by Brad Thor
The only conclusion he could come to was that civilized people were encoded with an aversion to murder. Throughout thousands of years of history, tales of morality and murder were handed down from one generation to the next. From childhood, human beings are steeped in stories about the unjustified taking of life, and the acts they find the most reprehensible are those committed with the most basic tools—stones or knives, clubs or bare hands—as if the tools most associated with murder are those that have been around as long as murder itself.
There was a dissociation Harvath felt when taking a life via the barrel of a gun. The bullet was his intercessor. He pulled the trigger; the bullet was released; the bullet killed the target. It was clean, simple, it all fit compactly inside an iron strongbox he kept buried away in his mind. And no matter how many times he killed, the box always had room for one more. It was only a handful of kills, no matter how justified, that were occasionally able to slip his mental jailer and prod the edges of his conscience.
Some of Harvath’s strongest qualities, though, were his willpower and his ability to compartmentalize and focus on the mission at hand. He was not prone to doubts or second-guessing.
After clearing away the sniper’s body, he set up the rifle and lay down behind it—a Remington Model 700 with a sound and flash suppressor, as well as a detachable box magazine. He had no idea what caliber it was but assumed it was powerful enough to get the job done from this distance.
Mounted to the top of the weapon was a powerful thermal scope with the ability to “see” in total darkness. Harvath set the radio down in front of him, made sure the volume was adjusted to low, and then peered through the scope.
From the sniper’s last communication, it sounded as if there were three others, which meant he was dealing with a four-man team, just as in Paris and Spain.
As he began panning the area with the scope, the lights in the guesthouse suddenly went out.
“Come on. Where are you?” he whispered as he snugged the stock tighter into his shoulder.
For a fraction of a second, he was gripped by a fear that maybe the hitters were wearing gear that canceled their heat signature, but he soon saw the colored glow of a figure approaching the guesthouse from the northwest, carrying what looked like a suppressed tactical rifle.
To make a perfect shot at this range required a certain amount of data, most of which Harvath would have to guess at.
Bullets drop over distance, so he elevated his point of aim in order to correlate the point of impact. The breeze would blow the bullet slightly off trajectory, plus his target was moving, which meant he needed to aim not where the man was but where he was going to be when the bullet arrived.
He made the calculations instantaneously and adjusted the rifle. Exhaling, he pressed the trigger. The bullet spat from the weapon, raced toward the target, and missed.
He had no idea where it hit, but it was close enough to cause the man running toward the guesthouse to pull up short, turn his head, and look directly in his direction.
“Damn it,” Harvath said aloud, as he cycled the bolt and chambered another round. Repeating the process, he recalculated and was preparing to fire when the target took off running. “Damn it,” he muttered again.
Exhaling, Harvath anticipated where the man was going to be, readjusted his aim, and fired. This time the bullet was spot-on.
Before the man’s body even hit the ground, Harvath had cycled the bolt and was scanning for the other two. He picked up his second target, also carrying a weapon and closing in on the guesthouse from the south. Taking aim, he exhaled once more and pressed the trigger.
The bullet connected with the man’s torso, and he went down but only to one knee.
Harvath pulled back the bolt, ejected the spent casing, and drove it home, advancing the next round.
The target was trying to get to his feet when Harvath fired again, this time nailing him right in the head.
He looked back through the scope at his first target, who was lying facedown on the ground and hadn’t moved, and then began searching for number four. Seconds ticked by.
The radio had been silent, which meant that unless the fourth man had seen his colleagues gunned down, he had no idea what was going on. Harvath kept searching for him, but he was nowhere to be seen. That could only mean that he was coming up on the guesthouse from behind. Harvath needed to warn Nicholas.
Identifying the windows of the master bedroom, Harvath aimed high and fired one round into the room, following it immediately with a second.
He then threw the levers of the scope mount, detached the device from the top of the weapon, and ran toward the guesthouse.
CHAPTER 40
Get behind the bed, lie down, and don’t move,” Nicholas said.
“Why won’t you tell me what’s going on?” Nina implored. “It’s the people who killed Caroline, isn’t it?”
“I don’t know what’s going on. The power fluctuated a little while ago. This may be nothing.”
“Which is why you have me in here, along with the your dogs and a gun?”
“Shhhhh,” he said. “You need to be quiet, Nina. Please.”
The young woman did as he asked and the room fell silent. The dogs knew something was wrong and stood staring at the closed bedroom door, their ears alert, their noses sniffing the air for any foreign scent. Draco was the first to begin growling. Something had caught his attention.
As Argos joined him, two rounds pierced the bedroom’s upper window. Nina shrieked but quickly muffled her scream by clapping her hand to her mouth.
Nicholas shuffled over to her. “I’ve changed my mind. Stay as low to the floor as you can and get to the bathroom. Crawl into the tub and stay there. Don’t move until I come for you.”
Nina nodded as he raised his weapon and took aim at the bedroom door. The dogs were growling louder, and he could tell someone was in the house now.
