by Brad Thor
He had also roped in Matt Sanchez, who had performed so well in Somalia. General Johnson had recommended the team’s final member.
Chase Palmer of Odessa, Texas, had the distinction of being the youngest operator ever to have been admitted to the ranks of the U.S. Army’s elite Delta Force unit. He was smart, battle-tested, and an exceptionally talented killer of the enemy. The Department of Defense had file cabinets stuffed full with accounts of his exploits. His teammates had nicknamed him “AK” for Ass Kicker, but the nickname took on a whole new meaning when he was caught with an empty AK-47 and was able to bluff six heavily armed Taliban into surrender.
Some of his superiors resented not only his talent and meteoric rise, but also his above-average intelligence. When they called him AK, it stood for Asshole Kid. General Johnson, though, saw him for what he was — a tremendous asset to the United States — and had taken him under his wing. Though still technically a member of Combat Applications Group, or CAG (the name given to Delta Force to allow the Army to deny the existence of Delta Force), Palmer was assigned to General Johnson and served at his pleasure. Right now, the general’s pleasure was to see to it that Operation Sierra, the code name given to the capture of Phil Durkin, was successful.
“Targets have all been ranged. Command Six is good to go,” Sanchez replied over his microphone as Harvath asked his team members one by one for their SITREPs.
The terrain was barren and windswept; more rock and loose shale than anything else. It was cold and misty. Everyone would rather have been someplace else, but you wouldn’t have heard a complaint from a single one of them. This is who they were and what they did. Each of them consoled themselves with the knowledge that no matter how damp and how cold it was, it easily could have been worse, and that what they did, they did for their country. They all knew that there were people who would never know their names and would never know what they were doing this night, but that their way of life hung in the balance.
Lowering his night vision binoculars, Harvath looked at Ryan and said, “Are you ready for this?”
She nodded.
He pointed in the direction of the lodge and said, “We’re on, then.”
Ryan didn’t need the binoculars. She could see the pair of headlights as they drove out of the Kau Tapen and began bouncing along the rutted, partially washed-out road.
“This is Command One,” Harvath said into his microphone as he opened the door of his vehicle and stepped into the rain. “Park Place. Repeat. Park Place.”
Ryan exited as well and, opening her umbrella, stood near the back bumper of their 4x4 with a flashlight. While Harvath pretended to work on a tire, she watched the vehicle from the Kau Tapen Lodge as it wound its way up the ribbon of road, getting closer and closer.
When it reached the right distance, Ryan began to flag the driver down with her flashlight. As the green Land Rover neared, it began to slow, coming to a stop behind their SUV.
The driver was a handsome young man dressed in Helly Hansen foul weather gear. Putting his Land Rover in park, he immediately stepped out to see if he could help.
“Can I help you?” he asked in Spanish.
“I think we may have broken our axle,” Ryan replied in English.
The polite young man switched into English as he approached. “Would you like me to take a look?”
“You’re from the Kau Tapen Lodge?” she asked, pointing at the logo on the side of the man’s vehicle.
The young man nodded. The lodge participated in a hotel management program that brought in international hotelier students throughout the year, many from Canada, the United Kingdom, and the United States. They were always polished and attractive, which added to the establishment’s world-class feel.
“You probably have guests you need to get to the airport. We don’t want to keep you.”
“I’m by myself. I’m just delivering food. It’s no problem for me to take a look. My cousin is a mechanic in town.”
“I apologize,” Ryan said.
Whether it was her statement, or the gun she produced, it didn’t matter. The effect was what was desired. The young man stopped and froze in place.
“Turn around,” Ryan ordered. “Hands on your head.”
“You’re robbing me?” he asked, as he turned and did as she had instructed.
“Not exactly.”
As Ryan kept him covered, Harvath rushed forward, cuffed his hands, and placed him in their vehicle. Waiting inside were Sloane Ashby and Chase Palmer. They listened carefully as Harvath asked the young man a quick series of questions regarding Phil Durkin’s home and security measures. The young man was frightened and answered as best he could. Ryan tried to calm him down.
“Just answer our questions and everything will be okay. No one will hurt you.”
The young man gave descriptions of everything he was asked until Harvath was satisfied that they had everything they needed.
“Let’s roll,” he said.
Nodding, Ashby and Palmer climbed out of the 4x4 and jogged back to the Land Rover. It was time to go to the next phase.
As they got the Kau Tapen Lodge’s Land Rover back on the road, Harvath alerted the rest of the team.
“Boardwalk,” he said over the radio. “All teams, Boardwalk.”
CHAPTER 70
As Ashby drove, Palmer sat in the backseat and organized the trays of hot food. If it had been him, he would have hired a local to do his cooking for him instead of having his dinners catered from the lodge. It didn’t matter that Durkin could afford to do it; it just didn’t seem tactically wise.
Durkin, though, must have seen things differently. The hired help liked to talk. That was a potential liability he couldn’t afford. Not when he was on the run and knew people would be looking for him. Having the food prepared and brought over, while expensive, did have several advantages, not the least of which was that access with the outside world was limited.
