by Brad Thor
Harvath stood up, yanked Chase to his feet, and handed him to Casey. “Let him ask any questions he wants, but watch him.” Harvath then took Cooper to clear the rest of the basement.
“You lied to me,” murmured Jarrah as Chase kneeled next to him.
“Tell me how I can reach Aleem,” he said, knowing full well it was pointless. Marwan wasn’t going to give him up.
The Iraqi laughed and then produced a wet cough as he spat up blood. “I treated you like a son.” His eyelids were drooping and his breath was coming in sharp gasps.
He whispered something further but Chase couldn’t hear it and so leaned in closer. “What did you say?”
“I have something to tell you,” the Iraqi rasped, before his body was racked once more with bloody coughs.
“What is it?”
“I have a secret.”
Chase was inches away from his face. “What is it, Marwan? Tell me.”
As his final breath escaped his body, Jarrah looked at his beloved protégé and said, “I lied to you too.”
After clearing the basement, Harvath came back to interrogate the man claiming to be from the CIA.
“Listen, there’s going to be an attack downtown in two hours.”
“Let’s start with who the hell you are,” said Harvath.
“I told you, my name is Sean Chase. Call Langley and ask to be connected to Kip Houghton. He’s my handler.”
Harvath nodded at Cooper, who removed her cell phone and headed for the stairs.
“Jarrah’s got eight suicide bombers,” continued Chase, “but you don’t need to worry about them. What you need to be worried about—”
“Wait a second,” interrupted Harvath. “Why shouldn’t we be worried about eight suicide bombers?”
“Because their vests don’t work. I made sure.”
Casey looked at him. “How?”
“The circuit’s not complete. The detonators can’t get any electricity.”
“Just like the vests in Nasiri’s apartment.”
“Where are the bombers now?” asked Harvath.
“That’s not important,” replied Chase. “Jarrah has three two-man teams of Mumbai-style shooters that are going to hit a bunch of hotels unless we stop them. We need to get going.”
“Until we get confirmation on who you are, you’re not going anywhere. Why was there a camera in Nasiri’s apartment?”
“So I could have an excuse to get away from Jarrah. I wanted him to think I was going to detonate the vests on the hostages myself. If I could get away from him, then I could try to stop the shooters.”
“Why not call the cops? Why go to all this trouble?”
“Because this isn’t the end of it. There’s somebody else above Jarrah, a man named Aleem.”
“Aazim Aleem?” Harvath replied.
“That’s him. The guy with the hooks. Jarrah told me that he has networks in at least two other cities. Supposedly, he’s already left for Los Angeles and I was supposed to coordinate an attack in New York. But—” Rashid’s voice trailed off.
“But what?”
“I think he was lying to me.”
“About what?” asked Harvath. “The location of the attacks or the fact that you were supposed to coordinate the one in New York?”
“I don’t know. That’s why I wanted Jarrah alive. He was the only one who knew how to get to Aleem.”
Harvath pressed him with more questions. “Why’d you torture those cops?”
“You’re wasting time,” said Chase.
“Answer me.”
“For fuck’s sake. I’m the only reason they’re still alive. Jarrah wanted to kill them.”
“But you shot one of them.”
“It was clean. Through and through. If I’d wanted to kill him, trust me, he’d be dead.”
Harvath was about to ask another question when Cooper hailed him over the radio and told him someone at Langley wanted to talk to him.
CHAPTER 73
After Harvath had spoken to Kip Houghton, he hung up and called Reed Carlton, who contacted Bruce Selleck, director of the National Clandestine Service at CIA. Once they had both vouched for Chase and his deep-cover operation, Harvath had been instructed to remove his restraints and allow him to come along.
Chase was part of a small contingent of faux John Walker Lindhs whom the Agency had recruited from various walks of life, trained, and then set adrift in a handful of madrassas across the Islamic world hoping that they might get picked up by al-Qaeda. Several of them had, but no one had gotten as far as Sean Chase.
