by Brad Thor
Harvath studied the leaves on the trees down on the street. There was a slight hint of a breeze. He adjusted his scope accordingly.
“Pitchfork. Sixty seconds to target,” came Ryan’s voice from northern Virginia. “Players are cleared hot. Repeat—players are cleared hot.”
That was a good sign. It meant that Langley wasn’t seeing any noncombatants nearby. They were free to engage anyone inside the house.
A sudden burst of air moved through. Harvath went to adjust his rifle, but the leaves settled down. Slowing his heart rate, he took long, deep breaths and placed the pad of his finger on the PSL’s trigger.
“Pitchfork. Thirty seconds to target. Repeat. Thirty seconds to target.”
Harvath waited for the next update from CIA headquarters. It came seconds later. “Pitchfork cellular engaged.”
Focusing on the upper window across the street, he got ready to take his shot.
Ryan read the text messages as they moved back and forth between Baseyev’s and Rafael’s phones.
Strawberry licorice?
& Monster.
U r awesome!
Got them in duty free on my way back.
I owe you! When can I pick them up?
On way to meeting. Near ur house. Can drop them now.
Srsly?
Srsly.
U rock!
C u soon.
Ok,
Ryan then said, “All players. Fifteen seconds, Pitchfork on target. Repeat. Pitchfork on target, fifteen seconds.”
Harvath watched the upstairs window and began to apply pressure to his trigger.
The biggest rule in a gunfight was that if you weren’t shooting, you’d better be moving or reloading. But in his case, as soon as he got his shots off, he was going to have to haul ass.
They were beyond short-handed. The only reason he was on the roof was because neither of the Hadids was even halfway decent with a long gun. Once he took his shots, he’d have to move fast.
“Look sharp, Norseman,” Ryan then said. “Pitchfork on target in five, four, three, two, one.”
Opening his other eye, Harvath watched as Baseyev’s Land Cruiser rolled to a stop on the street below. Three strips of duct tape on the roof formed a large N so that the vehicle could be identified from above. The same had been done to the roof of Yusuf’s pickup.
“Am outside,” Ryan said, relaying Baseyev’s text message to Rafael.
Harvath watched as a figure appeared moments later at the upper window. “Tango, second story,” he said.
“Coming out,” Ryan said as the ground floor door opened. “On your mark, Norseman.”
“Roger that,” Harvath replied. “Stand by.”
Adjusting his rifle, he focused on the door and watched as Rafael emerged. Harvath recognized him both by his physical appearance and by his T-shirt, featuring one of Harvath’s favorite funk musicians, George Clinton.
Leading the way was the ground-floor security operative, who walked about two feet in front of him toward Baseyev’s SUV.
“Boardwalk,” Thoman said from the driver’s seat of the Land Cruiser. He was using Harvath’s code word to signal that the two men had cleared the building and Harvath could fire when ready.
“Roger that,” Harvath replied, refocusing on the figure in the upper window. “Boardwalk,” he repeated, pressing his trigger.
No sooner had the round left the barrel of his weapon than he refocused on the guard on the ground and fired again.
When the ground-floor guard’s head evaporated in a sea of pink mist, Harvath ordered, “Go, go, go!”
Thoman had already partially opened the Land Cruiser’s door. Upon hearing the command, he leapt out, raised Harvath’s Taser, and fired at Rafael.
Simultaneously, Mathan kicked in the back door of the house, charged inside, and fired his AK above the heads of the social media jihadists.
While all this was happening, Harvath had abandoned his rifle, picked up his AK, and was racing down the stairs of the abandoned building.
Taking them three at a time, he yelled over his earpiece to Thoman, “Get inside now! Move, move, move!”
The second-row passenger-side captain’s chair had been removed so that as Thoman Tasered Rafael, Yusuf could leap out, run around the back of the SUV, and restrain him.
