by Brad Thor
No, there was no changing Tracy Hastings’s mind. She was in this game till the end, no matter what its outcome.
For his part, Harvath couldn’t let her take all the risk upon herself. She didn’t deserve to die. She’d already been through enough in Iraq and with everything else she’d suffered since that failed IED disposal assignment. But what could he do? The answer wasn’t easy to accept, but it was perfectly clear—nothing.
“Your insubordination has been duly noted for the record,” said Harvath.
He could hear Hastings stifle a laugh beneath the raised floor.
“Really?” she said as she began quoting him almost word for word, “Well, seeing as how I’m neither a federal employee nor a recognized active-duty EOD tech, and my participation in this operation is in an unofficial, unrecognized, and most definitely unsanctioned capacity, I fail to see what the downside of that might be.”
Harvath thought about it for a moment and then said, “Insubordination on one of my teams comes at a pretty high price. You’re going to have to pay for our dinner now, Lieutenant.”
Hastings laughed again, though this time it seemed forced. “If we both get out of this alive, then I’m going to be thrilled to pay for dinner. In fact, we’ll go anywhere you want.”
“I’m going to hold you to that,” he said.
“Good,” she replied. “Now, when I tell you, I want you to take one step back off that floor panel and then run like hell.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Hopefully, I’ll be looking over my shoulder and laughing as you get beaten in a footrace by some girl.”
This time it was Harvath’s turn to laugh. “You’re anything but some girl, Tracy.”
“I’d tell you flattery would get you everywhere, but somehow encouraging you at such an awkward moment doesn’t seem right. Just focus on getting ready to run.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Hastings looked up through the hole in the floor and said, “That’s Lieutenant to you, Agent Harvath.”
Harvath smiled back at her and prayed to God she was going to make it. He didn’t know why—maybe it was her vulnerability, or maybe it was her smart-ass attitude, but she had really grown on him and he was one hundred percent serious about taking her out for dinner and dancing.
“Okay, on three,” she said, once she’d squirmed back beneath the raised platform to where the secondary bomb was located.
Harvath took a deep breath and waited. Then he heard her.
“One, two, three!”
Leaping off the raised floor platform, all Scot could think about was making sure Tracy Hastings made it out alive. Something told him that if she didn’t, he’d carry that burden for the rest of his life.
He turned, expecting to see her sliding out from beneath the platform, but she wasn’t there. He looked back toward the opening next to where he’d been standing, but she wasn’t there either. Where the hell was she?
Suddenly, there was a splintering sound near his feet, and he realized she must have crawled beneath the floor to the far side to have a better shot at the door. As the panel broke open she yelled, “Run, you idiot! Run!”
Harvath ignored her and leaning down gripped the panel and tore the rest of it away. He pulled Tracy out from underneath and onto her feet. To her credit, or more than likely her exceptional survival instinct, she didn’t bother to stop and thank him. She ran like hell. And true to her prediction, she looked back over her shoulder and saw Harvath losing a footrace to some girl.
It might have actually been funny except for the fact that five seconds later both bombs detonated and sent shards of glass and bulletproof Lexan screaming through the room.
Seventy-Six
Hitting the entry corridor, Tracy spun, grabbed ahold of Harvath’s tactical vest, and tried to pull him out of the doorway. The blast wave that came through the passage slapped him so hard, it felt like he’d gone off a high dive and had landed right on his back. Tracy lost her footing and they both stumbled to the ground.
When Harvath looked up, he found Hastings sitting against the wall, while his head, or more appropriately his face, was in a rather ungentlemanly position right between her legs.
“I suppose most guys probably just would have said thank you,” he joked.
Hastings eyes were wide. “You don’t feel that?” she asked, looking down.
Harvath had no idea what she was talking about. “Feel what?”
“Your back.”
“It hurts like hell, but it’ll pass.”
“Not if I don’t do something about it,” she replied as she pulled a pair of needle-nose pliers from her pocket.
It wasn’t until Harvath glanced over his right shoulder that he saw what Tracy was talking about.
“Do you have something to bite down on?” she asked.
Harvath looked at Hastings’s very toned inner thigh beneath her pants and remarked, “Maybe I should just focus my mind in another direction. Make it quick, would you?”
“All right, Mr. Macho SEAL. Here we go. Can I get a Hooyah?”
The pain was amazing for such a relatively small hunk of Lexan. Harvath accompanied its extremely nasty extraction with a very long and very loud Navy Hooyah.
The minute it was out, Hastings tore open one of the QuickClot pouches Morgan had handed her when they were treating the mounted patrolman in Central Park and shoved it into Harvath’s wound. Without any gauze to cover it, she reached for the next best thing—duct tape. She still had several pieces hanging from her shirt from dealing with the IEDs, and after tearing back part of Harvath’s shirt, she was able to perfectly cover the wound and flatten out the tape so it adhered to his skin.
“You want to keep it as a souvenir?” she asked as she showed him the piece she’d pulled from his back.
