by Brad Thor
As he neared the top of the stairs, it suddenly stopped. Magazine change, thought Harvath, and he was right. Just as quickly as the shooting had stopped, it had started again.
The platforms fed out into a cavernous retail area several stories tall. With people running and screaming, it was hard to get an exact fix on where the shooter was. All he could tell was that the shooting was coming from the other side, away from where he now stood. He pulled out two spare mags for his MP7, tucked them in his waistband, and tossed away his bag.
Seconds later, the sounds of fully automatic fire were joined by the sound of something else—single-shot fire. There was another shooter and he was close.
Through the sea of people, Harvath caught a glimpse of a Metra police officer who had taken a knee out in the open and was engaging the attacker.
Passengers were running everywhere including back out on to the platforms and down onto the tracks. Harvath couldn’t tell why the Metra officer hadn’t sought cover. He was a sitting duck where he was. Then Harvath locked eyes on the attacker and saw what he was focused on. Pinned near one of the retail stores was a group of children. The Metra cop was not only engaging the shooter, he was trying to draw his fire—away from the children. They were very young, approximately six or seven years old, and were all sobbing. Two adults in matching T-shirts lay in pools of blood on the granite floor in front of them.
Harvath raised his MP7 to fire at the shooter, but as he did, he saw the Metra cop get shot in the chest and the throat. As he fell forward, his weapon clattered to the floor, its slide locked back, the pistol out of ammo.
With the cop out of the picture, the terrorist sprayed a bunch of fleeing passengers who had been running in the other direction. It caused a reverse stampede and any clear shot he could have had was now blocked. He needed to get to those children, but the only path available to him was through the shooter’s wall of fire.
Running out onto the platform area, Harvath ran past three sets of tracks and then, using the closest entrance for cover, risked a peek back into the concourse. He was much closer and had a very good view of the shooter, a muscular Middle Easterner with a mustache and short hair.
The man was hyperalert and caught sight of Harvath immediately. He turned his weapon toward him and began firing.
Harvath ducked back behind the entrance as masonry, metal, and glass exploded all around him. When the firing stopped, he rolled back out to engage, but the man had disappeared.
In the concourse, the floor was slick with blood and covered with bodies that had been ripped to shreds.
It took Harvath a moment to realize where the shooter had disappeared to. He had leapt behind a concession-store counter. Harvath had no idea how thick it was, whether it was solid, or what was stacked behind it, but he knew there wasn’t much a 4.6 mm round couldn’t chew through. He also knew he had to keep the man’s attention off those children, so he began firing.
His rounds tore good pieces out of the counter, but he spent his magazine quickly and had to roll back to his cover and reload. By the time he did, the shooter was up and firing again. He was firing at Harvath’s position, which meant he wasn’t targeting the children. That was good. The man, though, had also switched to three-round bursts, which meant he was not only being much more careful, but he also knew what he was doing.
The thing that didn’t make any sense, though, was why he hadn’t transitioned to the special armor-piercing ammunition Chase had fabricated and which he had explained to Harvath that all the shooters were carrying.
Harvath waited for another volley and when it subsided, he swung back out and did an entire magazine dump on the counter before ducking back. Through the smoke, he had seen that he had broken through in multiple places. It looked like metal canisters of some sort were stored underneath the counter. Nevertheless, the shooter had to know that Harvath was getting closer. What he didn’t know was that Harvath only had one magazine for the MP7 left and had no idea if it would it be enough.
When the man popped up this time to fire, he managed only two rounds before his magazine was empty and he was forced to drop back down and reload.
Harvath spun back around the entrance and, making sure to control his muzzle rise, focused on one particular area he had been tearing through the counter. He emptied the magazine as his rounds went clean through.
Ducking back behind the entrance, he dropped the MP7 and pulled out his Glock. He had fifteen rounds in the magazine, one in the chamber. It was make-or-break time. He needed to get to those children.
Crouching, he ran to the platform entrance nearest to where they were still paralyzed and crying on the concourse. Taking a deep breath, he counted to three, raised his Glock, and sped out from behind the door.
The shooter was already waiting for him. As Harvath appeared, he locked his sights on him and pulled his trigger.
The explosive round detonated inside the terrorist’s chamber and blew up right in his face, just as Chase had planned.
As the man’s scream filled the concourse, Harvath put two rounds into his head and killed him.
EPILOGUE
YEMEN
ONE MONTH LATER
The end of August was not a good time to be in Yemen. In fact, as far as Harvath was concerned, there was never a good time to be in Yemen or anywhere else on the Arabian Peninsula.
He sat at one of the city’s few halfway decent cafés, his chair propped up against the wall, an awning shielding him from the afternoon sun. As he took a sip of his chai, he thought about everything that had happened.
With visible tactical teams in plate armor at Chicago’s Millennium and Van Buren stations, the shooters who had come there to cause maximum carnage had immediately switched out their magazines for the ones loaded with Chase’s “armor-piercing” rounds.
