by Brad Thor
CHAPTER 44
Daylight was still two hours off when the first strains of the Pilatus PC-12 turboprop aircraft began to be heard circling above the ranch.
Harvath flashed the lights of the Denali. Maggie threw the switch and illuminated the landing strip. The pair had already said their good-byes, and Harvath had coached her on how to report the bodies at the trough. She was savvy enough to understand why he didn’t want her watching him loading the plane. It was for her own good.
After the white-and-blue aircraft touched down, it turned around at the end of the runway and taxied back to where the party was standing.
Pulling up alongside their stack of gear, the plane came to a stop and its single turbine engine spun down. After the main door was opened and the air stairs unfolded, a clean-shaven man in his early fifties stepped out.
He had thick brown hair and was wearing a denim shirt, khakis, and a pair of work boots. He studied the group amassed beside the runway, along with their gear and the two enormous white dogs, then gave Harvath a wave.
Harvath waved back and watched as the sinewy pilot descended the stairs.
The man crossed the tarmac and Harvath stuck his hand out. “Thanks for coming, Mike.”
The pilot wrapped him in a bear hug and lifted him off the ground. “You’re damn right I came. I always told you I would. I just didn’t think it’d be in the middle of the night.” Letting go, he stood back in order to take everyone in again. “Good Lord, if this isn’t a great group of passengers.” Looking down at Nicholas he added, “How the heck are you doing? You ready to go flying?”
Mike Strieber was a character. Quick to tell a joke, as well as to find the humor in any kind of situation, his happy-go-lucky personality was infectious.
Born and raised in San Antonio, he had joined the Marines after securing his engineering degree, because he wanted to kick ass and fly planes. He flew all sorts of aircraft before deciding that it wasn’t planes he really wanted to fly but helicopters. In his indomitable fashion, Strieber went after his new goal with everything he had.
As it turned out, he made an excellent helo pilot and was eventually tasked to Marine Helicopter Squadron One, also known as HMX-1, the squadron responsible for flying the President, Vice President, cabinet members, and other VIPs. It was while Harvath was on the President’s Secret Service detail that he and Strieber had met and become friends.
When Strieber retired from the Marines and HMX-1, he decided to return to his engineering roots. He had an idea for a tactical flashlight that he thought might be pretty good. Once again, he went after his goal with everything he had and created quite a name for himself.
Strieber flashlights, as well as a very creative line of knives he had begun producing, were in such demand with the military, police, and private citizens, that Mike ran his people and his fabricating shop around the clock. With U.S. troops deployed in so many different time zones, he always made sure he had someone checking their website and e-mails 24/7. He was fanatical about customer service. It was just the way he was and his success reaffirmed it. Harvath had had no doubt that the coded message he’d scribbled down for Maggie would get through to him. The words may not have made any sense to her, nor did the latitude and longitude coordinates that looked like serial numbers, but Mike had had no problem figuring it all out.
“So, where are we off to?” Strieber asked. He said it cheerfully, as if Harvath was his biggest client and he was eager to keep him happy.
Harvath waved him over to the Denali and showed him the game bags in the cargo area. “I’m going to need to get rid of these.”
Strieber didn’t need to have the bags unzipped to guess what was inside. “You know when I told you that joke about how a friend will help you move, but a real friend will help you move a body, I was only kidding, right?”
“I wouldn’t ever want to put you in a bad spot, Mike, but these guys killed a bunch of people tonight and they tried to kill me. They got what was coming to them.”
Strieber knew enough about Harvath’s time with the SEALs, as well as what he had been doing since leaving the White House and the Secret Service, not to ask a lot of questions. “Should I assume this is official business, then?”
Harvath nodded.
“Okay,” Strieber replied. “After we dispose of your dirty laundry, what else do you need from me?”
Harvath gestured to Nicholas, Nina, and the dogs and said, “I’m hoping you can put them up for a little bit. Someplace safe.”
“I think we can do that. What about you?”
“I’ll fill you in after we take off.”
The answers were good enough for Mike. Sizing up the passengers, their gear, and everything Harvath had in the Denali, Strieber began making calculations about weight distribution and takeoff.
Harvath suggested that Nina and Nicholas climb aboard with the dogs, and then he and Mike got to work.
Twenty minutes later, the plane was loaded. Once Strieber had completed his preflight check, he gave him the thumbs-up. Harvath climbed into the plane behind him, retracted the air stairs, and secured the cabin door. He made sure Nicholas, Nina, and the dogs were all set before walking forward into the cockpit and taking the copilot’s seat.
As he slipped on his headset, Strieber asked, “Are we all ready?”
“We’re ready,” Harvath replied.
Minutes later, they were at the far end of the runway and Mike was feeding power to the aircraft’s enormous engine. It felt like sitting astride a thoroughbred in the starting gate. The muscular plane was vibrating and seemed to be itching to take off.
“Here we go,” he said as he released the brakes, and the aircraft began racing down the runway.
Harvath watched the gauges as the speed rapidly increased. Finally, Strieber pulled back on the yoke and the sleek bird lifted off.
