by Brad Thor
Harvath heeded his advice as he took up a position near the window. Monitoring the video feed from the drone, he made notes in a small notebook.
ISIS didn’t want to draw attention to itself, and so kept a low profile. There were no antiaircraft guns, permanent checkpoints, or roving teams of fighters in pickup trucks with .50-caliber machine guns mounted in their beds. That made Harvath’s job a lot more difficult.
ISIS had enemies—lots of them—and its high-ranking leaders weren’t about to let someone roll right up on them.
Spotters would be hidden in houses and among the townspeople up and down the streets. Every set of eyes was a potential threat. Separating good person from bad was a near impossible task.
If Harvath had been honest with himself, the best plan of all would be to fly in two pairs of F-22s and just destroy everything. Turn it all into a smoldering pile of rubble and call it a day.
But, as much as the idea appealed to him, it was dwarfed by his desire to look Sacha Baseyev in the eye. He wanted to see the man’s face when he realized it was all over and he was going to die. Harvath owed that to the CIA team and the embassy staffers in Anbar, to Secretary Devon and his protective detail who were slaughtered in Turkey, and to those killed and wounded at the White House bombing.
Then there was the second thing he wanted—to cause a well-deserved shit storm for the Russians.
Based on the information Sergun had given in his interrogation, Baseyev would be back in the town tonight. Many high-level ISIS members, including its top Russian speakers, planned a meeting to honor him.
If Harvath could confirm where the event was happening, the United States could take action. Then, with Nicholas’s help, they could make it look like the Russians were responsible.
The President, McGee, and Carlton had all told Harvath that they’d let him make the call, but none of them liked it. It was too risky. Just getting to Baseyev would be a major, against-the-odds accomplishment. Remaining in Furat after that, though, was suicide. They wanted Harvath out as soon as possible.
Harvath agreed. He didn’t want to stay any longer than necessary. If they could pull this off, though, the risk would be worth it. Too much had been lost, too many had died, for him not to at least try.
The key was timing all of it. Getting into the town, getting the job done, and getting out.
Looking at a map of the area, Harvath needed to figure out two things. Where could he zero in his rifle? And once it was dark, how were they going to make their approach?
After discussing the first question with Qabbani and Yusuf, Harvath contacted D.C. to ask them to pull the drone back and check out the sand dunes eight kilometers east of their position.
When word came back that it was all clear, Harvath and Thoman grabbed some items to use as targets, hopped in the truck, and headed out.
As they drove, they discussed a multitude of items that could impact their assignment. Harvath explained that not only could things go wrong, they should absolutely expect them to.
He had no idea how prophetic his words would be. After he fired the first round through the PSL rifle, the next round in the magazine failed to feed.
Harvath had had his reservations about it. You didn’t normally see PSLs modified to take a suppressor. It was an intricate custom job and, if not done properly, could result in problems.
But it had been the only suppressed long gun available, and for his plan to work, that’s what he needed. It didn’t have to be the best. All it had to do was look the part and, at the very least, function.
His first instinct was that the bolt hadn’t come all the way back to pick up the next round. But when he examined it, he realized that wasn’t the problem.
Ejecting the magazine, he removed the round that didn’t feed and reinserted the magazine. After charging the weapon, he focused on his target and pressed the trigger.
The weapon fired, but once again, the next round in the magazine failed to chamber. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” Harvath muttered.
“What’s wrong?” Thoman asked.
“I’m going to kill your gun dealer, that’s what’s wrong.”
He had taken a risk buying a weapon from someone he didn’t know and without being able to test-fire it. Welcome to war in Syria.
Ejecting the metal magazine, he examined the edges at the top called the feed lips. He was hoping the problem wasn’t with the rifle itself but was limited to the mag. “Do we have any pliers?” he asked.
Thoman walked back to the truck and returned with an adjustable wrench. “This is all I could find.”
Harvath held his hand out like a surgeon and accepted the tool. It took five bends and several more shots to get the magazine feeding properly, but once it did, the gun performed perfectly.
As soon as he had the night-vision scope dialed in, he and Thoman leapt into the pickup and hurried back.
It was late in the day and Harvath still had a lot to do. This was the only chance they were going to get. And while he wasn’t superstitious, he couldn’t help but take the problems with the rifle as a bad sign.
His mind flashed to all of the ISIS videos he had ever seen—how they drowned, burned, and flayed captives to death.
He could feel a sense of apprehension growing inside him. Was this the smartest thing to be doing? Had he thought everything out? Was there a better way? Had he overlooked anything? Had he, God forbid, missed something critical?
Taking a deep breath, he held it for a couple of seconds and let it out. He was about to walk right into the center of ISIS. They were beyond barbaric, beyond evil, and he was beyond outgunned.
What he was feeling was fear. It wasn’t the first time he’d felt it. It certainly wouldn’t be the last. No one was immune to it.
Courage, though, wasn’t the absence of fear. It was what you did in spite of it.