Trained to operate completely on his own, Chase went for long stretches without contact. The assignment and his cover always came first. His handler was used to the irregularity with which he reported in. But as well as the operation had worked, everyone was now extremely concerned that maybe they had let this go too far and that more innocent people were going to die.
Over two hours had passed and Harvath was developing a very bad feeling as Casey’s voice came over his earpiece. “Negative,” she replied to his request for a sitrep. “There’s no sign of any of them. We’re still all clear at the InterContinental.”
Across the street at the Marriott hotel, Harvath looked at Chase. “According to your timetable, they should have been here by now.”
“I don’t know where the hell they are.”
“You’re positive these were the hotels?”
“Yes,” replied the CIA operative, who was equally frustrated.
“I’m getting ready to pack it in,” said Harvath.
“I know. They should have been here by now. Give it a few more minutes. They’ll come.”
“I don’t think so.”
If the truth be told, Chase didn’t know what to think either. But why would Marwan have brought him here? What was the point?
The last words the man uttered to him were that he had lied. Was this what he had lied about? It didn’t make any sense. Marwan had six shooters. Minus the two Chase had shot in the basement of the store, there were four left, two of whom had been wounded by Levy’s shotgun blast. Where were they? If the hotels weren’t their target, what was?
All of a sudden, it hit him. “The train station! That’s the target.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I know him. He wanted this to be a dramatic attack. That’s why all the bombers were supposed to detonate in the Loop, the city’s central business district. Look at this lobby. It’s half-empty. Where are you going to get the highest body count first thing in the morning? You go to where the commuters are.”
“I hope to God you’re right,” said Harvath as he radioed the other team members.
“So do I,” Chase replied under his breath.
Based on the CIA operative’s guarantee that the suicide bombers wouldn’t be able to detonate, they had decided to bring the Chicago Police Department into the plan. Plainclothes officers had been positioned where the bombers were supposed to appear and tactical teams were placed at the hotels.
With the morning rush in full swing, the streets were jammed with traffic. Even with lights and sirens, they’d never make it on time—unless they could avoid the traffic altogether.
Harvath radioed Casey and told her where to meet them. Next, he radioed the Chicago Police and then he and Chase exited the hotel and took off running faster than either of them had ever run before.
It was three long, hard blocks to the river. When they arrived, Casey and a Chicago Police boat were waiting for them. Harvath and Chase leapt in and the officer behind the wheel spun the craft into the river and put the throttle all the way down.
Casey yelled over the engine noise. “We’ve got good news and bad news. What do you want first?”
Harvath’s lungs were on fire and he could barely breathe, much less speak. He held up two fingers.
“The bad news,” yelled Casey as she pointed at a map, “is that there are basically five downtown commuter Metra stations and because of traffic, t
he tac teams can only get to two of them. It’ll take them at least fifteen minutes to get to the others.”
Harvath then raised one finger.
“The good news is that the Millennium and Van Buren stations are near Cooper and Rhodes. They’re the ones with tac teams who can make it, so they’ll tackle those. Ogilvie and Union Station are pretty close to the river, but La Salle Street station is a few blocks inland.”
“I’ll take La Salle,” said Chase, who was still panting.
“What’s our first drop point?” asked Harvath as he tried to steady his breathing. Casey consulted the officer piloting the boat and then said, “Ogilvie. Drop off at Madison Street and it’s a block and a half west.”
Harvath raised himself to standing. “I’ll take that one.”
“Like hell you will,” replied Casey. “I’m more rested. I’ll take it. You take Union Station. It’s the next drop and it’s right at the river. I’m not taking no for an answer.”
Harvath bowed his head and kept sucking in air.
“It’s going to be this bridge,” said the police officer as they approached. “Starboard side. Coming up fast.”
As the boat slammed up against the landing, Harvath looked at Casey and said, “Mine.” Before she could respond, he had jumped out of the boat and was running up the stairs.
