We good?” Harvath asked after several seconds.

  The Marine nodded, but then added with a smile, “You go first.”

  Harvath rolled his eyes and, taking point, led his team into the passage.

  There was a short flight of stairs, after which the stone tunnel widened, but not by much.

  They moved slowly, at times having to duck or turn sideways to make it through. Helmets scraped against the ceiling. Elbows scraped against walls.

  They maintained strict silence even though each of them—especially the larger guys—wanted to utter a few choice words.

  At the end of the tunnel, Harvath signaled for the team to stop. Hammered into the wall was a series of metal rungs made out of rebar. It reminded him of a sewer ladder.

  Looking up, he saw the outline of a trapdoor. Using hand signals, he relayed what he wanted done.

  As the message was passed down the line, he transitioned to his pistol and spun the suppressor onto its threaded barrel.

  He tested his weight on the first rung, and, once confident that it would hold, he began climbing.

  With each step, he kept his eyes glued on the trapdoor above him. He hated trapdoors. They were often obstructed with rugs or tables, and could be a pain in the ass, if not impossible, to open. Worse still, all of your guys had to follow you up the ladder one at a time. But the closer he got, the less he thought it was going to be a problem.

  Based on the length of the tunnel, he had a good idea of where they were beneath the compound. The smell of animal dung confirmed it.

  Placing his ear against the trapdoor, he listened. If there was anything or anyone on the other side, they weren’t making any noise.

  Wrapping his arm through the uppermost rung, he steadied himself as he raised his pistol and applied pressure to the door. It wasn’t locked or obstructed. To his surprise, it moved.

  Before raising it any farther, he scanned the frame for booby-traps. He’d seen more than his fair share over the years. He had left a few as well.

  They weren’t hard to build. One of the simplest required nothing more than a grenade, a piece of wire, and half a Coke can.

  Seeing no indication that it was rigged, Harvath opened the trapdoor the rest of the way.

  A cascade of moldy wood shavings being used as animal bedding fell down into the tunnel. The smell of dung was even stronger now.

  As Harvath scanned the small barn, he saw four goats staring back at him. The minute they made eye-to-night-vision-goggle contact, they started bleating.

  They were loud. It sounded like someone had just tripped a burglar alarm. Harvath had to act fast.

  He had come ready to kill Halim’s people, but not a bunch of goats. It wasn’t their fault they were here. Besides, the suppressor on his H&K could only muffle his shots to a certain degree. There was no such thing as a true “silencer.” Those only existed in the movies.

  Quickly scanning the barn, he saw several sacks of grain suspended from the ceiling. They had been hung out of reach of the goats, as well as any bugs or rodents.

  Hopping out of the opening in the floor, he drew his knife and slashed open the nearest sack. Grain spilled out and began piling up beneath. The goats went right for it, and immediately quieted to eat.

  Harvath looked down into the hole and signaled for his team to hurry up and climb out. As they did, he cut down the rest of the sacks. He needed the goats to be quiet long enough for them to get out of the barn.

  Approaching the door, he opened it just wide enough to peer outside. They were in the northeast corner of the compound. Directly across from them was the guesthouse, beyond that was the main house, and directly to the right was the structure with no windows. Piled next to it was a bunch of wooden crates and empty pallets.

  “It’s a good thing you left the goats alone,” Gage whispered, as he joined him at the door. “They hate it when you drag their girlfriends into these things.”

  Harvath chuckled and stood aside so he could take a look.

  “See the building to our right?” he asked as Gage peered outside.

  The Green Beret nodded. “Good view of the courtyard.”

  “Think you can get up on the roof?”

  “Let’s find out.”

  Harvath reached out to the drone team again.

  “Negative movement in the compound,” they replied.

  With Morrison and Barton keeping an eye on the goats, Harvath counted down from three and opened the door. Gage headed for the building while Staelin and Haney covered him.

  Once there, he quietly leaned several of the pallets up against the wall and then hopped on top. Harvath braced for the dry, sun-bleached wood to splinter under the big man’s weight, but it didn’t happen.

  Pulling himself up with his massive arms, he swung his legs over the parapet and soundlessly belly crawled to the other side.

  “In place,” he radioed a few moments later.

  “How’s it look?” Harvath asked.

  “Like church on a Monday. Quiet and empty.”

  From his perch, Gage had a clear view of the guesthouse, the main house, and the front gate. If anyone appeared with a weapon, or if there were any “squirters,” bad guys who tried to make a run for it, Gage knew he was free to engage.

  The first thing Harvath wanted to make sure of, though, was that the Green Beret wasn’t perched atop a nest of Halim’s men. Giving the signal, he sent Staelin and Haney to check it out.

  One of the number-one rules in taking down a target was: Don’t run to your death. With their weapons up and at the ready, they moved purposefully across the courtyard, scanning for threats as they went.

