Full Black sh-10

by Brad Thor

Nicholas had the answer seconds later. “He’s going to try to exit onto the upper-deck roadway through the entrance.”

  “Doesn’t it have spikes?”

  “If it does, he doesn’t seem to care.”

  Harvath pushed the Escalade faster. He pulled the wheel hard to the side, popped up onto the third floor, and raced for the upper-deck roadway.

  Nicholas’s voice came over his earbud. “He jumped the curb and took out the ticket machine! The far left lane!”

  “Which way did he turn?”

  “To the right. He’s headed toward Terminal Two!”

  Harvath pinned the gas pedal to the floor. “Have all the other bombers in the other terminals been interdicted?”

  “Affirmative.”

  “What about the other VBIEDs?”

  “LAPD is trying to move in on them now.”

  The entire upper deck was going to be crowded with people, especially outside Terminal Two, where the explosion had happened. “Tell LAPD that they can’t ram the vehicles,” Harvath insisted. “They have to shoot the drivers. Tell TSA to try to get everyone off the sidewalks. Now!”

  Harvath had no idea if the other three vehicles had started their run or not. All he knew was that his best option was to get the Town Car. The LAPD would have to get the others. He just hoped they’d all be able to do their jobs on time.

  Racing toward the entrance, Harvath could see where the Town Car had made its exit. Hitting the curb at over sixty miles an hour, he applied his brakes and pulled the wheel hard to the right as he shot out of the parking structure.

  He came barreling out in the wrong direction and sideswiped two oncoming vehicles. It was a lucky break. If they hadn’t been there, he might very well have flipped the Escalade as he spun out of the garage and pulled hard to his right.

  Punching the accelerator again, he raced ahead. There was no need to ask Nicholas where the Town Car was headed. It had to be Terminal Two. That was where it was going to do the most damage.

  Seconds later, he veered onto the main upper-deck roadway that circled the airport. He could see Terminal Two dead ahead. He could also see the Town Car. There was no way he was going to catch it in time.

  He heard the rapid crack of weapons fire as law enforcement officers engaged the Town Car, and Harvath watched in horror as the vehicle headed right for them.

  Terrified civilians ran in multiple directions, some even right out into the street, all trying to get away from the danger. Harvath had to swerve to avoid hitting a large group.

  No sooner had he regained control of his vehicle than he saw the Town Car plow into two patrol cars and the team of LAPD officers who had bravely stood their ground firing.

  Harvath brought his Escalade to a screeching halt and leaped out. Holding his wallet in the air half-opened, so as not to be mistaken as a threat and shot, Harvath blatantly misrepresented himself. “FBI!” he yelled, and advanced on the twisted mass of vehicles. They had all been pushed up onto the sidewalk. Harvath couldn’t see any of the officers.

  He was less than ten feet away when the door of the Town Car was thrown open. Dropping his wallet, Harvath raised his pistol in both hands.

  The driver swung out one leg and then the other. Harvath shot him in each knee and raced forward. The driver raised a pistol and began firing wildly.

  Harvath dropped to the ground and returned fire. He put round after round on target, ripping through the open driver’s-side door.

  In one fluid motion, he depressed his pistol’s magazine release and flicked the empty magazine out of the butt of the weapon. Before it had even clattered onto the pavement several yards away, he had inserted a fresh mag, snapped the slide back to chamber his first round, and was firing yet again.

  As he did, he came up on his feet and rushed the Town Car. The driver didn’t return fire.

  Coming up on the open door, Harvath saw the man’s legs first. Then he saw the rest of him, slumped over the armrest, half onto the passenger side.

  “Hands!” Harvath yelled. “Let me see your hands!”

  Moving more to his left, Harvath got a better view into the car. The driver’s empty pistol, with its slide locked back, lay on the floor. But there was something else in the driver’s hand and seeing it, Harvath’s blood turned to ice.

  Harvath’s first shot blew the man’s thumb completely off. He put the next four into the driver’s head. Even then, he still wasn’t sure and shot the man five more times.

