by Brad Thor
Yusuf didn’t see him and slammed on the brakes at the very last second. He came so close that the man slammed his hand down on the hood of the pickup.
Oh shit was the first thing that went through Harvath’s mind as the man raged at Yusuf in Arabic.
To his credit, the Syrian kept his cool, apologized, and begged for forgiveness, his eyes cast down.
The ISIS man, though, was spoiling for a fight. Grabbing the driver’s side door, he yanked it open.
Harvath had already put his phone in an interior pocket, dropped the bag to the floor, and had his hands under his burka, where he was cradling an AK in his lap.
He had multiple extra magazines strapped to his chest, the PalaFox SIG Sauer tucked in the Sticky holster at the small of his back, and all the extra grenades that hadn’t been used at the saltbox. If these guys wanted to rock and roll, he was going to give them the best damn gunfight they’d ever seen.
Maintaining his calm, he met Yusuf’s eyes in the rearview mirror. The man was panic-stricken. Harvath nodded slowly, trying to reassure him.
The ISIS fighter yelled for Yusuf to get out of the vehicle. Yusuf put it in park and did as he was told. Two of the ISIS fighters crossing the street came over to see what was going on. Harvath assessed each one, deciding who he was going to shoot first. This was turning into a goat rodeo real fast.
Sizing up the combatants, he had decided to first shoot the guy hassling Yusuf, when he heard the front passenger door opening. Qabbani had decided to get out and intervene.
Harvath couldn’t believe it. Yusuf knew how to handle these sorts of things. Harvath had seen him in action multiple times. Qabbani should have stayed in the truck. He was going to get himself and everybody else killed.
No sooner had he stepped out of the pickup than the lead ISIS fighter started yelling at him to get back in.
Harvath could see Qabbani break the beams of the headlights as he crossed in front of the vehicle. The ISIS people didn’t like his insolence.
The lead fighter grabbed the front of Yusuf’s shirt and snapped at one of his buddies to intercept Qabbani.
No sooner had the man begun to move than Harvath saw Qabbani reach beneath his robe.
Oh shit, Harvath thought again. Don’t let it be a gun.
Apparently, the ISIS members were all on the same wavelength because immediately, the guns that they had kept out of public view, came flying out and were trained on Qabbani.
Harvath was now in a no-win situation. The minute he started shooting, either Yusuf or Qabbani were going to die. He could only save one of them.
Another person might have thought to save Qabbani. With his cancer, Yusuf was already dead. But that wasn’t how Harvath operated.
He and Yusuf went back all of maybe thirty-six hours, but they’d been in the shit together. First and foremost, Harvath was loyal. If he had to choose whom to save, he was choosing Yusuf.
It would all be for nothing, though, if fucking Qabbani didn’t stop right where he was. If he kept walking closer to Yusuf, there wasn’t going to be a thing Harvath could do for either of them.
Thankfully, one of the ISIS men punched him in the chest with the nubby barrel of a Škorpion machine pistol and halted his advance.
Wrenching the crooked farmer’s arm from beneath his robe, the ISIS man pulled it up into the light of the driver’s-side headlamp and showed what he had been reaching for—a bag of dates.
Harvath couldn’t believe it. The man had almost gotten everybody killed over a bag of fucking dates.
The ISIS men seemed to appreciate the irony as well, as they began laughing.
The man with Qabbani snatched the bag and shoved him back in the direction he had come from.
The man standing with Yusuf slapped him in the face, laughed, and pushed him back in the truck.
Arguing over the bag of dates, the three ISIS men crossed the street toward the mosque.
Yusuf sat down and pulled his door shut. Harvath didn’t dare say a word. He watched the Syrian grip the steering wheel until his knuckles turned white. He was enraged and channeling every ounce of it out and through the frame of the car.
Once Qabbani had climbed back in and closed the door, Yusuf put the vehicle in gear. He made sure no one else was attempting to cross the narrow street to get to the mosque and then lifted off the clutch and rolled forward.
As soon as they started moving, Harvath asked, “Are you okay?” It was a stupid question, and he knew it, but he had to ask it anyway.
Yusuf had been forced to swallow his pride on so many occasions that he no longer choked on it for long. “I’m fine,” he replied. “Let’s get this over with.”
CHAPTER 66
The white Toyota Hilux rolled forward, its occupants preparing to do a drive-by of the dwelling the American in the backseat had identified on his map.
They were almost to the edge of town when Harvath said, “Stop.”
“I can’t stop,” Yusuf answered. “We might attract attention.”
“Do it,” Harvath ordered. “Pull over, get out, and open the hood. Pretend like something’s wrong with the truck.”
Yusuf did as he was asked.
“There’s a building at our eleven o’clock,” Harvath said via his earpiece. “Three back from the corner. Do you see it?”
“Roger that, Norseman,” Lydia Ryan replied, watching the feed from the drone overhead. “We see it. What’s up?”
“Somebody has a ton of screens lit up in there.”
“Screens?”
“Monitors of some sort. I can’t completely see from here.”
“Can you get a closer look?” she asked.
