Brad Thor - Full Black

Terrified civilians ran in multiple directions, some even right out into the street, all trying to get away from the danger. Harvath had to swerve to avoid hitting a large group.

No sooner had he regained control of his vehicle than he saw the Town Car plow into two patrol cars and the team of LAPD officers who had bravely stood their ground firing.

Harvath brought his Escalade to a screeching halt and leaped out. Holding his wallet in the air half-opened, so as not to be mistaken as a threat and shot, Harvath blatantly misrepresented himself. “FBI!” he yelled, and advanced on the twisted mass of vehicles. They had all been pushed up onto the sidewalk. Harvath couldn’t see any of the officers.

He was less than ten feet away when the door of the Town Car was thrown open. Dropping his wallet, Harvath raised his pistol in both hands.

The driver swung out one leg and then the other. Harvath shot him in each knee and raced forward. The driver raised a pistol and began firing wildly.

Harvath dropped to the ground and returned fire. He put round after round on target, ripping through the open driver’s-side door.

In one fluid motion, he depressed his pistol’s magazine release and flicked the empty magazine out of the butt of the weapon. Before it had even clattered onto the pavement several yards away, he had inserted a fresh mag, snapped the slide back to chamber his first round, and was firing yet again.

As he did, he came up on his feet and rushed the Town Car. The driver didn’t return fire.

Coming up on the open door, Harvath saw the man’s legs first. Then he saw the rest of him, slumped over the armrest, half onto the passenger side.

“Hands!” Harvath yelled. “Let me see your hands!”

Moving more to his left, Harvath got a better view into the car. The driver’s empty pistol, with its slide locked back, lay on the floor. But there was something else in the driver’s hand and seeing it, Harvath’s blood turned to ice.

Harvath’s first shot blew the man’s thumb completely off. He put the next four into the driver’s head. Even then, he still wasn’t sure and shot the man five more times.

Tentatively, Harvath crawled into the Town Car and retrieved the cell phone the driver had been fumbling with. There was a number on the screen that Harvath was certain corresponded to a cell phone detonator somewhere inside the Town Car. Had the man been able to hit Send, the car would have exploded.

Harvath carefully removed the battery from the phone, set both pieces on the dash, and crawled back out of the car.

Popping the trunk of one of the patrol cars, he extracted a medical kit and rushed to the fallen law enforcement officers. Two of them were already dead and several more were badly injured. Gunfire continued to rage across the airport. It was like being in a war zone.

“You, you, and you!” shouted Harvath to a group of onlookers who had taken cover nearby. “These men need your help.”

The civilians came over as he ripped open multiple vacuum-sealed packets. He rapidly applied pressure dressings and Israeli bandages, as well as two tourniquets, and sent an additional onlooker to the other patrol car for more medical supplies.

Explaining how to keep the officers stable, he left the onlookers in charge and called in “Officers down” over one of the police radios, giving the location and range of injuries.

That was all he could do for them. He needed to get back in the fight. Running back to the Escalade, he picked up his wallet, got inside, and quickly drove away.

As Harvath raced toward the Tom Bradley Terminal, Nicholas informed him that the fight was over. The LAPD and DHS operators had been able to neutralize the other VBIEDs. All of the terrorists were dead. All, that is, except for Tariq Sarhan, who was still unconscious in the Escalade’s backseat.

The word had also already gone out to airports across the country to expect similar attacks. Two had already been uncovered and prevented. Nicholas had been right when he had stated that the attacks they had stopped only months before were just the precursor to a tidal wave set to crash down on the United States. Every time they faced down an attack, more popped up. Where would it end?

Harvath returned to the parking structure and located his rental car. After wrapping Sarhan’s knee in a hillbilly bandage, he dumped him in the trunk. As he got into his car, he told Nicholas to make sure to erase any of the airport’s CCTV footage of him.

As he drove out of the airport, a tidal wave of emergency vehicles rushed past him going in the opposite direction. They served as a reminder of the need to arrange for transport for himself and Sarhan. He asked Nicholas to get Carlton on the line. When he came on, Harvath said, “How soon until we can get a Sentinel jet out here to pick us up?”

“I’ll look into it now,” replied the Old Man. “How bad is his condition?”

“He tried to suck on a cigarette lighter and also managed to Tase himself before shooting himself in the knee, but he’ll live.”

“Understood. We’ll figure out how close the nearest aircraft is and then we’ll decide on an airport. LAX has been shut down and probably won’t reopen for a few days.”

“We’re also going to need someone to sanitize the house I was using,” said Harvath. “I left all the surveillance gear in there.”

“We’ll have someone handle it.”

“You should have a team go through Sarhan’s house as well.”

“We’ll get on that, too,” replied Carlton, who then shifted gears. “In the meantime, I’m assuming you took an unattributable phone with you?”

“Of course I did. Why?”

“You’ve had two urgent calls from a man named Hank McBride.”

Harvath recognized the name immediately. Hank had been one of his father’s SEAL team buddies who used to come by the house and check on things when Harvath was a kid and his father was deployed. He was still very close with Harvath’s mom and his call could only mean one thing. “Did he say what it was about?”

“Negative. He just left a number and asked you to call him as soon as possible.”

Harvath took the number, told Carlton he would call him back, and made for the entrance to the 405 freeway headed south. His mother still lived on Coronado Island across the bay from San Diego.

Speeding through an intersection and a light that had already turned red, Harvath narrowly missed being hit by two cars as he dialed Hank McBride’s number.

“This is Hank,” the old SEAL said as he answered the call.

“Hank, it’s Scot,” Harvath replied. “What’s going on with my mom?”

“Your mom’s fine, relax.”

“What happened?”

“Nothing, I didn’t call about your mom. I need a favor.”

Harvath backed off his speed. “Mom’s okay?”

“She’s fine,” insisted McBride. “I saw her a couple of days ago when I was down her way. Actually, she looks great.”

Thank God, he thought as his heart rate began to lower. “Hank, I’m in the middle of an assignment right now. I’m going to have to call you back.”

“When?”

“I don’t know,” said Harvath. “I’ll get back to you.”

The old SEAL wasn’t going to take no for an answer. “Scot, I wouldn’t have tracked you down and left two messages at your office if it wasn’t important.”

Already navigating the freeway on ramp, Harvath decided to give him until the next exit to explain what he wanted. “What do you need, Hank?”

“It’s not for me. It’s for a friend of mine.”

Having worked for a prior president, Harvath was used to people reaching out to him for help with things in D.C. “I can save you some time. I’ve got no pull with the current administration.”