“I’ve got my eye set on another trophy,” he said.
Hastings looked down at him still poised between her legs and raised her eyebrows.
Harvath shook his head and began to get up. “I’m talking about the people who are responsible for all this.”
A smile came to Tracy’s face, and she was about to say something, when Harvath’s radio crackled to life. It was Bob Herrington. “Scot? Scot, do you read me? Over.”
“I read you, Bob,” said Harvath as he swung the lip mic back into place and push-up–style raised himself off the floor and then backed away from Tracy Hastings.
“We heard an explosion. Are you okay?”
“Roger that,” replied Harvath. “Only slightly worse for wear.”
Hastings shot a glance at the makeshift bandage across his back and Harvath ignored her. “What have you got, Bob?”
“They gained access via some ductwork off the elevator shaft and went out via the concealed garage exit.”
Harvath found that hard to believe. “McGahan and his men are on 49th Street. They never would have made it.”
“They didn’t go out 49th Street. They found a service entrance and cut back through the hotel.”
“Where are you now?”
“Right behind them. They’re headed for the Park Avenue exit.”
“Do you have a visual?”
“Negative.”
“How are you following them?”
“You’d be amazed at the stuff they dragged in on their boots from the garage,” replied Herrington.
Gasoline, oil, brake fluid…Harvath could only imagine. God bless Bob Herrington. Urban tracking was an absolute bitch and something Harvath had never been that good at.
Realizing that it was safer to go out the 50th Street stairwell than to slowly creep down the 49th Street side and hope that McGahan and his men would recognize them as friendlies and not jump the gun and open fire on them, Harvath relayed his plan to Herrington.
If they could get to the Park Avenue entrance in time, they might be able to finally put an end to the terrorists’ killing spree once and for all. What they were learning, though, was that things didn’t always go a
s planned.
Seventy-Seven
WASHINGTON, DC
Gary Lawlor had first boarded the helicopter in DC with no idea what to expect from the NSA interrogation or why Stan Caldwell had invited him along. On a day like today, the deputy director should have been glued to the Strategic Information and Operations Center at FBI headquarters. It made little sense that he would break away to personally conduct an interrogation, even if it was at the behest of the NSA director.
Regardless, Lawlor had kept his mouth shut and had gone along for the ride, hoping that something would come out of it that could help his own investigation and Scot Harvath’s efforts on the ground in New York City. But now that the Schreiber interrogation was complete and Lawlor had nothing more to gain, he wanted answers out of Caldwell.
Once the Sikorsky S76C lifted off, Gary turned to the deputy director and said, “I want to talk about why you asked me to come along on this.”
Stan had known this was coming, and he’d hoped to avoid it by getting on the phone right away and keeping busy with headquarters until they got back to DC. Realizing he was stuck, he turned toward his mentor and said, “I told you. It was a professional courtesy. I thought it might help with your current investigation.”
“Just like the interrogation you threw our way in Manhattan?”
Caldwell nodded his head. “We finally got someone over there, but apparently the guy’s not talking. Did your guy do any better?”
“Don’t change the subject,” said Lawlor. “Why the largess?”
“I told you.”
“Right, professional courtesy. You know, Stan, you always were a bad liar.”
Caldwell smiled. “It still didn’t stop me from inheriting the deputy director position after you left, though, did it?”
“Apparently not. Now, do you want to tell me what’s really going on? No bullshit, Bureau guy to Bureau guy.”
Caldwell would have liked nothing more than to answer that question, but he knew he couldn’t.
“Stan, Americans in Manhattan are actively being slaughtered. We’re talking about government employees along with a significant number of marines. If you know something, anything that might be able to help me put a stop to it, you need to tell me.”
“Let it go, Gary. All four NSA locations have already been hit. Whatever the bad guys came for, they already got.”
Lawlor couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “Let it go? I’ve got a team hot on their trail. I’m not letting anything go. Who are you trying to protect?”
“I’m not protecting anybody. Whatever information your team has compiled, I want it turned over to me. The Bureau is now the lead agency on this, and we’re going to take it from here.”
“Like hell you will. Right now, my people are the best and the only chance we have.”
Caldwell hated to do it, but he looked at his mentor and said, “I’m not asking you, Gary. As deputy director of the lead agency in charge of investigating the New York City attacks, I’m giving you a direct order.”
For a moment, Lawlor was at a loss for words. Finally he said, “I must be scraping a very raw nerve.”
“Just do it, all right?”
“Stan, you realize that when the initial shock wears off and the dust starts to settle in New York, people are going to start calling for blood.”
Caldwell didn’t respond.
“And the loudest cry of all is going to be for the blood of the people who let our country get attacked, again. The 9/11 Commission will look like a joke, compared to the investigation that’ll follow this. And I’ll tell you right now, it’ll have teeth too—big, sharp, shiny ones. The American people won’t let anything get swept under the rug, not this time. No long blacked-out sections to protect ongoing intelligence operations, no political cronyism making sure the most influential asses are covered. Not even the president will be safe on this one.