The cancer-stricken Syrian wasn’t the fastest man any of them had ever seen, but he was diligent. As Thoman dropped the Taser and ran for the house, Yusuf landed on Rafael, drove his knee into his back, and pulled out the roll of duct tape he had been given for restraining him.
Harvath caught it out the corner of his eye as he tore across the street. He watched as Yusuf, who was no fan of ISIS, landed a series of vicious body blows on the fat social-media operative.
In any other situation, he would have stopped to cheer him on, but there was something much more important happening.
When Harvath hit the door, both Hadids were already inside. “Talk to me,” he yelled.
Several rounds of automatic weapons fire answered back and Harvath immediately took cover behind one of the house’s columns.
Two minutes later, Thoman yelled out, “Clear!”
“Mathan?” Harvath shouted.
“Clear!” the other Hadid brother yelled.
Slowly, Harvath peered around the column and into the large, open room. It was a sea of blood, punctuated by islands of dead bodies. The Hadids had killed them all and, in their defense, Harvath couldn’t see a single jihadist who didn’t look as if he had been reaching for his weapon. Thoman and Mathan had done the right thing.
“Let’s go,” he ordered, pointing toward the second floor.
Leading the charge, Harvath raced up the stairs, stopping only long enough to check the hallway before sweeping into the room where he had shot the ISIS operative through the window.
The man lay dead in a pool of blood. Harvath’s round had entered just above his right eye, gone straight through his brain and out the back of his head.
Catching up with the Hadids, he helped them pull the rest of the hard drives and then called down to Yusuf. “Coming out. Get ready.”
As they exited the house with three pillowcases filled with hard drives, Yusuf was waiting behind the wheel of the Land Cruiser.
The three men leapt inside, Harvath checked to make sure Baseyev and Rafael were present, and then ordered, “Go, go, go!”
They raced to where Mathan had left Yusuf’s pickup and divided up. Once they were free of the town, Harvath hailed Ryan and said, “We’re clear. Light ’em up! Do it now. All of them.”
CHAPTER 71
OFF THE RECORD BAR
HAY-ADAMS HOTEL
WASHINGTON, D.C.
It had been a long day and Rebecca Ritter needed a drink—a big one.
After her nooner with Joe Edwards, she had slipped away to another clandestine rendezvous. This one was all talk and no action. In fact, Rebecca had been grilled for well over an hour.
By the time she left, she had a splitting headache. Everyone seemed to feel she wasn’t doing enough.
Intuitively, she knew it was part of a carrot-and-stick play. No matter how well she preformed, they were always going to want more. She was pushing the ultimate drug—power—and they were hooked.
Stopping at a CVS on the way back to the office, she had purchased a bottle of Naprosyn and two cans of Red Bull. She was tempted to call in sick for the balance of the afternoon, but she couldn’t risk making Senator Wells any angrier.
He was still upset over the question she had planted for him at Meet the Press yesterday. It had taken him by surprise, which had been her intention, and he had handled it brilliantly. He had acted like a senior statesman, above the fray, and while not giving details, had assured the host and the American people that it was being looked into.
/> It was perfect. They had gotten the rumor into the news cycle, but without making it look like it had come directly from Wells. All of the papers this morning had run with it.
The Senator acted upset for another day or two, but in his heart, he knew Rebecca had done him a huge favor. President Porter had just been taken down another peg in the minds of American voters. A couple more leaks between now and the election, and Porter wouldn’t stand a chance.
Returning to her office, she tackled the pile of paperwork on her desk and tried to winnow down her long list of phone calls and emails that needed to be returned. At five o’clock, she grabbed her purse and headed for the Hay-Adams Hotel across from the White House.
Its famous Off the Record bar was considered one of the hottest watering holes in D.C. It was known as the place to be seen, but not overheard.
Located on the hotel’s lower level, its walls were covered with caricatures of the politically powerful—both past and present. Rebecca fully expected her own to be up there one day soon.