They headed south and then changed course and headed east toward the ocean.
The cloud cover was high enough that Strieber was flying VFR, or Visual Flight Rules, which meant that he didn’t need to file a flight plan and there’d be no record of where he’d been.
Harvath pulled a map and balanced it on his lap. Using a red-filtered flashlight that Mike had handed him, so as not to ruin their night vision, he traced his finger along the coast and asked a series of questions.
“It’s up to you,” Strieber answered. “I guess it just depends on how soon you want the bodies found.”
Harvath wanted it to take as long as possible, if they were ever found at all. That left them with two choices. They could either drop them in the marshy South Bay near the border or out over the Gulf of Mexico. Harvath didn’t have enough information about the currents to know if dumping them in the ocean would result in them washing up in Texas or Mexico. Either way, the deaths would be chalked up to cartel violence. The only difference was that U.S. authorities would conduct at least a pro forma investigation, while the Mexicans very likely wouldn’t bother. Harvath opted for the South Bay.
Mike explained how he’d make his approach and then gave instructions on where he wanted Nicholas, Nina, and the dogs while Harvath carried out his task. Harvath unbuckled himself from his seat, walked back in the plane, and got everything into position.
Using some of Mike’s gear, he fashioned a rigger’s belt and secured himself with a long enough tether to the inside of the aircraft. Back at the ranch, he had filleted each of the bodies from the pubic bone up to the sternum, slicing through their intestines. It was the only way for the gases inside the corpses to escape. If he hadn’t, they would bloat and float to the surface. While working, he noticed that two of the men had crude tattoos similar to those he had noticed on the attacker in Spain.
After placing the bodies back in the game bags and reinforcing them with duct tape, he knotted heavy nylon cord around their ankles.
Stacked at the back of the plane were eight, forty-five-pound plates that he had taken from the ranch’s exercise room. He tied ninety pounds’ worth o
f weight to the ankles of each corpse, pierced the game bags in order to allow excess gases to escape, and relayed a message forward that he was ready.
Strieber decreased the plane’s altitude and brought it around in a wide, sweeping arc. As they neared the bay, he signaled for Harvath to open the rear utility door.
The slipstream and the roar of the engine were deafening. Salty sea air swept into the fuselage as the aircraft descended even farther. Waiting for the last signal, Harvath kept his eyes forward. Twenty seconds later, Mike pointed his flashlight into the cabin, fired a series of rapid blinks, and Harvath shoved the first body out the door.
CHAPTER 45
ANNAPOLIS JUNCTION
MARYLAND
Information was knowledge, and knowledge was power. By having access to every scrap of information, Craig Middleton was able to amass unlimited power. It gave him and his inner circle at ATS control over everything—money, politicians, and, whenever necessary, whether people lived or died. Middleton had always felt in control. Always, that was, until now.
Things had been going perfectly until Caroline Romero. He’d made a mistake sending his own security people after her. They’d botched the job, she had been killed, and they’d failed to recover the hard drive. He had no idea how much she had learned, but he had to assume that whatever she had uncovered, it would spell disaster for him and for ATS. That couldn’t be allowed to happen. It was imperative to get the drive back at all costs.
Discovering that the lingerie shop had sent a package to Romero’s sister had been a big break, but it hadn’t come soon enough. By the time Bremmer had gotten his team down there, the sister had disappeared. Middleton had a pretty good feeling that it wasn’t just underwear that had been mailed in that box. Caroline had sent her the flash drive as well.
She had also instructed her sister on how to remain hidden. Nina Jensen had abandoned her apartment, her job, her credit cards and cell phone. She hadn’t contacted any friends or family. But based on the surveillance Bremmer’s men had conducted at the ranch, she had managed to link up with Carlton’s dwarf, as well as with Scot Harvath.
These were two streams Middleton would never have imagined intersecting. The nexus had to be Caroline. At some point she and the Troll must have become acquainted. She got the flash drive to her sister, and the little computer hacker followed not long after. He was likely the one who had reached out to Harvath and had drawn him to Texas. The fact that they had all managed to stay off the grid was significant. Had it not been for the ranch manager’s Google search, they might have completely slipped through the net.
Two teams had been sent after Harvath, and both had failed. This time, Bremmer had instructed the Texas team to place one man in an overwatch position to act as a sniper. Middleton had pressed for details, but the Colonel didn’t have much more to provide. The team would complete their surveillance and assemble their own assault plan. They understood that they were not to kill the girl until she gave up the flash drive. If they needed to torture her to get it, they were authorized to do so. Once they took physical possession of it, all three subjects were to be terminated.
After the hit, the team would put as much distance between themselves and the scene as possible. At some point, they would make contact. Bremmer would then detail how he wanted them to deliver the drive.
Middleton had not been able to sleep. He knew the assault would happen sometime in the early-morning hours. He had no way of knowing if the sister had secreted the drive somewhere, but he doubted it. In all likelihood she had it with her at the ranch. He hoped that the third attempt on Harvath would be the charm, but as the night wore on and Bremmer failed to report in, Middleton became more apprehensive.
