Brad Thor - Full Black

“Not so far as we can tell.”

“When will you be able to restart the interrogations?”

“Soon,” she replied.

“How’s Chase?”

“All things considered, pretty good. The bullet did chip his humerus, though.”

“Impossible, Chase doesn’t have a humorous bone in his body.”

“Very funny.”

Harvath liked flirting with her and could picture her rolling her eyes. “He’s going to live, though, right?”

“First, this wasn’t a life-threatening injury,” said Riley. “In fact, I think your duct tape field dressing posed more of a risk to him than anything else.”

“Most doctors think my duct tape bandages are cool.”

“Those doctors probably had nurses to assist them. Your duct tape idea may be clever, but it’s a pain to remove, especially for the patient.”

“He’s a big boy, trust me. He tells me all the time. You didn’t hurt him.”

“You asked about his injury,” she replied, trying to steer the conversation back to where it had been. “There appears to be a little wrist drop due to some radial nerve injury, but if he does the requisite physical therapy, everything should be fine.”

“What do you mean by wrist drop?”

Riley took a breath and then said, “He’s a bit limp-wristed.”

Harvath laughed. “Please tell me that’s how you’ll write it up for his medical file.”

“It’s not funny.”

“Yeah, it is. That file follows you for life.”

She ignored him. “Anyway, I thought you’d want the update.”

“I appreciate it. Thank you.”

“I guess that’s it, then.”

Harvath was picturing her in his mind and didn’t want to let her go just yet. He liked the sound of her voice. “Who’s going to head up the interrogation once it gets started?” he asked, hoping to extend their conversation a little bit longer.

“I haven’t seen them yet,” said Riley, “but apparently the Agency flew in a couple of specialists last night. They’re ready to go as soon as the medical team gives the all-clear.”

“They’re good people. Some of the best. They’ll do a good job.”

“They couldn’t be any worse,” she said.

“Than who?” asked Harvath.

“Chase.”

“Chase? What are you talking about?” asked Harvath. “He tried to start the interrogation already?”

“No, but he asked if I had access to ketamine.”

“Horse tranquilizer?”

“That’s one of its uses. In humans it’s highly hallucinogenic. Chase showed me a pair of special-effects contact lenses he had with him that could make a person’s eyes look like the devil. He wanted to pump the patient full of ketamine and freak the hell out of him in hopes of getting him to talk.”

Harvath laughed again. “I guess that’s one way of doing it.”

“You would actually endorse that kind of thing?”

“For some backwater Taliban member living in a cave in Waziristan, maybe, but not for this patient. I think Chase was just pulling your leg.”

“I might be inclined to believe you if he didn’t actually own a pair of those contacts,” replied Riley.

“He’s young and aggressive. He’ll learn.”

“In the meantime, I’m not letting him near the ketamine.”

“Probably a good idea,” said Harvath, who sensed their conversation was winding down.

“I’ve got to get back. I’ll call you if I learn anything new.”

“I appreciate it. Thanks for keeping me in the loop.”

“Sure thing,” she replied. “Stay safe.”

“You, too,” he answered and then disconnected the call and set the phone back on his nightstand.

She didn’t have to call him. She could have had the Old Man or even Chase do it. He was glad that she had contacted him personally.

Harvath sat there propped up in bed and debated whether he should try to grab some more sleep. Though the quality of what he’d been able to get so far was marginal at best, he’d still been out for ten hours. What he needed now was some exercise.

Getting out of bed, he got dressed in a pair of shorts and an Atomic Dog T-shirt. A creature of habit, he tucked a loaded Taurus 9mm Slim semiautomatic into a belly band and headed downstairs.

He bypassed the coffeemaker and grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge. After hydrating, he pulled on his running shoes and stepped outside. It was a perfect day, sunny and with a light breeze.

His house was a small, renovated eighteenth-century stone church known as Bishop’s Gate that stood on several acres of land overlooking the Potomac River, just south of George Washington’s Mount Vernon estate. During the Revolutionary War, the Anglican reverend of Bishop’s Gate had been an outspoken loyalist who had provided sanctuary and aid to British spies. As a result, the colonial army had attacked the church, inflicting grave damage.

It lay in ruins until 1882, when the Office of Naval Intelligence, or ONI, was established to seek out and report on the enormous post-Civil War explosion in technological capabilities of other foreign navies. Several covert ONI agent training centers were established up and down the eastern seaboard to instruct Naval attaches and military affairs officers on the collection of intelligence and the finer aspects of espionage.

Because of its isolated yet prime location not far from Washington, D.C., Bishop’s Gate was secretly rebuilt and became the ONI’s first covert officer training school. As the oldest continuously operating intelligence service in the nation, the ONI eventually outgrew Bishop’s Gate. The stubby yet elegant church with its stone rectory was relegated to “mothball” status.

The Navy had many such properties in its inventory, but the majority of those suitable for use as dwellings were reserved for high-level defectors and other displaced political personages the United States government found itself responsible for.

Regardless of a property’s status, if it fell within the U.S. Navy’s portfolio, the U.S. Navy was responsible for maintaining it. With so many properties to look after, maintenance and carrying costs were quite high. This, coupled with the fact that Harvath, a U.S. Navy SEAL, had shown exemplary service to the nation, played a large role in the secretary of the Navy’s agreeing to a special arrangement suggested by the former president of the United States.

The church building and the attached rectory, which had been converted into a nice-sized house, came to more than four thousand square feet of living space. Those structures, along with a garage, an outbuilding, and the extensive grounds of Bishop’s Gate, had been deeded to Harvath in a ninety-nine-year lease. Per the lease he was to pay a token rent of one U.S. dollar per annum. All that was required of him 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 the United States Navy.

While Harvath had gone above and beyond for the president, he had still been stunned to be extended such a generous offer.

On his first visit, while exploring the rectory attic, he found a beautifully hand-carved piece of wood. Upon it was the motto of the Anglican missionaries. It seemed strangely fitting for the career Harvath had pursued. TRANSIENS ADIUVANOS, it read. I go overseas to give help. At that moment, he had known he was home.

That was several years ago, and now he couldn’t imagine living anywhere else.

Standing on his front steps, he stretched each of his legs. He had decided on a short run, just up to Mount Vernon and back. Once his muscles were warm, he started his jog.

Exercise always had a way of clearing his head and making him feel more energized. Today was no exception. He didn’t think about work at all. He thought about the things he needed to get done around his house. He thought about getting out on the Potomac and doing a little sailing. He also thought about what kind of ruse he could run to get Riley Turner to D.C. for a visit.