The bar was already filling up by the time she got there. As she entered, she turned more than a few heads. Though she’d had a tough day, none of the men in the place seemed to notice, nor would they have cared. Rebecca Ritter was a stunning woman, no matter what the situation.
Walking up to the bar, she grabbed the last stool at the end, waved the bartender over, and ordered a double Maker’s Mark on the rocks.
As the bartender poured her drink, she turned to survey the room. Even in the wake of the attack on the White House, it was still a Washington power spot. She was always on the lookout for well-connected people who could expand her sphere of influence.
Her eyes came to rest on a tall, distinguished-looking man who had just approached the bar to order his own drink.
“You’re Brian Wilson,” she said. “Mornings on the Mall on WMAL.”
“I am indeed,” the broadcaster replied with a smile, flattered to be recognized by such an attractive young woman.
“Rebecca Ritter. Chief of Staff for Senator Wells.”
As she spoke, she extended her hand.
Wilson took it politely and, sharp man that he was, noticed that she arched her back in order to subtly extend another part of her body.
“The Senator is making a lot of news lately. We’d love to have him on the show.”
“Absolutely,” Ritter replied, fishing out one of her business cards. “Do you have a pen?”
Wilson removed a pen from his blazer pocket and handed it to her.
Writing on the back of the card, she said, “This is my personal cell phone number.”
The broadcaster didn’t need to look left or right. He could feel the envious stares of all the men at the bar.
“You were fantastic at Fox and if memory serves, you also broke the story of Supreme Court Justice Sandra Day O’Connor’s retirement.”
“You have good taste and a good memory,” Wilson said. “Although I think you’re a little too young to remember that.”
“I make it my business to know things,” she replied with a coy smile as she picked up her drink and took a seductive sip through its straw. “I’ve always enjoyed your work. In fact, I think you’d make a terrific White House spokesperson.”
Was she trying to pick him up or offer him a job? Whatever it was, Wilson was enjoying it. And whatever ended up happening, he was going to have one hell of a story to tell his cohost, Larry O’Connor, in the morning.
“So,” he said, turning the subject back to work, “when can we get Senator Wells on the show?”
Rebecca was about to speak, when one of the concierges from the hotel upstairs appeared. “Miss Ritter?” he asked.
“Yes?”
“You have a phone call at the front desk. It’s your office.”
“My office?” she replied, removing her phone from her purse and looking at it. The signal strength appeared fine and there were no missed calls or messages.
“Yes, ma’am. If you’ll follow me.”
“Will you excuse me for a moment?” she said to Wilson.
“Of course.”
Taking one more sip of her drink, she set it on the bar, gathered up her purse, and followed the concierge.
Upstairs, he directed her to the phone that had been placed atop the concierge desk. A husband and wife, probably hotel guests looking to make reservations for dinner or something, stood at the other end.
As she approached the phone and picked up the line the concierge had indicated, the man and woman stepped over to her.
“Rebecca Ritter,” the woman stated, displaying a set of credentials, “FBI. You’re under arrest.”
CHAPTER 72
SYRIA
It was amazing how cold the desert could get at night, even after an unseasonably warm day. The rocks, the sand, all of it seemed to have released any stored heat the moment the sun had started to set.
Stretching his legs, Harvath checked his phone and noted their position. They were about one hundred kilometers from the border with Iraq.
As Thoman emptied a fuel can into the Land Cruiser, Mathan kept an eye on the prisoners.
They had parted ways with Yusuf and Qabbani hours ago. Harvath was relatively confident that the Syrians would be able to make it home without him. Just in case they ran into any problems, he had given them the rest of his cash and his Kobold chronograph.
He felt it was the least he could do—especially as he and the Hadids had kept all the weapons and the CIA’s Reaper.
Having the drone overhead had proved invaluable. Always knowing what lay ahead had made it possible to avoid problems. It had also caused them to take a few wide, extremely circuitous routes to avoid potential enemy engagements. As a result, they had burned a lot of fuel. And the Syrian desert wasn’t exactly populated with gas stations.