She yelled out, “Klootzak,” but had no idea if he heard.
CHAPTER 74
Despite being winded, Harvath was ready to run when he got up to the street level. Then he realized how much attention he would be calling to himself and, instead, walked as quickly as he could toward the station.
Across the street, he waited for the light, sucked in as many deep breaths as he could, and fought to get his heartbeat under control.
Of all the places to try to apprehend a lone gunman, a crowded train station had to be one of the worst.
The Northeast Illinois Regional Commuter Railroad Corporation, known as Metra, served Chicago and six counties in a surrounding radius. The station was overflowing with commuters.
Harvath followed the signs and made his way to the escalators that led to the upper level where the train platforms were. He was only halfway up when the shooting began.
The people in front of him turned and began running down the up escalator. He tried to push through them, but they were panicked. Hopping over the rail onto the stairs, he fought through the masses of people and began running. The shooter was firing on full auto.
As he neared the top of the stairs, it suddenly stopped. Magazine change, thought Harvath, and he was right. Just as quickly as the shooting had stopped, it had started again.
The platforms fed out into a cavernous retail area several stories tall. With people running and screaming, it was hard to get an exact fix on where the shooter was. All he could tell was that the shooting was coming from the other side, away from where he now stood. He pulled out two spare mags for his MP7, tucked them in his waistband, and tossed away his bag.
Seconds later, the sounds of fully automatic fire were joined by the sound of something else—single-shot fire. There was another shooter and he was close.
Through the sea of people, Harvath caught a glimpse of a Metra police officer who had taken a knee out in the open and was engaging the attacker.
Passengers were running everywhere including back out on to the platforms and down onto the tracks. Harvath couldn’t tell why the Metra officer hadn’t sought cover. He was a sitting duck where he was. Then Harvath locked eyes on the attacker and saw what he was focused on. Pinned near one of the retail stores was a group of children. The Metra cop was not only engaging the shooter, he was trying to draw his fire—away from the children. They were very young, approximately six or seven years old, and were all sobbing. Two adults in matching T-shirts lay in pools of blood on the granite floor in front of them.
Harvath raised his MP7 to fire at the shooter, but as he did, he saw the Metra cop get shot in the chest and the throat. As he fell forward, his weapon clattered to the floor, its slide locked back, the pistol out of ammo.
With the cop out of the picture, the terrorist sprayed a bunch of fleeing passengers who had been running in the other direction. It caused a reverse stampede and any clear shot he could have had was now blocked. He needed to get to those children, but the only path available to him was through the shooter’s wall of fire.
Running out onto the platform area, Harvath ran past three sets of tracks and then, using the closest entrance for cover, risked a peek back into the concourse. He was much closer and had a very good view of the shooter, a muscular Middle Easterner with a mustache and short hair.
The man was hyperalert and caught sight of Harvath immediately. He turned his weapon toward him and began firing.
Harvath ducked back behind the entrance as masonry, metal, and glass exploded all around him. When the firing stopped, he rolled back out to engage, but the man had disappeared.
In the concourse, the floor was slick with blood and covered with bodies that had been ripped to shreds.
It took Harvath a moment to realize where the shooter had disappeared to. He had leapt behind a concession-store counter. Harvath had no idea how thick it was, whether it was solid, or what was stacked behind it, but he knew there wasn’t much a 4.6 mm round couldn’t chew through. He also knew he had to keep the man’s attention off those children, so he began firing.
His rounds tore good pieces out of the counter, but he spent his magazine quickly and had to roll back to his cover and reload. By the time he did, the shooter was up and firing again. He was firing at Harvath’s position, which meant he wasn’t targeting the children. That was good. The man, though, had also switched to three-round bursts, which meant he was not only being much more careful, but he also knew what he was doing.
