The Last Patriot

by Brad Thor

  As he neared the third story, he depressed his own transmit button for a final sit rep from Whitcomb.

  She toggled back the all clear just as a gloved hand dropped in front of her face and clamped down across her mouth.

  CHAPTER 52

  Dodd sank the straight razor in deep and drew it in one fluid slash across the woman’s throat, severing both her carotid arteries and her wind-pipe.

  Quickly, he disconnected her bone mike and transmitter.

  As the woman bled to death, the assassin lowered her body to the ground and stripped off her shirt to get to her bulletproof vest. It wouldn’t be a perfect fit, but it was better than nothing.

  She carried a Glock 19, a sound suppressor, and two additional mags, but no identification whatsoever. Though Dodd couldn’t be certain, he felt confident that she was CIA. The only question was how many others had she come with?

  After putting on her bloodstained vest, Dodd clipped the woman’s radio to his belt, inserted the earpiece, and wrapped the transmit button around his own left index finger.

  As he zipped up his jacket, he studied the thermal imaging device. It was a nice piece of equipment, expensive. Whoever this woman was, Dodd was now even more convinced that she was CIA. The only reason you didn’t carry ID was if you were working undercover and nobody but CIA would be working undercover with gear like this. This kind of device screamed high-end law enforcement or intelligence operation.

  Dodd raised it to his eyes and studied his apartment. He counted two heat signatures inside. Slowly, he scanned the rest of the area.

  Three people was an odd number to be traveling with, even for the CIA. If it hadn’t been for the illegally parked vehicle he’d seen when coming back from the airport, he might never have noticed the woman surveilling his apartment.

  Dodd knew most of the cars in his neighborhood, which made the ones that didn’t belong there stand out even more. The black Denali had Virginia license plates and had been parked in front of a hydrant. Everyone on Butchers Hill knew how tough it was to find parking, they also knew how merciless the police were in ticketing and towing. Whoever owned that vehicle was obviously a newcomer to the neighborhood or in a big hurry.

  What also had caught Dodd’s attention was that a light rain had fallen at some point during the evening. All the cars had dry spots underneath except for the Denali, which meant that it had been recently parked. Holding his hand above the warm hood was the only confirmation he needed.

  The assassin retrieved the long straight razor he carried in his shaving kit. It didn’t take him long to find and dispose of the spotter. Now it was time to eliminate whoever was inside his apartment.

  Certain that his adversary felt that they had the outside covered, Dodd crossed the street and headed for his front door. Tucking the imaging device under his arm, he screwed the suppressor onto the Glock and slid the spare magazines into his waistband so he could get at them quickly if he needed to.

  Dodd unlocked the front door and slipped inside. He knew every creak in every stair up to his apartment and ascended like a ghost.

  He kept his eyes peeled for any portable intrusion detectors that may have been placed along the stairwell, but saw none. Near the final landing, he raised the imaging device to his eyes and once more searched for the forms inside his apartment. He found them just as he set foot on the third floor.

  Moving into the hallway for the best possible shot, Dodd leveled his weapon at the drywall and began pulling the trigger.

  CHAPTER 53

  Ozbek had no idea what had happened until he heard Rasmussen yell, “I’m hit,” and then things all around him started exploding.

  He leapt into the bathroom and dove into its cast iron tub just as rounds began pinging off of it. Whoever was shooting at them was doing so with a suppressed weapon and was firing right through the drywall. Activating his bone mike, he said, “Raz, how bad are you hit?”

  “Bad,” replied Rasmussen. “Motherfucker shot me in the leg! It’s bleeding all over.”

  Both men were wearing low profile cargo-style pants by Blackhawk Industries that included a revolutionary integrated tourniquet system. “Clamp it,” ordered Ozbek, though he knew Rasmussen was probably already doing it.