  Tentatively, Harvath crawled into the Town Car and retrieved the cell phone the driver had been fumbling with. There was a number on the screen that Harvath was certain corresponded to a cell phone detonator somewhere inside the Town Car. Had the man been able to hit Send, the car would have exploded.

  Harvath carefully removed the battery from the phone, set both pieces on the dash, and crawled back out of the car.

  Popping the trunk of one of the patrol cars, he extracted a medical kit and rushed to the fallen law enforcement officers. Two of them were already dead and several more were badly injured. Gunfire continued to rage across the airport. It was like being in a war zone.

  “You, you, and you!” shouted Harvath to a group of onlookers who had taken cover nearby. “These men need your help.”

  The civilians came over as he ripped open multiple vacuum-sealed packets. He rapidly applied pressure dressings and Israeli bandages, as well as two tourniquets, and sent an additional onlooker to the other patrol car for more medical supplies.

  Explaining how to keep the officers stable, he left the onlookers in charge and called in “Officers down” over one of the police radios, giving the location and range of injuries.

  That was all he could do for them. He needed to get back in the fight. Running back to the Escalade, he picked up his wallet, got inside, and quickly drove away.

  CHAPTER 56

  As Harvath raced toward the Tom Bradley Terminal, Nicholas informed him that the fight was over. The LAPD and DHS operators had been able to neutralize the other VBIEDs. All of the terrorists were dead. All, that is, except for Tariq Sarhan, who was still unconscious in the Escalade’s backseat.

  The word had also already gone out to airports across the country to expect similar attacks. Two had already been uncovered and prevented. Nicholas had been right when he had stated that the attacks they had stopped only months before were just the precursor to a tidal wave set to crash down on the United States. Every time they faced down an attack, more popped up. Where would it end?

  Harvath returned to the parking structure and located his rental car. After wrapping Sarhan’s knee in a hillbilly bandage, he dumped him in the trunk. As he got into his car, he told Nicholas to make sure to erase any of the airport’s CCTV footage of him.

  As he drove out of the airport, a tidal wave of emergency vehicles rushed past him going in the opposite direction. They served as a reminder of the need to arrange for transport for himself and Sarhan. He asked Nicholas to get Carlton on the line. When he came on, Harvath said, “How soon until we can get a Sentinel jet out here to pick us up?”

  “I’ll look into it now,” replied the Old Man. “How bad is his condition?”

  “He tried to suck on a cigarette lighter and also managed to Tase himself before shooting himself in the knee, but he’ll live.”

  “Understood. We’ll figure out how close the nearest aircraft is and then we’ll decide on an airport. LAX has been shut down and probably won’t reopen for a few days.”

  “We’re also going to need someone to sanitize the house I was using,” said Harvath. “I left all the surveillance gear in there.”

  “We’ll have someone handle it.”

  “You should have a team go through Sarhan’s house as well.”

  “We’ll get on that, too,” replied Carlton, who then shifted gears. “In the meantime, I’m assuming you took an unattributable phone with you?”

  “Of course I did. Why?”

  “You’ve had two urgent calls from a man named Ha
nk McBride.”

  Harvath recognized the name immediately. Hank had been one of his father’s SEAL team buddies who used to come by the house and check on things when Harvath was a kid and his father was deployed. He was still very close with Harvath’s mom and his call could only mean one thing. “Did he say what it was about?”

  “Negative. He just left a number and asked you to call him as soon as possible.”

  Harvath took the number, told Carlton he would call him back, and made for the entrance to the 405 freeway headed south. His mother still lived on Coronado Island across the bay from San Diego.

  Speeding through an intersection and a light that had already turned red, Harvath narrowly missed being hit by two cars as he dialed Hank McBride’s number.

  “This is Hank,” the old SEAL said as he answered the call.

  “Hank, it’s Scot,” Harvath replied. “What’s going on with my mom?”

  “Your mom’s fine, relax.”