“Stoy,” he whispered to them sternly in Russian. Stay! “Tzeeha.” Quiet!
Harvath knew that Nicholas was armed. He wouldn’t reenter the guesthouse without announcing himself. Somebody else had come in.
The little man glanced around quickly and came up with a plan. After positioning the dogs and ordering them to be quiet, he took his hiding place. The field of view was terrible, but at least he was concealed and would hopefully have the element of surprise on his side. If only he had his .45 as well.
Clutching the tiny M3, Nicholas felt his heart pounding in his chest and tried to slow it down. He took one deep breath after another. He was about to take in his fourth when a hail of bullets ripped through the door and the drywall beside it. There were sparks and the sounds of hisses and pops as the rounds chewed up the extensive computer setup. As soon as the shooting had begun, it stopped.
Nicholas knew he should breathe, but he couldn’t bring himself to, for fear of giving away his location. Instead, he gripped his weapon tighter while he prayed that none of the rounds had found Nina or the dogs.
The seconds ticked by, and he half wondered if maybe the attacker had moved on to the other rooms, but he knew better; especially when the knob turned and the door slowly swung open.
He braced himself for some sort of distraction device. He had heard that the effects of a flashbang, or stun grenade, could be mitigated by closing your eyes, jamming your fingers into your ears, and opening your mouth slightly to equalize the pressure, which is what he did.
He counted to three, and when nothing happened, he opened his eyes and looked. The first thing he saw was a suppressor, quickly followed by a fraction of a barrel and then a short handguard. Soon the entire weapon appeared, as well as the person holding it.
The attacker crept cautiously into the room, sweeping his rifle from side to side.
Two more steps, Nicholas said to himself. Two more steps.
The attacker took one, and was about to take another, when something suddenly made him stop.
Don’t stop. Just one more step.
&nb
sp; But the man turned and started going in another direction. He was going toward the bathroom. Nicholas had to do something.
Cracking the lid of the empty equipment case he was hiding in, he raised his weapon. Come back this way, he silently pleaded, but the attacker had made up his mind.
In three more steps, Nicholas would lose sight of him. A shot from this angle wouldn’t be lethal, but it was all he had. Steadying himself, he lined up his weapon.
The .22 rounds came flying out of the little gun, hitting the attacker in his rump and the back of his left leg. He screamed in pain and spun to face his assailant. As he did, Nicholas yelled in Russian for the dogs.
As soon as the attacker turned and began trying to get a fix on who had shot him, the dogs burst from the bathroom door.
Argos leapt into the air and onto the man’s back as Draco attacked his wounded left leg. Together they brought him right to the floor and began tearing him apart.
In his fall, the man had lost his rifle, and Nicholas rushed from his hiding place just in time to see him draw a knife. Raising his weapon, he angled for a shot, but the dogs were all over him. He didn’t want to shoot one of his own animals.
As the man’s hand reached out and was just about to slice, Nicholas raced in front of the blade and used his weapon to parry the blow. There was the distinct clang of metal hitting metal, the force of which knocked Nicholas to the ground and made him fumble the little M3.
The man, still screaming while Argos and Draco mauled him, raised his knife again and prepared to bring it down. Nicholas found himself directly in its path. He tried to recover his weapon, at least to block the blade, if nothing else, but he knew he wasn’t going to be fast enough.
With no other choice, he grasped the hot barrel of his gun just as a muffled pop made the attacker’s knife fall to the floor, accompanied by a spray of blood and an even more powerful scream.
Scooting away from the man as he brought his weapon to bear, Nicholas looked up to see Nina, eyes wide with fear, grasping the attacker’s rifle.
CHAPTER 41
VIRGINIA
Carlton squinted at the cheap motel alarm clock before picking up the vibrating cell phone beside his bed. He’d given the number to just one person, and it was to be used only in a life-or-death emergency. Flipping it open and raising it to his ear, he said, “Go ahead.”
It was Banks, and he spoke in code. “It looks like someone has figured out you’re up and around and has ordered you one of those fancy Western neckties.”
A Be-On-The-Lookout, or BOLO, was out for him. Whoever these people were, they were now using law enforcement to help cast a wider net. “How long ago?”
“Around midnight.” Banks replied. “I just learned about it.”
“What’s in it?”
Banks gave him the breakdown. They had a recent picture and his physical stats, but they didn’t have a description of his vehicle or a plate number. Small consolation; they’d have them soon enough. Their focus would begin inside Virginia and spread out from there. As local law enforcement made the rounds of different hotels and motels, eventually they’d pinpoint where he’d been. Then it would be only a matter of time until they came up with his Jeep. He’d have to get rid of it.
“Anything else?” Carlton asked. He was already out of bed and shoving his few belongings into a small duffel. As soon as the call was over, he would disassemble the phone and scatter the pieces. It was no longer safe to use.
“I’m close on something. Just waiting for confirmation. When I have it, I’ll drop it in the box.”
“Understood.”
“In the meantime, watch your ass,” said Banks. “There’s a whole bunch more eyeballs in the game now.”