  He could hear Rasmussen shout from the other room as he lifted the flap on his pants and spun the carbon fiber bar that tightened a cord in the fabric around his upper thigh and cut off the blood flow. The pants had been designed to help minimize loss of blood and get you back in the fight as fast as possible. Everyone on Ozbek’s team wore them and had trained with them extensively.

  Ozbek was about to confirm that Rasmussen had activated the tourniquet when he heard another series of rounds drill into the apartment.

  “Son of a bitch,” groaned Rasmussen over his mike.

  “Take cover,” ordered Ozbek.

  “I did,” his colleague replied. “This asshole knows exactly where I am.”

  Ozbek was about to climb out of the tub when silenced rounds started pinging off it yet again. How the hell does he know exactly where we are?

  He looked up to see if there were any cameras that might tell him how the shooter was pinpointing their locations and then his heart dropped into his stomach. The thermal imaging device.

  Ozbek clicked his transmitter in rapid succession. Nothing. He tried to raise Whitcomb once more, and when he received seven clicks to the tune of Shave-and-a-haircut-two-bits he knew that Whitcomb was dead. He also knew that he and Rasmussen were both sitting ducks. The shooter not only had the imaging device, he had Whitcomb’s radio. What he didn’t have, though, was their alternate frequency.

  Ozbek didn’t need to tell Rasmussen to switch freqs. He’d heard the same thing and was already on their alternate channel.

  “He’s got the imaging unit, doesn’t he?” whispered Rasmussen, his voice strained. He didn’t bother to ask about Whitcomb. He didn’t want to know the answer.

  “Yes,” replied Ozbek as he looked up at the bathroom mirror hanging on one hinge. Through its broken glass, he could see where the rounds had come through the drywall. “He’s firing laterally in four-to-six-inch patterns.”

  “What do you want to do?”

  Ozbek needed to come up with something fast. If he and Rasmussen fired blindly into the hallway, their rounds would penetrate the apartments on the other side and very likely kill innocent people. If they sat there and did nothing, though, they were as good as dead and Dodd would get away.

  If only the shooter couldn’t see them.

  Suddenly, Ozbek knew what they had to do. “Raz,” he said over the radio, “is there a thermostat out there?”

  Rasmussen scanned the walls with his flashlight until he found it. “Yes.”

  “Can you get to it?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What do you have for cover?” asked Ozbek as he turned on the cold water in the tub.

  “The couch.”

  “You’ve got to reach that thermostat. We need to get the heat up as high as possible.”

  Rasmussen studied the distance and gave the couch a nudge with his shoulder. It moved but only barely. He tried again, harder this time, and it moved a little bit more. On his third shove, bullets came through the wall all around him.

  Rasmussen yelled out loud as he planted his good leg and pushed the couch with all of his might. It moved more than he expected and shot off at an angle jamming up against a bookcase.

  Crawling behind the length of the couch, the injured CIA operative got his hands behind the bookcase and pulled as hard as he could, sliding it away from the wall, careful not to tip it over. Finally, he had it far enough out that he could snake behind it and reach the thermostat on the other side.

  Pushing himself up on his good leg, Rasmussen reached out as far as he could and flipped the temperature gauge as high as it would go.

  He dropped back to the floor as more rounds pierced the bookcase and drilled into the wall where he had just been standing.
>
  “It’s done,” said Rasmussen.

  “Hang in there,” replied Ozbek as he slipped fully clothed and with his body armor into the tub that was rapidly filling with bone-chilling water.

  There were multiple risks to what Ozbek was doing and he was aware of them all, but he was also aware that he had no choice. The key was in discerning the proper moment to get out of the tub.

  Even if the heating unit was only adequate, the small apartment shouldn’t take long to heat up. The longer he waited, the better chance he had of his plan working, but that held true for the shooter as well.

  Ozbek knew there was only so much of a drop in body temperature he could expect in a short amount of time, but every little bit would help. Being an older generation, the imaging unit had its limitations. Ozbek needed to get his temperature as close to the apartment’s as possible, thereby rendering his heat signature as near to invisible as possible. Once he did he would have to move fast.