The thing that didn’t make any sense, though, was why he hadn’t transitioned to the special armor-piercing ammunition Chase had fabricated and which he had explained to Harvath that all the shooters were carrying.
Harvath waited for another volley and when it subsided, he swung back out and did an entire magazine dump on the counter before ducking back. Through the smoke, he had seen that he had broken through in multiple places. It looked like metal canisters of some sort were stored underneath the counter. Nevertheless, the shooter had to know that Harvath was getting closer. What he didn’t know was that Harvath only had one magazine for the MP7 left and had no idea if it would it be enough.
When the man popped up this time to fire, he managed only two rounds before his magazine was empty and he was forced to drop back down and reload.
Harvath spun back around the entrance and, making sure to control his muzzle rise, focused on one particular area he had been tearing through the counter. He emptied the magazine as his rounds went clean through.
Ducking back behind the entrance, he dropped the MP7 and pulled out his Glock. He had fifteen rounds in the magazine, one in the chamber. It was make-or-break time. He needed to get to those children.
Crouching, he ran to the platform entrance nearest to where they were still paralyzed and crying on the concourse. Taking a deep breath, he counted to three, raised his Glock, and sped out from behind the door.
The shooter was already waiting for him. As Harvath appeared, he locked his sights on him and pulled his trigger.
The explosive round detonated inside the terrorist’s chamber and blew up right in his face, just as Chase had planned.
As the man’s scream filled the concourse, Harvath put two rounds into his head and killed him.
EPILOGUE
YEMEN
ONE MONTH LATER
The end of August was not a good time to be in Yemen. In fact, as far as Harvath was concerned, there was never a good time to be in Yemen or anywhere else on the Arabian Peninsula.
He sat at one of the city’s few halfway decent cafés, his chair propped up against the wall, an awning shielding him from the afternoon sun. As he took a sip of his chai, he thoug
ht about everything that had happened.
With visible tactical teams in plate armor at Chicago’s Millennium and Van Buren stations, the shooters who had come there to cause maximum carnage had immediately switched out their magazines for the ones loaded with Chase’s “armor-piercing” rounds.
As their weapons exploded in their faces and civilians scattered, both men were gunned down. Credit was given to the quick-thinking CPD tac teams. The fallen Metra office at the Ogilvie Transportation Center was rightly billed as a hero without whose actions many more innocent lives, including those of a small group of six-year-olds, would have been lost.
The slaughter at Union Station had been worse than Ogilvie because it had started three minutes before Gretchen Casey got there. Positioned behind the shooter, she took a shot from over seventy yards and killed him instantly with one round through the back of his head. She then secreted her weapon and quietly left the station. While the police in general were given credit for fast action, no single officer or department had yet officially been credited for killing the shooter. A rumor that it had been done by an undercover U.S. marshal on his way to work had gained wide traction in the press.
All of the would-be suicide bombers were apprehended exactly where Sean Chase had said they would be. Neither Harvath nor any of the Athena Team members had seen him again after he had chosen to take the La Salle Street station.
According to Carlton’s contacts at the CIA, Chase had been tasked with hunting down Aazim Aleem. Based on chatter the Agency had intercepted, Aleem was convinced that his entire network had been compromised and had fled the country for somewhere in the Middle East. Authorities so far had been unable to uncover any evidence of plots or Jarrah-Aleem cells in Los Angeles or New York. Their investigations were ongoing.
Once stabilized, Nikki Rodriguez was transferred stateside and was expected to make a full recovery. Julie Ericsson had been treated for her gunshot wound at Stroger Hospital in Chicago and released. She traveled back to Ft. Bragg with her teammates, Megan Rhodes, Alex Cooper, and Gretchen Casey. Casey had been keeping Harvath up to date on their progress and in her last e-mail informed him that, upon reflection, Rodriguez was convinced that he had been looking at her ass in Amsterdam. She wanted him to call her to discuss the matter further. In other words, they all sent their best wishes and looked forward to seeing him again soon.