As their weapons exploded in their faces and civilians scattered, both men were gunned down. Credit was given to the quick-thinking CPD tac teams. The fallen Metra office at the Ogilvie Transportation Center was rightly billed as a hero without whose actions many more innocent lives, including those of a small group of six-year-olds, would have been lost.
The slaughter at Union Station had been worse than Ogilvie because it had started three minutes before Gretchen Casey got there. Positioned behind the shooter, she took a shot from over seventy yards and killed him instantly with one round through the back of his head. She then secreted her weapon and quietly left the station. While the police in general were given credit for fast action, no single officer or department had yet officially been credited for killing the shooter. A rumor that it had been done by an undercover U.S. marshal on his way to work had gained wide traction in the press.
All of the would-be suicide bombers were apprehended exactly where Sean Chase had said they would be. Neither Harvath nor any of the Athena Team members had seen him again after he had chosen to take the La Salle Street station.
According to Carlton’s contacts at the CIA, Chase had been tasked with hunting down Aazim Aleem. Based on chatter the Agency had intercepted, Aleem was convinced that his entire network had been compromised and had fled the country for somewhere in the Middle East. Authorities so far had been unable to uncover any evidence of plots or Jarrah-Aleem cells in Los Angeles or New York. Their investigations were ongoing.
Once stabilized, Nikki Rodriguez was transferred stateside and was expected to make a full recovery. Julie Ericsson had been treated for her gunshot wound at Stroger Hospital in Chicago and released. She traveled back to Ft. Bragg with her teammates, Megan Rhodes, Alex Cooper, and Gretchen Casey. Casey had been keeping Harvath up to date on their progress and in her last e-mail informed him that, upon reflection, Rodriguez was convinced that he had been looking at her ass in Amsterdam. She wanted him to call her to discuss the matter further. In other words, they all sent their best wishes and looked forward to seeing him again soon.
Josh Levy, the owner of Surety Private Investigations, had been discharged from the hospital aft
er being held overnight for observation and was expected to make a full recovery. Based on a couple of calls from Washington, John Vaughan and Paul Davidson both received commendations and promotions. While Davidson was happy where he was, Vaughan gladly accepted a newly created position with the Chicago Police Department’s Intelligence unit. Davidson recruited the Pakistani mechanic, Javed Miraj, into his network and was using him to help build a case against the three stooges at the Crescent Garage.
Alison Taylor had begun making progress, and her family couldn’t have been happier. Mr. Taylor had paid Vaughan the balance of his monies owed and realized that with all of the federal charges against Mohammed Nasiri, Alison would probably never get her day in court. Even so, knowing that she was getting better and that Nasiri would never walk free was justice enough for him.
In Switzerland, Adda Sterk had been remanded to a DOD black site for further interrogation, and Michael Lee was given immunity from prosecution, along with a small payment from the Carlton Group to guarantee his silence. He was reunited with his dog and also tracked down Sterk’s contact, who had accepted the two decoy dogs that supposedly belonged to Nicholas. The Old Man had made it known to Harvath that he wanted the settlement money to Michael Lee to be reimbursed to the Carlton Group by the Troll, in person. Harvath had no idea where he was, but he assumed that he and Padre Peio had returned to the Basque country.
After Chicago, Harvath had intended to return to Virginia, but instead he had gone to Maine. He knew it wasn’t going to be easy telling Tracy things were over. She was a beautiful woman and he loved her very much, more than he had ever loved anyone else. He wanted a family, though. He had come to the conclusion that he wanted that more than anything else, even more than his career. He had thought he could have both with her. He believed that at one point it had been possible, but not the way things were now.
They drank a lot and stayed in bed together for three entire days. When the Old Man called and Harvath told her he had to go, she told him she loved him and that she hoped he would keep in touch with her. She also told him that she understood and that he was doing the right thing.
As Harvath left, he consoled himself with the knowledge that if a great relationship had once been possible with Tracy, it could be possible with somebody else. Maybe even Riley, the doctor Carlton had sent to him in Geneva. For his part, though, the Old Man wasn’t forthcoming with any further information about her. That was okay. When he was done in Yemen, he was seriously considering going to Paris to see if he could find her on his own.
Taking another sip of chai, he checked his watch and looked across the dusty street at the figure that was approaching.
“You’re late,” he said as the man pulled out one of the rickety chairs and sat down.
“Fuck you.”
Harvath smiled. If he hadn’t met Sean Chase in Chicago, he never would have been able to pick him out here in Yemen, or in any other Muslim country. He blended in perfectly. “You still mad?”
Chase’s eyes widened. “Is that a serious fucking question? Because I spent three years of my life infiltrating Aleem’s network only to have you cock it all up.”
“You’re young, there’ll be other assignments.”
“You’re an idiot, you know that? How do you tell somebody to just walk away and forget something like that?”
“I didn’t tell you to walk away and forget it,” said Harvath. “I told you that there’d be other assignments.”
“Spoken like a true old-timer.”
“Forty makes me an old-timer?”