“Not without getting out of the vehicle.”
“What else do you see?”
Harvath scanned the vicinity for anything that appeared unusual or out of the ordinary. “Generators,” he said finally. “Four of them.”
“Four?” Ryan responded. Why the hell do they need that many?”
He turned his head, subtly, toward the window and tried to peer through the mesh of the burka. “I’m guessing that whatever those monitors are, they’re drawing a lot of power. Plus, I can see air-conditioning units.”
“Stand by, Norseman,” she said.
Harvath waited.
A minute later, Ryan came back on line. “We’re very interested in what’s going on inside that building. Picking up lots of activity.”
“Electronic?” Harvath asked.
“Roger that. Can you get a closer look?”
He was just about to respond when Yusuf closed the hood and climbed back into the truck. “We need to go.”
“What’s up?”
“We’re being watched,” the Syrian said as he started the truck, revved it like he was having trouble, and then slowly put it in gear and began moving. “As soon as we stopped, a man appeared at the front of the building with a rifle and got on his cell phone.”
From where Harvath had been sitting, he hadn’t been able to see him. “Good eyes.”
Replying to Langley, he said, “Negative on that closer look. Going to do a pass of the objective now.”
“Roger that,” Ryan replied. “Be careful.”
As they moved up the street, Harvath glanced sideways, taking in everything he could about the building with the AC and the extra generators. Someone had spent some serious money on it.
Nearing Baseyev’s home on the edge of town, Harvath had the truck slow, but not much.
The drone had already provided them some exceptional footage. He was just getting a feel for the area at this point—who was parked where? What windows were open? Did any neighbors look too interested in what was happening outside on the street?
They were the most basic of things he needed to know before Yusuf coasted to a stop ninety seconds later and dropped h
im off.
• • •
“Do you have everything?” Yusuf asked.
Harvath nodded. “Just stick to the plan. It’s going to get very crazy very quickly. Do what I told you, and everything will be fine.”
“Here,” Qabbani said, as Harvath was about to close his door. He had brought an extra bag of dates and handed them to him.
“Shookran,” Harvath replied in Arabic. Thank you.
Gently closing the door, he watched as Yusuf drove off into the darkness and disappeared. If he didn’t make it back, they were going to be in a lot of trouble. Insha’Allah, he thought, that wasn’t going to happen.
He had left the burka in the vehicle and was dressed like the ISIS operatives in town, in jeans, a T-shirt, and a jacket. His keffiyeh, though, was wrapped so that it covered his face. He found the Hadids right where they were supposed to be.
“Any movement?” he asked.
Mathan pointed up toward the second floor of Sacha Baseyev’s house. There was a small balcony and its shutters were wide open.
“Did you see him?”
Thoman nodded. “He stepped out for a moment and then stepped back inside.”
Harvath hailed Ryan. “Second floor. Northwest corner balcony. Shutters are open. Can you get a peek inside?”
“Stand by,” she replied.
As they waited, Harvath glanced at his Kobold chronograph. It glowed with a green luminescence.
He tried to think what he would be doing right now if he were Baseyev. What would he be doing if he had just gotten back from a series of operations overseas?
No sooner had he asked the question than Ryan’s voice crackled over his earpiece. “He’s sleeping.”
“Say again,” Harvath replied.
“He’s sleeping. Or at least that’s what we think he’s doing. Someone is stretched out horizontal, on a bed, in that room, and they are most definitely alive and breathing.”
Harvath nodded. That was exactly what he’d be doing. He would have dozed lightly on planes, not giving himself completely over to sound sleep until he was someplace where he felt safe. Then he would collapse.
He would have a gun at hand and probably a knife, or two, but as soon as he was back to someplace he considered home, he would have stepped off the edge into the deep black abyss of complete and total sleep—until his alarm went off.
Then Baseyev would have to beat back his exhaustion, pry himself out of bed, and join his ISIS comrades for their celebration.
“Anyone else inside?” Harvath asked.
“Affirmative. Two additional tangos. One in the courtyard. Appears to be seated. And we’re getting a sketchy thermal from the first floor. Looks like just one person, but they’re working hard to stay away from the windows.”
“Roger that,” Harvath replied.
“Two bodyguards?” Mathan asked, once Harvath had signed off with Langley.
“Bodyguards or babysitters. I don’t know and I don’t care. I just want Baseyev,” he stated. “Are you ready?”
Both of the Hadids nodded.
“Let’s do it.”
CHAPTER 67
Harvath was the first one over the wall. It wrapped around the entire house. Cars were meant to be parked in front and there was a lush garden in back. ISIS obviously thought very highly of Sacha Baseyev and had gifted him a very nice Syrian property. They were about to regret that—and then some.
Harvath figured the two ISIS minders at the house had probably met Baseyev at the airfield, had driven him back, and were now keeping an eye on him for whatever reason. Based on Baseyev’s skill set, he didn’t strike him as someone who needed protection.
Not that ISIS would have been familiar with his background, but by this point he would have proved himself exceptionally capable in battle. Bodyguards seemed a bit over the top.