  From the reports he was getting from Rasmussen, the shooter seemed to be focusing entirely on the wounded man. Three more waves of fire had come through the wall, splintered the bookcase, and slammed into the couch.

  The shooter had apparently given up on Ozbek for the time being. By taking out Rasmussen in the living room, he’d then be able to enter via the front door and take Ozbek out from inside the apartment.

  Ozbek knew they couldn’t wait any longer. “Raz,” he said into his mike. “How hot is it out there?”

  “I can’t see the thermostat, but it’s getting hot,” he replied.

  “Okay, I’m going off comms and coming out. Don’t shoot me.”

  “Roger that,” replied Rasmussen.

  Ozbek pulled out his earpiece and then submerged his head beneath the water for as long as he could.

  Breaking the surface, he quickly soaked a towel, draped it over his head, and slid out of the tub.

  CHAPTER 54

  Ozbek didn’t wait to see if the shooter was going to start firing at him. He knew that his body heat would begin rising soon.

  He rushed into the living room with his pistol up and at the ready. At the door, he crouched down and reached up with his left hand to grab the handle.

  When the door released, he pulled it back slowly, just enough to squeeze through, and then swung into the hallway.

  He found the shooter halfway down the hall with the thermal imaging unit pressed up against his face. Ozbek pulled his trigger. The man stumbled backward and as the imaging unit fell to the ground, Ozbek saw the face of Matthew Dodd.

  He pulled the trigger again, punching another two rounds into the man’s chest and sending him tumbling backwards.

  As Dodd fell, he squeezed the trigger of his own weapon, splintering the doorframe just above Ozbek’s head.

  Ozbek rolled back into the apartment and called for Rasmussen to come give him cover fire. Risking a peek into the hallway, he snapped his head back inside just as two more of Dodd’s rounds came blistering toward him.

  Ozbek waited a beat and then stuck his gun around the doorframe and pulled the trigger.

  Once more, he called for Rasmussen and once more he stuck his head into the hallway. This time, he saw Dodd racing into the rear stairwell. Ozbek fired, but the man disappeared from view.

  When Ozbek glanced back in the apartment and saw Rasmussen’s condition, he knew he had to get him medical attention soon. There was also Stephanie Whitcomb to consider. For all he knew, she could still be alive outside, barely clinging to life.

  Even so, Matthew Dodd was too damn close to let get away.

  Ozbek looked at Rasmussen and said, “I’ll be right back,” as he jumped up and charged into the hallway.

  He reached the rear stairs and took them three at a time. He landed hard on the first landing and peered around the corner. There was no sign of Dodd, and Ozbek launched himself down the next set of stairs.

  It wasn’t until he was almost at the second-floor landing that he noticed how dimly lit it was. Dodd had shattered the overhead lighting.

  Racing toward a field of broken glass, as well as a possible ambush, Ozbek grabbed the banister and tried to halt his forward trajectory.

  Losing his balance, he slid down the stairs sideways. He landed hard on the second-floor landing where the broken glass dug into his left leg and shoulder.

  Ignoring the pain, Ozbek swung his pistol down the next set of stairs and kept moving. When he got to the ground floor, he carefully opened the back door and stared out. There was no sign of the assassin.

  Ozbek wanted to continue the chase, but he had no idea in which direction the man had fled and he also had two operatives down.

  Pulling pieces of glass from his flesh, Ozbek hurried back up the stairs to Dodd’s apartment. He needed to get Rasmussen to a hospital and hoped to God that Stephanie Whitcomb wasn’t going to need to be taken to a morgue.

  CHAPTER 55

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  It was just before nine-thirty in the morning local time when the Bombardier jet touched down at Ronald Reagan National Airport.

  A Signature Flight Support representative met Harvath and Nichols at their plane. She helped steer them quickly through the private aviation passport control and customs area, and when the men politely declined complimentary breakfast and hot showers, she escorted them outside to where a gray Buick was waiting for them.