“It certainly doesn’t make you a spring chicken.”
Harvath laughed. This kid was all mouth and balls. He liked him. Probably because that’s exactly the way he had been. “Hot enough for you?” he asked, changing the subject.
“We’re going to talk about the fucking weather now?” Chase asked. “I thought you had something for me. Or did you fly halfway around the world just to pull on my dick?”
Harvath laughed again.
“What’s so goddamn funny?”
“You’ve got an incredible mouth on you. If you don’t get a handle on it, it’s going to hold you back.”
“What the hell would you know about it?”
“I know,” said Harvath. “Trust me.”
“So, are we going to cuddle up and read chapter two from Miss Manners or are you going to give me the intel you supposedly uncovered on Aleem?”
Harvath motioned for the waiter to bring another chai for his guest. Then, turning to Chase, he said, “I’ve got good news for you, Sean.”
“I bet you do. What is it?”
“Aleem’s close.”
“How close?”
Harvath pulled a set of car keys from his pocket and dropped them on the table. “See that white Corolla over there?”
Chase looked at the car and then back at Harvath. “You’ve got Aleem in there? In the trunk?”
Harvath nodded.
“Holy shit. Where’d you find him?”
“We followed the same leads you did here to Yemen.”
“Let me guess. Age and wisdom over youth and inexperience. Is that what you’re going to tell me?”
“From what I understand,” said Harvath, “you’ve already got more experience than a lot of people twice your age.”
“So what? You’re trying to tell me you’re just that good?”
Harvath smiled. “You’re going to learn, Sean, that it’s often better to be lucky than good.”
Chase rolled his eyes. “What’s the catch? What do you want?”
“Personally, I’d like you to sit and have a glass of tea with me and then you can drive me to the airport.”
“That’s it? That’s all you want?”
“I said that’s what I wanted personally. Professionally, we expect you to share everything with us you can download out of Aleem.”
“But you could do that yourself,” said Chase. “Why give him to me?”
“Because we want to. You worked harder than anyone to get close to this guy and take his network apart. A lot of people have been killed because of him and it’s going to make America look good that we captured him. My group doesn’t want any publicity. The Agency on the other hand needs the good press. Just make sure management doesn’t try to grab all the credit.”
“Thank you,” said Chase as the waiter set down his glass.
Harvath’s phone vibrated. It was an unknown number and he was tempted not to answer it, but for some stupid reason he thought maybe Carlton had given in and passed his number along to Riley in Paris.
The moment he heard the modulated voice on the other end, he knew he had made a mistake. “You owe my boss some money, Nicholas. And he wants it from you in person,” said Harvath.
“I’ve got something else the Old Man’s going to want a lot more,” replied the Troll.
“Then call him and tell him yourself,” he said as he reached for more chai. “I’m going on vacation.”
“I found something on Adda Sterk’s thumb drive.”
“What thumb drive?”
“The one I found in Geneva after you dumped her purse out looking for her inhaler.”
“That’s U.S. government property, Nicholas.”
Wherever in the world he was, the Troll laughed. “I’m doing you a favor. I really think you should see this.”
“Not interested,” said Harvath.
“Aazim Aleem has a nephew who works at Harrods.”
“So what?”
“So, his nephew was a digital courier for him. Real smart when it came to transmitting information without leaving a trail. Except he made one mistake, and I found it.”
“On the thumb drive.”
“Yes.”
Chase was listening intently. Harvath decided the conversation was over. Clinking the tiny spoon he had against his glass he said, “You know what sound that is, Nicholas? That’s the bell signaling the commencement of the local cocktail hour. I’m off the clock.
I’m sure you can track down my boss if you try hard enough.”
That’s when the Troll let the other shoe fall. “A piece of data was transmitted to Sterk that never should have been. It was highly encrypted and even if she had noticed it buried in another file, I don’t think she could have decrypted it. I think that’s why it was left on her thumb drive, hidden in plain sight.”
“Okay, I give. What is it?”
The Troll took a deep breath and let it out. “Site 243 wasn’t just about a string of Islamic terrorist attacks. The attacks are a small wave preceding a giant tsunami meant to crush the United States.”
* * *
On a rooftop two blocks away, as a man listened to his employer, he could picture him sitting in his club’s library, his liver-spotted hands holding his encrypted cell phone.
“You are positive Aleem is in the trunk of the car?”
“I am,” said the man on the rooftop.
“And nothing will be traced back to us?”
“Nothing at all.”
There was a pause before the man in London finally said, “You have my permission to proceed.” With that, the line went dead.
The man on the rooftop plucked out his earbud, wrapped the cord around his cell phone, and replaced it in his pocket.
Bending over, he flipped open the lid of the hard plastic container at his feet and removed the rocket-propelled grenade.
He flipped up the sights and hoisted the weapon on his shoulder. It was heavier than he remembered. It took him a moment to focus on the white Corolla in the distance.
When he had his target perfectly aligned in his sights, Robert Ashford pulled the trigger.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
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