“That was our last one,” Thoman said as he placed the empty fuel can in the cargo area.
Harvath had been keeping track and already knew that. “There’s nothing between us and the border. We should be okay.”
Thoman smirked. “Tell that to Mr. Murphy.”
Harvath smiled back. The Hadids were good men. Tough, smart, and unafraid. Harvath had to hand it to McGee, the Agency knew how to judge talent. Whether or not they’d be able to tip the scales in Syria would have to be seen, but one thing was for sure: the Syrian people were incredibly fortunate to have the twin brothers fighting on the side of freedom.
Harvath respected the hell out of them. They could have been cooling their heels with their mother in Paris, but they weren’t. They were right here, right in the thick of the fight.
“Okay,” Harvath said as Thoman closed the hatch. “Let’s get moving.”
Unslinging their AKs, the men climbed back into the SUV. Changing up drivers, Harvath took the wheel, Mathan rode shotgun, and Thoman sat in back to watch over Baseyev and Rafael, who were on the floor, bound and gagged.
Harvath plugged his phone back into the cigarette lighter and placed it in the cup holder where he could watch it. Putting the vehicle in gear, he pulled back onto the desert road and continued on toward the border.
They had only gone a few hundred meters when Ryan’s voice came over his earpiece. “Norseman, you’ve got company.”
Harvath swung his head quickly from side to side and then turned to look out the rear window. “I’m not seeing anything. Talk to me.”
“Russian drone. Coming in hot.”
Harvath slammed on the brakes and shouted for the Hadids to get out.
“What about the prisoners?” Mathan replied.
Harvath grabbed his phone and yelled, “Leave them!” as he bailed.
With the brothers right on his heels, he ran down the steep incline from the road. Gesturing at a thick outcrop of rock five hundred meters away, he waved for them to follow.
> “Hawk Four going hot,” Ryan relayed, using the code name for the CIA’s Reaper.
“How much time?” Harvath shouted as he ran.
“Stand by, Norseman.”
“Damn it!” he cursed. “How much time?”
Ryan wasn’t listening. She was completely focused on the battle unfolding above the desert.
“Russian drone, missile away,” she stated clinically. And then, as if suddenly realizing the target, urged, “Run, Norseman! Run!”
Harvath didn’t need to be told twice. “Hurry!” he shouted to the Hadids. “Incoming!”
They tore across the sand, running harder and faster than any of them had ever run in their lives.
“Impact,” said Ryan, “in three, two, one!”
There was a blinding flash of light and an enormous explosion just as Harvath and the Hadids reached the rocks and the missile from the Russian drone slammed into the Land Cruiser.
Harvath and the brothers dove for the safety of the outcropping as a braided pillar of hot, orange flame twisted into the sky and a powerful expulsion of heat, sand, and broken rock raced across the desert with the force of a hurricane.
Harvath had made himself as small as possible, protecting as much of his body as he could. The heat from the explosion was so intense it singed the hair on his arms.
As soon as it had passed, Harvath untucked and rolled up onto his knees so he could look beyond the rocks to what remained of the SUV. There was only a smoking crater in the road.
“Fuck,” he said aloud. “Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.”
Everything was gone. The prisoners. The hard drives. And, worst of all, their only means of transportation out of Syria.
Above the ringing in his ears, Harvath then heard, “Russian drone inbound.”
Again? What the hell was Langley waiting for? he wondered.
“Hawk Four locked on,” Ryan then stated. “Hawk Four missile away. Impact in five, four, three, two, one.”
Harvath had no idea where the drone dogfight was happening. All he could do was look up into the night sky. As he did, he saw a streak of orange flame as Hawk Four unleashed its air-to-air missile. It was followed, seconds later, by a brilliant explosion that illuminated the night sky.