The only thing he could do was to put together the best plan possible, faithfully execute that plan, and be ready to improvise if it all went to hell.
As he slammed a metal door down on his doubts and tried to focus his mind, he was left with a final, disturbing thought. This could be the last assignment he ever undertook. Here, in the middle of nowhere, could be where he would die.
CHAPTER 64
WASHINGTON, D.C.
Do you like it?” Rebecca asked, turning in a slow circle in the center of the hotel room. “It’s called a basque.”
Joe Edwards didn’t care what it was called. It was hot. He swallowed and nodded at the same time. God, she was amazing.
Rebecca bit her bottom lip as she looked at him. The lacy white basque was like a form-fitting corset that extended down over her hips. It ended in frilly garters that were attached to a pair of sheer stockings. She beckoned with her index finger for him to come to her and he obeyed.
She pressed her lips against his and pulled him onto the bed. They had never done a “nooner” before. The room had cost her a lot of money. She hoped it would be worth it.
He was clumsy undressing her. He was always clumsy. He was also a lousy lay. But at least he was quick.
Once they were both undressed, she rubbed her body against his. It drove him wild with desire. Sometimes he had to tell her to slow down. There were times when she could make him almost too hot.
Kissing down his chest, she positioned herself right between his legs, stopping when she got to his navel. Slowly, she traced her tongue around it. She could feel him pressing against her chest. He wanted her, badly.
And she was prepared to let him take her, but there was something she needed from him first. “Maybe we shouldn’t do this.”
Joe snaked toward the headboard in order to get Rebecca’s mouth right where he wanted it. “Yes, we should,” he whispered, as he ran his fingers through her hair and pressed her head lower.
She could feel him against her thr
oat. “You got me in trouble.”
“Shhhhhh.”
“I’m serious,” she replied, licking a little bit beneath his belly button. “My boss isn’t happy with me.”
Moving his hands from the top of her head to the sides of her face, he stopped everything. “Is that why we’re here?”
Rebecca smiled and slid a little lower. “Of course not. I wanted to see you.”
He stopped her. “Seriously. What’s this about? What happened with Wells?”
“It’s about Secretary Devon.”
“What about him?”
“Wells couldn’t confirm what you told me about the attack in Turkey. You know, that the White House knew about it in advance.”
“Jesus, Rebecca,” he said wiggling out from underneath her, the mood killed.
Reaching over the side of the bed, he fished his e-cig from his jacket that was crumpled on the floor.
“What?” she demurred.
Stuffing a couple of pillows behind his head, he propped himself up against the headboard and took a puff.
Exhaling the vapor, he pressed his palm against his forehead. “Of course he can’t confirm it. Only the President and the Director of Central Intelligence knew about it. Outside a couple of their closest advisers, no one else knew.”
“You’re sure about that?”
“I read the actual memo. I read all of their memos—and then some. You know that. Where do you think I get everything?”
Rebecca knew exactly where he got everything. He was one of the CIA’s top IT people. He was also brilliant at connecting dots. In the intelligence world, what was said was just as important as what was not said. Thirty-three-year-old Joe Edwards was a master at putting together the big picture, even when half the puzzle pieces were missing.
His parents and even his grandparents had been either career intelligence or career civil service. It had been an honor for all of them, even Joe, to serve their country.
But D.C. had changed. America, in Joe’s opinion, had changed. It had lost its way. It had let him down.
As he looked around him and saw broken promise after broken promise, he began to question what he was doing and whom he was doing it for. This wasn’t what he wanted. It wasn’t what he had signed up for.
He had wanted to make the world a better place. Instead, he was employed by a corrupt oligarchy intent upon bending the world to its will. Other countries and other cultures had value only in direct proportion to what they could do for the United States. It was bullshit—all of it.
That’s what he loved about Senator Wells. He saw in him a man who could change Washington. He could change the whole game. He had the guts to burn it all to the ground and rebuild it from the ashes—the way it should be. And Joe was honored to play a part in it.
The fact that Rebecca saw the world the way that he did was icing on the cake. They were made for each other. That was obvious from the get-go.
He understood why she needed to keep their relationship secret. Washington was full of haters, people who liked to tear good things apart.
Despite how busy she was, she always found time to see him. He knew a lot of it had to do with the sex. She always raved about how fantastic he was.
He’d never thought of himself as a monster in bed until her. She just drew the beast out in him.
They were completely in sync in so many ways, but the most important was their vision for the country.
Senator Wells had a very good chance of becoming the next President. If he did, he would be taking Rebecca with him. And if she went with Wells, she would be bringing Joe.
Rebecca was Joe’s golden ticket. The opportunities at the White House were boundless. The good he could do was beyond measure. He could help steer America back on track, back to where he knew it was meant to be.
Whatever it took, he was willing. That was why he had offered to help her, to help Wells.