“They’re going to climb up the Bureau’s ass so far it’ll be sneezing shoe leather. When they get to you, the deputy director, they’re going to look at how you spent every minute up to and after the attacks, including this little joyride out to the NSA. They’re going to want to know exactly what we talked about and I guarantee you I’ll be there to testify. The only question is, what am I going to tell them? And that’s up to you. Either I’m going to say the FBI did everything they could to help apprehend the terrorists, or they let the best chance any of us had slip through their fingers. Can you imagine the repercussions of that? The Bureau would look like the Keystone Kops. It probably would never recover. Congress might even call for shutting it down. Wouldn’t that be something?”
Caldwell stared out the helicopter’s window. He knew Gary was right. It was a possibility the FBI had been privately discussing for some time. There had been whispers about dismantling the Bureau in the wake of the 9/11 fiasco, but they had managed to cut it off at the knees before it gained too much momentum. After what happened today, though, there was no way they’d be able to stop something like that once the wheels were set in motion. The American people were going to want revenge, even if it meant tying an entire government agency to the stake and watching as it was roasted alive. Caldwell couldn’t let that happen.
It seemed ironic that a choice between what was best for one’s government and what was best for one’s country had to be so diametrically opposed, but the deputy director knew what he had to do. And turning away from the window to face Gary Lawlor, he did it, but with one condition.
Seventy-Eight
NEW YORK CITY
Harvath and Hastings exited the Waldorf via the 50th Street stairwell and took off at top speed for Park Avenue. As they neared the corner, they heard what sounded like a car crash, followed by spurts of automatic-weapons fire.
“Bob, what the hell is going on up there?” demanded Harvath over his headset.
“We’ve got ’em. They carjacked a minivan but collided with a cab and it got stuck on the median. They’re headed for St. Bartholomew’s church on the corner. What’s your ETA?”
“We’re thirty seconds out.”
“They’re going through the outdoor café area. Hurry up.”
As they ran, Harvath relayed everything to Tracy. When they arrived at the church, Herrington, Morgan, and Cates were waiting for them.
“What do we have?” asked Harvath.
“I count five tangos,” said Bob. “All in black Nomex with automatic weapons like the ones we found at the Grail facility. The HRT patches are the only way you can tell them apart from the good guys.”
“Do we know where they are inside?”
“Negative. Only that they went in this way.”
Harvath switched over to his police radio to raise Colin McGahan, whom he’d already given a report to as they were on their way down the 50th Street stairwell.
“I read you,” replied the ESU commander. “We heard shots fired. What’s going on? Over.”
“They’ve just entered St. Bartholomew’s, but we’re going to need help with containment. Can you spare anyone to cover the exits? Over.”
“I’ve already sent a couple of guys your way, but that won’t be enough to cover every exit. Over.”
“Tell your men to place themselves so that they can cover more than one door at once—even if it means they have to stand in the middle of the block. And make sure they know that we’re after five tangos dressed exactly like you guys, except with HRT patches on their vests. Over.”
“Roger that,” replied McGahan, who then signed off.
The St. Bart’s outdoor café had been converted into an open-air aid station, with waiters and waitresses providing bottled water and snacks to anyone who needed them. The sound of gunfire followed by heavily armed men running into the church had everyone terrified.
Approaching someone who looked like a manager, Harvath identified himself as DHS and said, “I need a map of the inside of the church with exits, stairwells, and elevators, and I need it right now.”
The
manager nodded her head and quickly retrieved a narrow red binder from beneath the hostess stand. She withdrew a piece of paper labeled Fire Evacuation Plan and handed it to Harvath.
“Other than your staff, is there anyone inside?”
“No,” she replied, “the church is closed. Only the café is open.”
Harvath thanked her, and after asking her to get everyone off the terrace and as far away from the building as possible, he and the team went inside.
Knowing that the men they were chasing were very fond of booby traps, they made their way very carefully.
St. Bartholomew’s was a Romanesque church based upon the Cathedral of St. Marco in Venice and had been built in a traditional crucifix pattern with the altar at the top, facing east. It was an incredible structure, and on any other day this would have made for a perfect place to while away several hours, but they weren’t here to sightsee. They were here to take down a team of highly efficient killers.
Having been one step behind for so long, it was tough for Harvath to now place his mind one step ahead. He knew very little about his enemy, but he did know they were disciplined, well armed, and obviously very well trained. They were Chechen soldiers, some of whom probably had even been Russian Spetsnaz at some point. While they didn’t shy from conflict, they did seem to avoid it whenever possible, as they had in the Waldorf. Harvath knew this meant that they would probably be looking for an exit on the north side of the church, away from their pursuers.
Looking at the floor plan he’d been given by the manager of the café, Harvath figured the exits that made the most sense were the emergency ones on the northernmost side of the sanctuary. Falling into their conga line, they raced forward toward the doors that led into the main church structure. No sooner had they opened them than they were greeted with a searing wave of deafening weapons fire.
Seventy-Nine