As he poured himself another scotch, his mind turned to another of his problems, Reed Carlton. The aging spook was a slippery old fox. How he’d made it out of the inferno that had been set at his home was a complete mystery. Bremmer’s men had been lying in wait, ready to take him out if he managed to escape his master bedroom, which had been locked down tighter than a drum. None of Bremmer’s team had seen anyone leave the house. Everyone assumed Carlton had been consumed by the blaze. Yet when the smoke literally cleared, he was nowhere to be seen. He had completely vanished.
And while Middleton liked the idea of the BOLO being put out on him, he had his reservations about the efficacy of some law enforcement officer stumbling across a man who’d been trained by the best and had spent decades slipping in and out of hostile countries around the world.
Carlton and Harvath seemed to be cut from the same cloth. Both had been able to slip Bremmer’s kill teams. Taking control of Carlton’s Skype account had been a clever way to pinpoint Harvath, but in hindsight, Middleton wondered if they shouldn’t have waited until the old spy had been confirmed dead. Maybe they could have used the account to lure both of them into a trap.
He was Monday-morning-quarterbacking himself and he knew it. They had every reason to believe that Carlton had died in that fire. When Harvath had popped up on Skype, they would have been foolish not to jump at the chance they had.
Leaning back in one of the leather club chairs in his study, Middleton swirled the scotch in his glass. Erasing everything and starting from scratch, he rebuilt the relationship chain in his mind. Caroline had contacted her sister. The sister had contacted the dwarf. The dwarf had contacted Harvath who had attempted to contact Carlton. And who had Carlton contacted?
Once the coroner’s report had come in, he had posed the same question to Schroeder. It made sense that in an emergency, Carlton would have secluded himself someplace he felt was safe and then would have reached out to the people best able to help protect him, his hitters.
Schroeder got on it and came back a short time later. ATS had been monitoring the cell phones of Carlton’s operators. Within twenty-four hours of the fire, each had been sent a text message reading Stock Update: Blue Petroleum, Oil & Lubricant. It wasn’t a coincidence. It had to be some sort of code.
The phone that had sent the message was still emitting a signal, and Schroeder had tracked it to a truck stop in Arizona. He tipped the Arizona State Police, who dispatched units to the location in search of Carlton. Middleton, though, felt something wasn’t right.
When the signal started moving again, Schroeder, posing as a surveillance tech from the FBI, was able to help the authorities pinpoint its source. It turned out to be an eighteen-wheeler headed toward Bakersfield, California. While the driver was being questioned, other officers scoured the rig. They eventually came up with the cell phone, which had been placed in a Ziplock bag and taped underneath. Carlton was a clever son of a bitch.
Though they assumed the phone was clean and wouldn’t offer any leads, Schroeder still arranged for it to be shipped back on the first commercial airline flight in the morning.
Middleton had to hand it to the old spook. It was a halfway decent red herring. But it was also a tell. Carlton obviously knew that eventually the phone was going to get tagged. He’d used it only once and then dumped it. This got Middleton to thinking. What did he do next?
Again, he reassembled the relationship chain in his mind—Caroline to her sister, the sister to the Troll, the Troll to Harvath, Harvath to Carlton, and Carlton to his operators. But when his operators didn’t respond, who would be next on Carlton’s list? Who would he have turned to for help?
Not only ditching the phone after one use by placing it under the westbound truck but having a clean phone to begin with showed that Carlton thought ahead; that he was a tactician. This didn’t surprise Middleton. It was to be expected from a man with his training. He would have known that they’d be looking at all of his relationships, which in fact they were. Carlton would have had to turn to somebody. He would want answers, and he would need help in getting them. Either he reached out to a contact who wasn’t in his relationship tree, or—like Caroline—the sister, the Troll, and Harvath had found a way to communicate that didn’t trip any alarm bells at ATS.
Walking over to his desk, he set his drink down and brought his computer back from sleep mode. Pulling up Carlton’s relationship tree, he studied the various branches and interlocking relationships for the hundredth time. He felt certain the answer was there; he just wasn’t seeing it.
Whom did he trust? More importantly, assuming that he had figured out that all of his hitters had been killed, whom did he trust with his life? Without knowing what enemy had risen against him, to whom could he turn? If it was just one person, who could help him unravel a puzzle this complex, where the stakes were so incredibly high?
Staring at the chart, Middleton excluded candidate after candidate as he delved further back into Carlton’s professional career. Very likely it would be someone local; someone with exceptional contacts in D.C., who could dig for him without arousing suspicion. That suddenly brought a completely different parameter to Middleton’s mind—who might fit the bill perfectly, but at the same time be the least likely candidate of all?
Middleton searched for colleagues whom Carlton had been at odds with, people he had had professional or personal run-ins with. There were a few, but not many. Nevertheless, Middleton wrote their names down.
He was about to close out of the file when he decided to give it one last perusal and aim for the absolute least likely candidate of all. As he did, he came across a name and a bell went off somewhere in his head.
Highlighting the header, Middleton opened the subfolder for Reed Carlton’s mentor, Thomas “Tommy” Carver Banks.