Of course, she had turned him down. Rebecca had not liked the thought of dealing in classified information. Joe, though, had put her at ease—even if it had involved bending the truth.
Her boss was the Chairman of the Senate Intelligence Committee. There wasn’t anything he was sharing with her that Wells didn’t have every right to know.
It was all aboveboard. Not that Rebecca could talk about it publicly. That was out of the question. All Joe had asked was that if, God willing, they made it to the White House, they would take him along.
Rebecca, of course, had said yes. In fact, she had done more than just say yes. She had described in wonderful detail all the things they would be able to do together once Wells was in the Oval Office.
While he found them all inspiring, his naughty idea of what they could do on Air Force One was something he thought could be a first in American history, and he was very much looking forward to it.
Rebecca crawled up next to him and laid her head upon his chest. “You know how the Senator is. He puts a tremendous amount of pressure on everyone.”
“But especially his Chief of Staff.”
She nodded, her soft hair brushing against his skin.
“Well, what if I could give you something even better? Even bigger than the Devon information?”
Rebecca looked up at him and smiled. “What would it cost me?”
Joe Edwards put his e-cig on the nightstand and turned back toward her. “That depends,” he said. “Where were we?”
• • •
Twenty-five minutes later, Rebecca Ritter exited the hotel and turned left, heading for a sleepy café about six blocks away. The afternoon air was warm. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky. It was perfect walking weather.
She almost thought she could smell the cherry blossoms from the Tidal Basin.
If what Joe Edwards had just told her was true, and she had no reason to believe it wasn’t, she had landed yet another exceptional piece of intelligence. Her handler was going to be very interested in what she had to report.
Up ahead was a collection of retail shops. One of the stores had a rear door that led into a parking garage.
From there, she could access the next street over and check to make sure no one was following her. Crossing the intersection, she headed for it.
As she did, the man who had been following her at a distance spoke into a small microphone and told his team to keep an eye on the garage.
CHAPTER 65
FURAT, SYRIA
Surrounding the town’s most famous well was a small, paved square. Ringing the square were street vendors and all sorts of small shops. Harvath, in the backseat of the pickup truck, took it all in from beneath his burka.
Yusuf was driving. Qabbani sat in the passenger seat next to him. The Hadids had already been dropped off.
“Have you seen enough?” Yusuf asked, his eyes on the road in front of him. He was very uncomfortable driving through the center of town.
“Keep going,” Harvath replied. “I’ll let you know.”
Yusuf did as he was told and continued forward.
According to the CIA, the town contained around ten thousand people. The few ISIS members he saw tried to blend in with the locals, but they were easy to spot.
Out gathering intelligence, supplies, or simply functioning as lookouts, they had a ravaged, battle-hardened look about them. Their faces were stern and their eyes took in everything.
None of them wore fatigues. They were dressed in civilian clothes. Traditional headdresses known as keffiyehs hung loosely around their necks. All of them had facial hair.
The biggest giveaway, though, was their weight. While the townspeople were sickly-thin, the young ISIS members were healthy and fit. None of them appeared to have missed any meals.
To be posted to this town meant you were plugged into the elite of ISIS. And, as in any totalitarian system, there were two classes—those at the
top, and everyone else.
The leaders of ISIS and their inner circle of fighters lived very well. They had their pick of houses, cars, and female hostages to serve as concubines. The rest of the organization, though, was suffering badly.
Because of the ongoing international efforts against it, their rank and file, aka cannon fodder, had seen their wages cut in half, their rations reduced, and their medical care dry up. But their faith kept them marching forward into battle.
Online, slick social media campaigns kept the fighters rolling in and helped to recruit followers around the globe willing to carry out attacks in their own countries. No matter how bad things got, ISIS seemed only to grow in number and influence.
“Do you want to drive by the house?” Yusuf asked as they left the square and headed north.
Harvath had a bag in his lap. Inside was his phone. He could see what the drone overhead was seeing. His earpiece allowed him to communicate back home to Langley.
“Not just yet,” he replied. “Let’s drive past the main mosque and then check the route out of town.”
Yusuf shook his head. He thought Harvath way too brazen. But Harvath had made him the same promise he had made Qabbani.
He was going to take care of them and their families. It was an opportunity Yusuf never could have imagined. If the American remained true to his word, which Yusuf prayed to Allah he would, every risk he was being asked to take would be worth it.
Harvath had chosen this route so that they passed the tiny storefront that functioned as the local police department. With ISIS in town, the police would have been bought off. He wanted to assess their level of professionalism.
He noted two officers, seated outside, smoking. They were unkempt. Their uniforms were wrinkled and one had a large stain. These were not law enforcement officers who took pride in themselves, much less their chosen profession. They wouldn’t pose a problem. The problem would come from the ISIS members themselves.
As they neared the mosque, Yusuf almost hit one of them. The man had stepped out from a parked vehicle to stop traffic. Several of his colleagues wanted to cross the street to attend early-evening prayers.