As they closed in on Durkin’s small ranch, Ashby gave a SITREP over her radio and then asked for radio silence, as she didn’t want any distractions at the gate.
Pulling up to the wooden doors, she brought the vehicle to a stop and waited. Two burly men in ponchos stepped out of a stone guardhouse and motioned for the windows to be rolled down as they approached. Palmer had peeled back the lids on several of the trays so that the odor of food would permeate the Land Rover.
Even standing outside the vehicle in the rain, the men smelled like coffee and cigarettes.
The man on the driver’s side asked where the other delivery boy was. Ashby answered that he had the “Chilean flu” and pantomimed drinking a large glass of booze. The man chuckled and asked her where she was from. He wanted to flirt a little bit with her. His buddy, on the other hand, wanted to eat.
“She’s from the lodge, via the kitchen,” the other guard said. “Go see her when your shift is over. The food’s getting cold.”
Palmer laughed, though he shouldn’t have. The line was not meant for him to hear. He was a servant and should have remained invisible. It was good-natured ribbing between to comrades. His interjecting himself had made it about the man’s machismo.
“You think something is funny?” the first man asked.
“No, señor,” he replied.
“Why are you laughing, then?”
Shit, Palmer thought to himself. This guy is bored and itching for a fight. He needed to come up with something quick.
“I laughed because she doesn’t work in the kitchen, she works in the bar. And it’s her fault our colleague has such a bad hangover.”
The man on the passenger side laughed himself. “See? There you go.”
Palmer looked at the man on the driver’s side. “There are two things you can never trust a woman with: alcohol and guns.”
The gruff man seemed to like this joke and smiled. Reaching his hand in the window, he touched Ashby a little too close to her breast and said, “And what would a little girl like you do with a gun?”
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br /> Ashby pumped the gas as she took her foot off the clutch, which caused the Land Rover to leap forward a couple of feet. It also caused the overly friendly gate guard to snatch his hand back out of the window. The man on the other side of the vehicle found this quite amusing and laughed even louder.
“Okay,” the first man growled as he caught back up to the Land Rover, “you can go in. Make sure you tell them to bring us our food.” He added, pretending to put his hand back in, “I’ll make sure to come see you later at the bar.”
Ashby gunned the engine once more and the man dramatically leapt back as if she were suddenly radioactive. His smiling colleague opened the gate and allowed them to enter.
As they drove into the courtyard, she activated her radio and announced, “Free parking.”
Palmer smiled. “Come to think of it, maybe this phase should have been called Community Chest.”
She flipped him the middle finger. “We’ll deal with your alcohol and guns comment later,” she said. And then, playing on his nickname, she added, “Ass Kisser.”
He smiled as she brought the Land Rover to a stop outside the stone home’s heavy wooden front doors.
“Just like we rehearsed it,” she stated as she turned off the ignition and they both hopped out.
Removing trays of food, they walked up the front steps. Ashby went first, followed by Palmer. Before she even reached the doors, they were opened for her. Two more men stood there.
Ashby offered the trays to the taller of the two, but he shook his head. “Kitchen,” he told her.
She started walking in the most likely direction and the other man put his hand out to stop her. He peeled back the lid on the top tray each of them was carrying, while the taller man gave them a quick pat-down.
When the taller man tried to give her a second pat-down, she sidestepped him and asked, “Where’s the kitchen?”
The man grunted out directions and he and his colleague went back to their posts as she and Palmer walked down a wide hallway toward the rear of the house.
The rest of Durkin’s pals, four more men in total, were gathered around a large TV, watching soccer and drinking beer. The man himself, though, was nowhere to be found.
“Excuse me, gentlemen,” Palmer said. “Should we prepare eight plates? Or will there be others joining you?”
“Leave the food in the kitchen,” one of the men said with a dismissive wave. “We’ll get it ourselves.”
A voice from Northern Virginia came over their earpieces. “We’re picking up one additional heat signature in the northwest corner of the house.”
“Understood,” said Ashby. Quickly, she and Palmer unpacked the food, along with their weapons, which had been sealed in Ziploc bags and hidden inside.
With Palmer acting as a screen, she assembled a plate of appetizers and wrapped her suppressed weapon in a linen napkin underneath. She waited until the intensity of the soccer game began to pick up and then stepped into the television area.
“Who wants some?” she asked. “Compliments of Kau Tapen Lodge.”
One of the men turned to tell her to shut up, but upon seeing her, his pockmarked face spread into a lascivious grin and he beckoned her over.
His attention flitted back and forth between the soccer match and the attractive young lady carrying a plate of hot food.
Something wasn’t right, though. Was it the look in her eyes, or was it the fact that he could only see one of her hands and the other was hidden behind a napkin?
Ashby knew she was in trouble when the man gave up any pretense of watching the match. As his grin faded and his eyes narrowed, she saw his hand go for his gun. It was on.
“All teams go!” she said over her radio, and taking aim, she let the rounds from her weapon fly.
CHAPTER 71
As Harvath and Ryan came driving up the private road toward the gated ranch, thing one and thing two stepped out of the guardhouse. Matt Sanchez, hidden high above in the hills, watched it all unfold through the scope atop his rifle.