  At the door, Staelin waited for Haney to squeeze his shoulder—the signal that he was ready to go. When he did, the Delta Force operative tried the handle. It was unlocked.

  Opening the door, Staelin stepped aside to allow Haney to sweep in and then followed.

  They both radioed back the same message: “Clear.”

  Staelin then stated, “Jesus. This guy Halim is a sick bastard. It looks like a medieval torture chamber.”

  “Everything but an iron maiden,” Haney added.

  “Stand by,” Harvath replied.

  He wasn’t surprised to learn that the windowless building was where the smuggler indulged some of his most vile psychopathy. Rumor had it that Halim had been a commander in the Soqur Al-Fatah, or Hawks of Al-Fatah.

  They were the most feared of Gaddafi’s death squads. Their unit traveled the country, hunting down insurgents. They used shipping containers, painted with a black crescent moon, to imprison and torture suspects into providing
information on their networks. Wherever they went, people disappeared and shallow, mass graves followed.

  Only in a unit like Soqur Al-Fatah could a psycho like Umar Ali Halim have found a home and been paid to hone his exceptionally evil penchant for inflicting pain on his fellow human beings.

  Harvath signaled Barton and Morrison to open the last bag of grain and join him at the door.

  When they did, he asked for a final SITREP from the drone team back in Tunisia and Gage up on the roof. Once they had reported back the all clear, he ordered everyone to get ready for phase two.

  Staelin and Haney were closest to the main house, so they would go for Halim. Harvath, along with Morrison and Barton, would hit the guesthouse, where Halim’s men were believed to be.

  With a final check of weapons, comms, and gear, everyone was good to go. Harvath, having transitioned back to his suppressed rifle, once again counted down from three.

  This was why they had come all the way to Libya. It was now game on.

  CHAPTER 26

  * * *

  * * *

  Both assault teams slipped out of their respective buildings and headed toward their designated targets.

  On Harvath’s team, Barton took point, Morrison covered the rear, and Harvath was in the middle.

  The guesthouse reminded Harvath of buildings he had seen across North Africa—cinderblock construction, small windows, wooden door with iron hardware.

  Approaching the entry, Gage whispered over the radio, “Knock, knock, motherfuckers.”

  At the door, Barton waited for Harvath to squeeze his shoulder. When he did, the red-bearded SEAL tried the handle. It was unlocked. As he opened it, Harvath swept inside, followed by Morrison. Barton closed the door and brought up the rear.

  It was a narrow hallway with a door to the left and a door to the right. Dealer’s choice. Harvath could choose either one.

  He had been on countless raids throughout the Muslim world. He knew what to look for in situations like this. Shoes.

  Glancing to his left and his right, he saw men’s shoes stacked up outside both doors. There were no women’s or children’s shoes. That was a good sign.

  Harvath chose the door with the larger pile and cut to the left. Morrison cut to the right, and Barton—as planned—followed Harvath.

  He tried the knob, but the door wasn’t even fully closed. Whoever had entered last hadn’t closed it all the way.

  Harvath leaned gently against it, his rifle ready to fire. He braced for the squeal of metal on metal, thinking the old hinges would give him away. But the sound never came.

  Pushing into the room, Harvath was almost clear of the doorway when one of Halim’s men sat up in his bed, followed by two more. All three of them had their weapons not next to their beds, but in their beds.

  Whether they had been awakened by the goats bleating and were just being cautious, or whether they always slept with their AK-47s, Harvath would never know. Nor would he ever care. Depressing his trigger, he engaged.

  He felled the first two men with headshots. But as he engaged the third man, his shot went wide and hit the wall.

  Reacquiring the target, he skipped one off the man’s skull—giving him a Mohawk—and then put one right into his left eye, killing him.

  By now, Barton had shoved into the room from behind him. Halim’s men were throwing off their blankets and scrambling for their rifles. Barton took the right side of the room. Harvath focused on the left.

  Harvath fired in controlled pairs—his shots now rock steady and deadly accurate. Barton was just as deadly, if not more so.

  As soon as the job was done, Harvath sent Barton to check on Morrison. Once he had exited, Harvath walked the length of the room, delivering extra rounds to make sure there were no survivors.

  At the end of the row of beds, he heard Haney’s voice come over his earpiece. “Jackpot.”

  They had Halim.

  • • •

  After sending Morrison and Barton to cover the front door, Harvath moved through Morrison’s room to make sure there were no survivors. There weren’t. The Force Recon Marine was damn good at his job.

  Exiting the guesthouse, Harvath headed to the main house while Morrison and Barton, covered by Gage, swept the rest of the compound.

  Staelin and Haney had found the smuggler, alone, in his bedroom.

  As Harvath entered, he saw Halim sitting, flex-cuffed to a gilded chair with a blood-soaked towel wrapped around his hand.

  “What happened?” Harvath asked.

