Brad Thor - Full Black

“I’ll bet you’ve done a lot of bad things in your time, haven’t you?”

Yatsko didn’t reply.

“Have you ever necklaced anybody?”

Ralston waited for the man to respond, but he remained quiet.

“It’s a terrible way to die,” he said, standing the tire up on its side and filling it with gasoline. He then rolled it forward several feet and back again in order to evenly coat the inside.

Yatsko looked away.

“Legend has it that it began in Africa, but there are some who say it started in Haiti. The Brazilians also lay claim to it-they call it microondas-a play on the word microwave. Apparently, it gets pretty hot. But not so hot that you die right away. They say it can take up to twenty minutes.”

“Go to hell,” said Yatsko.

“I’ll let you go first and do some reconnaissance for me,” replied Ralston as he lifted the tire.

The Russian squirmed and tried to avoid being ringed, but sitting on his ass with two broken knees in front of him and his arms lashed behind his back, there wasn’t much he could do.

The pungent odor of the gasoline filled his nostrils as his captor forced the tire down over his shoulders.

“You sent a team to kill my friend, Yaroslav. Now we’re alone in the desert. No one’s coming to rescue you. This is going to end very badly. It’s up to you.”

“I told you to go to hell,” he repeated.

Fucking Russians, Ralston thought to himself. “It’s certainly not the way I’d want to go,” he said, producing a book of matches he’d found back at Yatsko’s house. Removing one from the pack, he struck it and leaned forward.

Yatsko turned to face the match and with a puff, blew it out.

Ralston grinned. “You’re a funny guy. Last chance,” he said as he struck another match and used it to light the entire pack on fire.

He held the flaming pack just above the tire. The Russian could huff and puff all he wanted, but he wouldn’t be able to blow them all out. What’s more, they were soon going to be too hot to hold on to and Ralston would drop them right onto the gasoline-soaked tire.

The former FSB agent seemed to realize he had no choice. “His name is Ashford,” he offered suddenly. “Robert Ashford. He’s a British Intelligence officer for MI5.”

“MI5?”

“Yes.”

It didn’t make any sense. Ralston figured the Russian was making it up to save his own skin. He wanted to make sure the man was telling the truth.

He dropped the flaming matchbook into the sand and crushed out the flames with his shoe. “Who were you hired to kill?”

Yatsko looked right at him and without hesitating said, “Larry Salomon, the movie producer, and two other men he was working with.”

“Why were you hired?”

“They don’t tell me and I don’t ask.”

“How many men did you send?”

“Four,” said the Russian. “One of my men was the driver. He was supposed to wait outside. Three others were brought in from Russia to do the job.”

“Brought in by you.”

“Yes. Brought in by me.”

“And you were hired by someone named Robert Ashford who works for MI5?” said Ralston.

“That’s what I told you.”

“Why would MI5 want to kill Larry Salomon and a couple of documentary filmmakers?”

“I told you, they don’t tell me and I don’t ask.”

Ralston found the man awfully flip for someone who still might very well get roasted alive. “You didn’t think the job was a little strange?”

“You could never do what I do,” stated the Russian.

Ralston looked at him.

“You ask too many questions.”

Yatsko was really pissing him off. “I believe that you sent that team to Salomon’s house,” said Ralston. “But I don’t believe this has anything to do with MI5.”

“I can prove it.”

He was negotiating again, but Ralston listened anyway. “How?”

“The portable drive you took from my safe.”

“What about it?”

“It has copies of my communications with him,” said the Russian.

“Really?” Ralston said sarcastically. “An MI5 operative was that careless. What do you have? Copies of the personal check he scribbled out for the hit?”

“Everyone slips up. Everyone makes mistakes at some point.”

“My mistake has been listening to you. I think you’re full of shit.”

Yatsko shook his head. “When you’ve been at this game as long as I have, you learn to protect yourself. Listen, you don’t want me. I’m just the middleman in all of this. You want Ashford. But to get him, you need what’s on that drive. The file is encrypted, though. If you want access to it, you’ll need a password.”

“Give it to me.”

The Russian smiled. “Once I’m safe and away from you, I’ll provide you with it.”

Ralston turned and began walking back to the car.

“Where are you going?” asked the mobster.

“To find some more matches.”

“Cobb 2-2-4-6.”

“Say that again,” Ralston instructed as he turned and came back.

“Cobb 2-2-4-6. Cobb has two b’s, as in Ty Cobb.”

Without a computer, Ralston had no way to know if the man was telling the truth or not. Bending down, he pried off the tire.

Once it came free, he gave it a shove and rolled it the rest of the way down into the wash.

“So what happens now?” asked Yatsko. “You take my car and make me crawl? I’ll eventually need some of that money you took from me.”

This guy really did have balls. Ralston looked at him and shook his head. “There’s still the matter of the two filmmakers at Salomon’s house who your Spetsnaz guys whacked.”

The Russian looked at him. “You.”

“What about me?”

“You’re the one Salomon was at the restaurant with. You drove him home. Who are you?”

“I told you,” replied Ralston. “I’m nobody.”

“You killed them. Didn’t you?”

Ralston didn’t respond.

“You’re not going to let me walk away from here, are you?”

“You couldn’t walk if you wanted to.”

“You know what I mean,” said the Russian.

“Yeah,” said Ralston, pulling out his revolver.

Yatsko’s face changed. There was nothing but hate in his eyes. “Fuck you,” he yelled. “Fuck you!”

He was about to yell it again, but the sound of Ralston’s weapon discharging drowned it out.

Ralston pulled the trigger once for each of the murdered filmmakers, Chip and Jeremy. He then fired a third time for the homeless man in the trunk of the car and kept pulling the trigger until the weapon was empty.

The Russian deserved much worse. He deserved to have been necklaced. Ralston, though, wasn’t the kind of man who could torture another man to death, not even one as evil as Yaroslav Yatsko. Ralston was, after all, still a man of principle.

The house Nicholas had found for Harvath had been foreclosed on and would be going to auction at the end of the month. “It should be coming up on your right,” he said over Harvath’s earbud.

“I see it,” Harvath replied as he rolled past. The house was located in Monterey Park, just east of downtown Los Angeles.

“How’s the line of sight?” Nicholas asked from back in Reston.

“I’ll let you know in a minute.”

Harvath maintained his speed as he passed Tariq Sarhan’s house. It was three houses up on the left. Harvath had seen it before arriving by using Google Street View. It was a single-story ranch with a high wooden privacy fence that ran the length of the front. There was no light from inside.

“It’s going to be tough,” he said to Nicholas once he had driven past. “We’re not going to see anything over that fence. Not unless I can plant one of the remote cameras somewhere.”