“You’re all clear,” he said over his microphone.
With Sanchez providing overwatch and Ryan in the passenger seat ready to engage any targets, Harvath leapt out of the 4x4 and opened the front gate.
Driving into the courtyard in front of the house, they received an update that not only had Ashby taken out the four men near the kitchen, Palmer had neutralized the two men just inside the front door. The only man left was the only man they were looking for.
Coasting to a stop, Harvath turned off their vehicle and removed the keys from the ignition. He and Ryan quietly climbed out and gently closed their doors.
They met Palmer in the entry hall and he signaled where he believed Durkin was holed up. Harvath nodded and gestured for him to circle around outside and make sure he didn’t escape. Ashby would remain inside and make sure nobody sneaked up on them from behind.
With their weapons up and ready, they crept down the hallway toward Durkin and the northwest corner of the house.
A door at the end of the hall was open and a television could be heard from the inside. It was tuned to an American cable news channel. There was no other sound. Harvath didn’t like it. How could Durkin have gone to all the trouble to set himself up at the end of the world with bodyguards and a gated retreat, but not have any intrusion detection measures? Did he feel that safe here? Or had he simply not gotten around to it because the ranch was never intended to be anything more than a fly-fishing getaway?
A few feet from the room, Harvath gave Ryan the signal to stop. He listened intently, his ears straining for any sound other than the TV coming from inside. He couldn’t make anything out.
Removing a flash-bang from his coat pocket, he showed it to Ryan, counted to three, and pitched it into the room.
He and Ryan crouched down, closed their eyes, plugged their ears, and opened their mouths to equalize the pressure from the blast. As soon as the device had detonated, they swept into the room.
Durkin had been taken by surprise, but not by them. He lay on the floor of his study with a single gunshot wound to the back of his head, blood pooling around him.
Ryan looked at Harvath. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
Harvath reached down and touched his skin. “This is fresh. He’s still warm. Come on.”
Running toward the front of the house, he radioed Ashby and Palmer to meet him there.
“How do you know the guy’s not hopping on a ferry?” shouted Palmer as he rushed to the Land Rover.
“I don’t,” Harvath replied as he jumped into the 4x4. “But we should assume he wants to get home as quickly as possible.”
There were two airports on the island. Harvath hoped that he had selected the right one. Just in case, he sent Sanchez toward the other. Better to only have one person there than no one at all.
As he raced toward his airport, Harvath asked General Johnson’s team to zoom their satellite out to try to help him find what he was looking for.
“There are vehicles coming and going in both directions,” a voice from Northern Virginia said over their earpieces. “We need more to narrow down the search.”
“We don’t have more,” Harvath replied. “The target could be in a car, a truck, or even on a motorcycle.”
“Searching,” said the voice. “Stand by.”
Ryan looked at Harvath as he pulled the wheel hard to the left and then swung out onto the main road.
“If the house was under satellite surveillance, how the hell did anyone get in or out without being seen?” she asked.
“With the weather, they were relying heavily on thermal imagery. That kind of technology is no longer foolproof. In fact, if you have the right resources, anything can be beaten.”
The analyst’s voice from Northern Virginia came back over their earpieces. “We’ve now got a plane warming up at Ushuaia International.”
“Get somebody to overlay a schematic for an Aerion SBJ,” said Harvath. “I want to know if you get a matc
h.”
“The Fed helped Durkin escape, only to turn around and kill him?” Ryan asked.
“I think somebody doesn’t want him to talk.”
“Who?”
Harvath was about to reply, when the voice from Northern Virginia came back. “We’ve got a hit on that aircraft profile,” it said. “You were right. Aerion SBJ. We also picked up a cell phone transmission between what we believe is the aircraft and a vehicle about fifteen miles ahead of you.”
Harvath looked at Ryan as he stepped on the accelerator and said, “I think we’re about to get all of our questions answered.”
* * *
By the time they caught up with the blue Chevrolet Celta, they were less than ten miles outside Ushuaia. Harvath slowed his approach so as not to spook the driver.
“What do you want to do?” Ryan asked.
“We’re going to box him in,” he replied, as he radioed Ashby and Palmer to tell them what he wanted to do.
“Roger that,” Ashby acknowledged. Punching the accelerator, she first passed Harvath’s vehicle and then the Chevy Celta before settling into the lead position on the road to Ushuaia.
Palmer had wanted to see if he could get a look at the driver, but Harvath had warned him not to. He wanted to take him by surprise. It was bad enough that the Land Rover had the fishing lodge’s logo emblazoned on the side of it. He didn’t need a man who was no stranger to killing locking eyes potentially with another such man. He told Palmer to pretend he was asleep.
If the driver of the Celta suspected anything, he gave no indication as he maintained his present course and speed.
Getting back on his radio, Harvath told Northern Virginia there was one other thing he was going to need and that the Old Man better get back on the phone to his SAS contact quick.
Five minutes later, the Old Man came back to him with a safe house location. Immediately after, Ashby told Harvath she could see a stoplight ahead and that they should launch the ambush at the next red.