“You too,” replied Carlton. “And as soon as we hang up, nuke whatever phone you used to call me on.”
“I’m way ahead of you. Don’t worry.” With that, he disconnected the call.
Carlton removed the battery from the phone, pulled out the SIM card, and snapped the device in two at the hinges. After a careful sweep of his room, he turned out the lights and approached the window. Peering from behind the drapes, he looked out onto the parking lot. There was no sign of movement.
Tucking his 1911 into his waistband, he slipped on his coat, zipped up his bag, and gave the parking lot one last check before stepping outside.
The only way he was going to get a new vehicle that couldn’t be traced to him was to steal one, and he ran the limited options through his mind as he unlocked the Jeep and climbed in. He powered up his laptop and set it on the passenger seat. McDonald’s offered free WiFi, and there was one about two miles up the road. He backed out of the motel parking lot and headed in its direction.
Carlton had been taught early in his career that the most important factor in stealing a car was to steal one nobody was going to notice was gone, or at least not right away. For decades, spooks had been fond of haunting long-term parking lots. All you had to do was wait until someone showed up, parked, and got on the shuttle bus. As soon as the bus pulled away, you went to work. But that was then.
While some in the business still favored this method, Carlton disliked it for several reasons. With the surge in technology, most cars had sophisticated electrical systems that made them all but immune to hotwiring unless you had very specific tools, which Carlton didn’t. That meant he needed an older vehicle. There was no telling how long he’d have to sit in a remote lot before the right car showed up. The longer he waited, the greater the temptation was to settle for a vehicle that had already been parked for an indeterminate amount of time. Giving in meant you could end up snatching a vehicle whose owner might be returning from their trip at any minute.
The biggest strike against stealing a car from a long-term lot, though, was the security. Spies weren’t the only ones who liked the pickings in these lots; so did professional car thieves, so operators of long-term lots took great pains to deter thefts. In short, it just wasn’t worth it; especially when there was a much better option available.
Pulling into a lot across the street from the McDonald’s, Carlton logged onto their WiFi network, opened his browser, and plugged in his search terms. In less than a second, the results came back, along with a map studded with five digital pins. He browsed the website for each facility and then conducted cyber surveillance using the map’s street view feature. Of the five, only one met all the criteria on his list. After computing his route, he turned off the computer and got back on the road.
Since his last meeting with Banks, he had all but resigned himself to the fact that he wouldn’t be able to sort out the conspiracy he was embroiled in with brainpower alone. It was just too vast, and there were too many empty spaces, too many question marks. Whoever had set their sights on him and his people had incredible pull at an extremely high level. He still had no idea what the stakes were, or what they were planning, but he knew it had to be something big. That meant that the people involved would be excruciatingly careful.
It also meant that they likely had operational experience in this area. Banks had agreed with him on that. To create and execute a lie of this magnitude and to weave it with multiple murders, its architects had to be intimately familiar with Washington. They had to know its ins and outs. They had to know every card in the deck, how each was played, and how they could slip their own card in without anyone being the wiser. That meant one thing—these people were, or at one point had been, true insiders.
They would need firsthand knowledge of and connections within the intelligence community and the three branches of government. Then there was the military component.
Only highly trained, highly specialized personnel could have taken out his operators. These weren’t simply contract killers. It wouldn’t be impossible to put together a list, and Carlton had begun to do so. They could have come from only a handful of elite units around the world—the British, maybe Russians, possibly the Australians. To pull it all off with such precision meant that they were
highly disciplined, which was yet another reason he leaned toward the killers having military experience.
He also had to consider that American Special Operations Forces had been used—that was harder to swallow, though. The SOF community was small and very tightly knit. Unless the kill teams were comprised of morally bankrupt men who had washed out of the Special Forces community, he couldn’t envision American operators turning on their fellows. It just didn’t make sense. Nevertheless, he couldn’t rule anything out.
The questions kept spinning in his mind as he drove. The scope of the entire thing was so vast that he couldn’t help but wonder if he was looking at a coup of some sort. It was the only framework upon which he could hang the few pieces he’d gathered and not have them fall apart. Why else take such an ultimate risk? Why lay everything on the line like this?
Carlton had seen enough to know that such plots existed. His own group had been instrumental in stopping one of the most sophisticated coups he’d ever encountered. Was this plot somehow connected? Was it simply another prong of an attack that they had failed to uncover?
He was suddenly consumed by the feeling that he might not be that far off base. A tuning fork had been struck somewhere inside his brain and the note was now resonating outward.
Here they had been striking at every snake that slithered out of the darkness, but what if those snakes weren’t random? What if they were actually part of a many-headed Hydra?
Had Carlton and his team been so successful at chopping off the heads that the monster had no choice but to turn its attention on them and attack? The more he thought about it, the more the idea solidified in his mind. If he was right, then he was left with only two options. Either he forced the monster out into the daylight, or he tracked it into the darkness and fought it there. Whatever path he chose, he had little doubt that it would be one of the most dangerous assignments he had ever gone after.