That said, protection work was a plumb assignment. Perhaps the goons watching over him were affiliated with the higher-ups in ISIS. He was probably doing someone a favor by taking them on. That was usually how these things went.
Harvath didn’t care. He was going to kill them both.
Moving around to the front of the house, he adjusted his thermal goggles, the same pair he had worn at the saltbox.
By now, the Hadids would be up and over the wall, taking up their predetermined positions. Harvath had been very specific about what he wanted them to do, and more important, not to do.
Peering into the front courtyard, he saw the man guarding the closed front gates. Beyond him was a large Toyota Land Cruiser.
The guard was leaned back in a chair, his feet up on a box of some sort. His weapon sat next to him, propped up against the wall.
Staring through the goggles, he focused on the man’s torso. It rose and fell in deep, slow breaths. Was this guy asleep too?
Slung across his shoulder Harvath had a small canvas bag with two 1.5-liter water bottles.
Removing one, he unscrewed the cap, pulled his SIG, and placed the barrel into the mouth of the bottle: the poor man’s suppressor.
It would somewhat muffle his first shot, but it would limit his range and accuracy. He’d have to be up close. And after that, he only had one more bottle.
Quietly, he crept forward. When he was about fifteen feet away he stopped. He could hear something. The man was . . . snoring. He was definitely asleep.
Holstering his weapon, he screwed the cap back on the bottle and slid it back into his bag. Then he drew his Winkler knife.
As it came out of its leather sheath, he knew the edge was being stropped one last time. Not that it needed it. It was already sharp enough.
Careful with how and where he placed his feet, Harvath moved across the courtyard.
When he had closed the distance with the ISIS man covering Baseyev’s front gate, he noticed how enormous he was. The guard couldn’t have been an Arab. Harvath had never seen one that big.
A couple of feet more and Harvath was able to see his bearded face. The man was in his late twenties and looked Caucasian, possibly a Chechen. Harvath didn’t waste any time.
Slipping behind him, he placed his left palm across the man’s mouth and tilted his head back as he plunged the knife into the base of his neck on the right side.
Then, with a flick of his wrist, he shot the knife forward. It slashed his trachea and severed his artery.
Even though he was unable to call out for help, the man still fought hard as the blood gushed from his throat.
He was so big, it took all of the strength that Harvath had to keep him seated in his chair.
When the last bit of life had finally fled the man’s body, Harvath released his grasp.
Wiping his blade on the man’s coat, Harvath returned it to his sheath and approached the house.
Based on the drone intel, the man on the ground floor was going to be difficult to subdue. Removing the bottle of water again, he made ready to step inside.
Stepping up to the front of the building, he looked left and then right. The Hadids were in place, and both of them indicated that he was clear to go through the front door.
Harvath tried the handle. It was unlocked. Gently, he pushed it open and peered inside.
Thermal goggles read heat, which allowed him to not only pick up people, but also the heat left behind in handprints, as well as footprints.
Following Muslim tradition, the men had taken off their boots and left them near the front door.
While Baseyev’s heat signature had already faded, Harvath could make out the footprints of the man the drone had picked up moving around on the ground floor. He had just exited a nearby room and walked toward the back of the home.
Harvath wasn’t sure if it was to the kitchen or some other room. A faint light glowed at the end of the hall. Careful not to make any noise, he slipped inside and closed the front d
oor behind him.
Flipping up his goggles, he gave his eyes a chance to adjust to the light. Though he couldn’t see the man, he could hear him.
There was the muted sound of gunfire and then, an explosion. Harvath instantly knew what was going on. The ISIS operative was playing a video game—probably a first-person-shooter simulation.
Younger jihadists loved games like Halo and Call of Duty. They binged on them—whiling away hours of boredom, believing the games helped improve their battlefield performance.
Though that part was dubious, one thing was for sure. The act of immersing yourself in a video absolutely shredded your situational awareness. The ISIS operative had no clue that Harvath had entered the room and was standing right behind him.
His rifle lay on the couch next to him, but both of his hands were on his game controller. He wasn’t as big as the man outside, but he was still quite large, and about the same age. Harvath raised his weapon.
When the man let loose with a noisy, full auto burst of gunfire in the game, Harvath pressed the trigger of his SIG Sauer.
The round exploded through the water bottle and tore through the man’s head.
Blood, bone, and pieces of brain matter splattered across the console, the screen, and the wall just beyond it. The back of the couch was soaked with water.
Two down, one to go, thought Harvath.
Backing out of the room, he made his way through the house, checking each room as he went.
The furnishings were cheap and threadbare, but one item caught his eye. In the kitchen, among the dented pots and decades-old pans, was a gorgeous, very expensive, Japanese chef’s knife.
It was displayed like a museum piece, just as the knives in Baseyev’s apartment in Frankfurt had been. Evil always wanted to possess what it could not create.
Leaving the kitchen, Harvath arrived at the darkened staircase leading up to the second story. Coming to a stop, he stood for several moments and listened. There was no sound. So, with the Hadids standing guard outside, he flipped his goggles down and began his ascent.