  “What happened?”

  “Nothing, I didn’t call about your mom. I need a favor.”

  Harvath backed off his speed. “Mom’s okay?”

  “She’s fine,” insisted McBride. “I saw her a couple of days ago when I was down her way. Actually, she looks great.”

  Thank God, he thought as his heart rate began to lower. “Hank, I’m in the middle of an assignment right now. I’m going to have to call you back.”

  “When?”

  “I don’t know,” said Harvath. “I’ll get back to you.”

  The old SEAL wasn’t going to take no for an answer. “Scot, I wouldn’t have tracked you down and left two messages at your office if it wasn’t important.”

  Already navigating the freeway on ramp, Harvath decided to give him until the next exit to explain what he wanted. “What do you need, Hank?”

  “It’s not for me. It’s for a friend of mine.”

  Having worked for a prior president, Harvath was used to people reaching out to him for help with things in D.C. “I can save you some time. I’ve got no pull with the current administration.”

  “That’s not what this is about.”

  “I don’t want to be rude, Hank, but you need to get to the point. I’m really busy right now.”

  Hank didn’t waste any more time. “Do you know who Larry Salomon is?”

  “The movie producer? Of course I do.”

  “Someone sent a Spetsnaz team to whack him.”

  “When?” replied Harvath.

  “The night before last,” said Hank. “It was all over the news. At least it was until those fuckers blew up all of those theaters. My God, what are they going to do next?”

  “Turn on your TV. They just hit LAX.”

  “They what?”

  “That’s part of why I’m so busy right now, Hank. So is Salomon dead?”

  The old SEAL, who hesitated as he tried to flip his TV on in the background, finally said, “The technical adviser on all his films is a former Unit guy named Luke Ralston. He’s a pal of mine and he was with Salomon when he came home and found those guys. The two of them killed the entire Spetsnaz team.”

  “Salomon and the guy from the Unit?”

  “Yeah, it’s a long story.”

  “Which they probably ought to be telling the police.”

  “That’s just it,” said Hank. “They can’t. At least not yet. But here’s the good part. Ralston knows who helped coordinate the hit.”

  “And he’s not talking to the police?” replied Harvath. “Hank, let me give you a piece of advice. Steer clear of this entire thing. If they can’t take this to the cops, there’s something very wrong.”

  “That’s why I’m trying to help them, Junior.”

  Harvath hadn’t had McBride call him Junior since he was a kid and had gotten in trouble for fighting back when he was in school. The tone no longer intimidated him, but it did catch his attention.

  “So what is it you want from me?” asked Harvath.

  “All my contacts, and all Luke’s, for that matter, are pretty much in the Special Operations community. We don’t know many secret squirrel types, at least none that we trust. You, on the other hand, are very well plugged in.”

  “I know some people in Russian intelligence, if that would help, but it’s going to have to wait until-”

  “No,” interrupted McBride. “We already crossed that bridge. The man who brought the talent into L.A. for the hit was a former FSB operative based here. The man who ordered the hit, though, was British intelligence.”

  “British intelligence?”

  “MI5, to be exact.”

  Hank had to have gotten his facts wrong. “Why would somebody from Britain’s domestic intelligence service want to splash a Hollywood movie producer?”

  “That’s what we need to figure out. Do you have any contacts you could reach out to?”

  Harvath did. In fact he’d just helped MI5 and Scotland Yard take down a large terror cell in London and prevent a massive attack. “I’ve got a guy I can ask. What’s the name of this MI5 operative you think was behind the attack?”

  When McBride said the name Harvath couldn’t believe his ears.

  There was such a long pause, the old SEAL thought they might have gotten cut off. “Are you still there?”

  “I’m still here,” replied Harvath.

  “Can you help with this Robert Ashford character or what?”

  “This is a very serious accusation. You’re going to need proof. Lots of it.”

  “We’ve got proof,” said Hank. “You sound different all of a sudden. Why?”

  Harvath ignored the question. “I want to see the proof you have.”