  “He went for this under his pillow,” Haney replied, holding up a Makarov PMM pistol. “So, I shot him.”

  “Good job. Go clear the rest of the house. I’ll keep an eye on him.”

  From his pocket, Harvath removed one of the few pictures ever taken of Umar Ali Halim.

  It was twenty years old, but the scar that ran from above his left eye, down through his eyebrow, over his nose, and across his left cheek was unmistakable. There was no question they had the right guy.

  Halim was built like a wrestler, thick and muscular. He had short black hair, a close black beard, and a noticeable overbite that reminded him of Saddam Hussein’s psychopathic son Uday.

  Harvath could have turned on the lights, but he wanted to keep the smuggler on edge. The room was extremely dark. Being denied the ability to see was unsettling.

  “Let’s see your hand,” Harvath said, as he slung his weapon and unwound the towel.

  Even through his night vision goggles, he could tell that the injury was severe. There was a lot of blood and one of Halim’s fingers had been blown almost all the way off. It lay on the towel, barely attached.

  “It looks like your piano career is over,” said Harvath.

  Halim didn’t respond. Instead, he brought his head back and spat a huge glob of spit in Harvath’s face.

  Drawing back his weapon, Harvath crashed it into the bridge of the smuggler’s nose, breaking it. “Your modeling career isn’t looking so good now either.”

  Wiping the man’s saliva from his face, he chastised himself for not expecting it. North African and Middle Eastern men used spitting as a high-grade insult.

  It wasn’t the first time one had spat at him. They usually did it out of fear. It was their way of trying to assert dominance over a situation in which they had zero control. It had to be responded to quickly, which was why Harvath had broken the man’s nose. The smuggler needed to know, right up front, who was boss and that Harvath hadn’t come to play games.

  He looked back down at the man’s injured hand and touched it near the severed finger with his suppressor. The smuggler’s body went rigid as a lightning bolt of pain shot through his body, and he let out a piercing scream.

  Harvath carefully wrapped the towel back around it, making sure not to get any blood on his bare hands.

  They were going to have to treat him before they started his interrogation. The easiest route to answers would likely be through the man’s injured hand. But as far as Harvath was concerned, that would be taking it too easy on him.

  Karma was a bitch and Umar Ali Halim deserved as much of his own medicine as could be forced down his throat. Harvath wanted to take him for a ride on his own flying carpet.

  As Staelin had the most medical training on the team, Harvath wanted him to patch up the Libyan.

  He was just about to hail him on the radio when he heard his voice in his earpiece: “Boss, we’ve got a problem. Need you in the courtyard ASAP.”

  CHAPTER 27

  * * *

  * * *

  Once Morrison and Barton were done clearing the main house, he left them in charge of Halim and headed outside.

  Staelin and Haney were standing by the awning where the smugglers’ crappy vehicles were parked. On the ground, a Libyan lay flex-cuffed. He was in his late teens or early twenties and wasn’t very big.

  “Where’d you find him?” Harvath asked as he approached.

  Haney nodded at the sedan closest to them.
“Inside the trunk.”

  “He had these with him,” added Staelin as he reached inside and removed an AK-47 in addition to a chest rack stuffed with magazines. “He was probably on guard duty and slipped into the car to take a nap. That’s why the drone didn’t see him. When you guys started shooting, he must have folded down one of the rear seats and snuck into the trunk.”

  “The dumbass even left his gear up front. But it probably saved his life. If he’d been holding a rifle when we popped that lid, he’d be a dead man right now.”

  “What about a phone? Was he carrying one?” Harvath asked.

  Haney handed it to him, but it was locked.

  “Stand him up,” Harvath ordered.

  Staelin and Haney got the Libyan on his feet.

  Harvath held up the phone, pointed to the screen, and said to the man, “What’s the password?”

  “Anna la ’atakallam ‘Inglizi,” the Libyan answered, feigning ignorance. I don’t speak English.

  Harvath nodded to Haney, who hit the man so hard in his stomach that it lifted him off his feet.

  The man doubled over in pain.

  Harvath gave him a minute to let it pass and then nodded again to Haney, who grabbed him by the hair and straightened him up.

  “What’s the password?” Harvath repeated.

  The man only got halfway through his I don’t speak English routine before Harvath drew his pistol and pointed it at his head.

  All of a sudden, the man was fluent. “Two, two, three, seven,” he said with a heavy accent.

  Harvath entered the numbers. The phone unlocked. As soon as he saw the phone’s activity, he knew they were in trouble. “Are there any keys in those vehicles?”

  Staelin nodded.

  Harvath raised the drone team, “Any movement in our area? Vehicles or individuals?”

  “Negative movement.”

  He had a bad feeling it wouldn’t stay quiet. Hailing Barton, he told him to come out to the courtyard to collect the new prisoner and bring him inside the main house.