  The men threw their bags in the trunk and Harvath slid into the front passenger seat next to the driver, while Nichols climbed in back.

  “How was the flight?” asked Lawlor as he pulled away from the curb.

  “Beats a cold C-130 any day of the week,” replied Harvath as he peeled off his disguise and introduced Anthony Nichols.

  As they merged onto the George Washington Memorial Parkway, Harvath asked about Tracy.

  “The doctors at the American Hospital have been in touch with her surgeons back here,” said Lawlor. “They still have her under observation.”

  “Has the swelling gone down?”

  “Not as much as they would like. They’ve started her on a new medication.”

  Harvath didn’t like the sound of that. “Is she in any pain?”

  Lawlor shook his head. “Apparently, the pain is the one thing they have managed to get under control.”

  “Have you spoken with her?”

  “No, but someone from the embassy has. She’s hanging tough and not telling anyone anything.”

  Harvath looked out at the sailboats and other watercraft dotting the Potomac despite overcast skies. “How are the French authorities treating her?”

  “Her medical treatment is still first and foremost. But with three cops dead and a bunch of civilians killed and wounded at the bombing, there are certain elements pressing to be allowed to interrogate her.”

  “I suppose I can understand that,” Harvath admitted.

  “The sooner we accomplish things on our end,” replied Lawlor, “the sooner we can give the French enough to hopefully get Tracy released.”

  “Hopefully?”

  “You know what I mean,” grated Lawlor.

  The men rode the rest of the way in silence.

  Forty minutes later, Lawlor swung the car off the road and rolled to a stop in front of a nondescript, padlocked gate. “Do you want to do the honors?” he asked, holding up a key.

  Harvath took it and stepped out of the car. It was a bittersweet feeling to return home after all this time without Tracy.

  Harvath unlocked the gate and pushed it open wide enough for Lawlor to drive through.

  Pulling even with Harvath, Lawlor rolled down his window. “Do you want to get back in, or do you want to walk?”

  “I think I’ll walk,” said Harvath.

  He noticed the sign for his alarm company lying in the weeds and replanted it, then swung the gate shut behind him.

  He watched as Lawlor and Nichols disappeared down the winding, tree-lined drive and began walking.

  Bishop’s Gate, as the property was kn
own, was a small, eighteenth-century stone church that sat on several acres overlooking the Potomac River, just south of George Washington’s Mount Vernon estate. It was the twin of a small church in Cornwall called St. Enodoc.

  Bombarded during the Revolutionary War because of its status as a haven for British spies, Bishop’s Gate lay in ruins until 1882, when the Office of Naval Intelligence, or ONI, secretly rebuilt it and turned it into one of the ONI’s first covert-officer training schools.

  Eventually the ONI outgrew the Bishop’s Gate location and the stubby, yet elegant church with its attached rectory was demoted to a document storage site before being cleared out and abandoned.

  As a token of his appreciation for everything Harvath had done for his country, President Rutledge had deeded Bishop’s Gate in its entirety to Scot in a ninety-nine-year government lease with a token rent of one dollar per annum. All that was required of Harvath was that he maintain the property in a manner befitting its historic status and that he vacate the premises within twenty-four hours if ever given notice, with or without cause, by its legal owner, the United States Navy.

  It had been more than fifty years since the Navy had any use for Bishop’s Gate other than as a file graveyard, yet Harvath had been overwhelmed by the president’s gift. Not including the garage, the unique house formed by the church and the attached rectory came to over four thousand square feet of living space. All Harvath had to do was make sure the grass was mowed and his dollar-a-year rent was paid on time.

  As he walked down the driveway, he was reminded of the president’s generosity and how much they had been through together over the years. Though he still harbored resentment over how he had been treated, he wondered if Tracy had been right. Maybe it was time to forgive Jack Rutledge and move on.

  Emerging from the final twist of the wooded drive, Harvath laid eyes on his house. Bishop’s Gate was even more beautiful than he remembered.