  “You’re welcome to it. But it’s not something I can just put in the mail.”

  “You don’t need to. I’ll come to you.”

  “You’re here?” said McBride. “California?”

  “I’m on the 405 right now. I don’t have my regular cell with me, so give me your address again.”

  Hank did, and after Harvath told him to sit tight, not to move, and not to talk to anyone else, he ended the call and picked up his speed once more.

  He thought about calling the Old Man. Carlton, after all, was the one who had introduced him to Ashford. But as quickly as the idea had materialized in Harvath’s mind, he dismissed it.

  Robert Ashford had been read into their operational plans in Yemen. The Old Man had done it as a courtesy. Aazim Aleem was a British citizen and Ashford had been especially helpful to the Carlton Group in London.

  Harvath was beginning to wonder, though, if Ashford could have been the reason the Yemen op had gone sideways. And until he had a firm handle on what the hell was going on, he wasn’t going to be making any phone calls.

  CHAPTER 57

  Harvath backed into Hank McBride’s driveway and parked underneath the carport near the kitchen door.

  “Thanks for coming,” said the old SEAL, giving him a hug.

  “No problem,” replied Harvath. “You look good.”

  “Must be all my healthy habits.”

  Harvath knew what a hard drinker and terrible eater Hank was known to be and he smiled.

  “C’mon inside,” said McBride. “Luke and Salomon are looking forward to meeting you.”

  “I need your help getting something out of the trunk first.”

  Hank looked at him. “Something or someone?”

  Harvath directed him to the rear of the car and popped the lid.

  “Who the hell is he?” the old SEAL asked.

  “He was never here. You never saw him.”

  “Did he have something to do with what just happened at LAX?”

  “I don’t want to get into it,” said Harvath.

  “Son of a-” said McBride. He pulled back his fist and punched Tariq Sarhan in the head before Harvath could stop him.

  “For fuck’s sake, Hank. Knock it off.”

  “So what? Tell them he slipped getting out of the car.”

  “Are you going to
help me or not?” asked Harvath.

  “Just leave him in there,” said the old SEAL. “What do you need to bring him into the house for?”

  “Ever heard of sudden in-custody death syndrome?”

  “As in you’ve got some wiseass and you decide to throw him off a bridge?”

  “If you leave a suspect duct-taped in a confined space for too long he can die,” said Harvath.

  “The whole country’s going soft,” replied McBride. “We used to leave shitbags like this in trunks for days at a time. I always found it made them a lot more cooperative.”

  Harvath ignored him. “I need a pole. Something that’ll support a lot of weight and won’t break. A sheet, too.”

  McBride shook his head, walked into the house, and reappeared a couple of minutes later.

  After making sure there was nobody who could see them from the street, they pulled Sarhan from the trunk and laid him down on the concrete apron on his stomach. They slid the pole under his duct-taped ankles and then beneath his FlexCuff’d wrists, which Harvath had reinforced with more tape. Throwing the sheet over the pole, they lifted him like a couple of Bushmen returning to their village with a fresh hog and moved him inside.

  Once safely into the kitchen, Hank let go of his side of the pole. “Woops,” he said.

  Harvath lowered his end, withdrew the pole, and pulled off the sheet.

  “Where do you want to put him?” asked McBride.

  “We can leave him right there.”

  “You don’t care who he sees or what he hears?”

  Normally, Harvath wouldn’t have cared, but he had no idea where Sarhan was going to end up. The less he knew about everything, the better.

  “Do you have someplace we can put him?” asked Harvath.

  Hank shook his head. “I should start charging rent,” he said as he motioned for Harvath to follow him.

  Harvath grabbed Sarhan by the back of his shirt and dragged him across the linoleum floor and down a short hallway to McBride’s laundry cum hobby room. He knocked and the door was opened by another man, who Harvath assumed was Ralston. Sitting next to the old SEAL’s workbench was Larry Salomon. Harvath had seen his picture many times before.