Brad Thor - Full Black

“That’s not what this is about.”

“I don’t want to be rude, Hank, but you need to get to the point. I’m really busy right now.”

Hank didn’t waste any more time. “Do you know who Larry Salomon is?”

“The movie producer? Of course I do.”

“Someone sent a Spetsnaz team to whack him.”

“When?” replied Harvath.

“The night before last,” said Hank. “It was all over the news. At least it was until those fuckers blew up all of those theaters. My God, what are they going to do next?”

“Turn on your TV. They just hit LAX.”

“They what?”

“That’s part of why I’m so busy right now, Hank. So is Salomon dead?”

The old SEAL, who hesitated as he tried to flip his TV on in the background, finally said, “The technical adviser on all his films is a former Unit guy named Luke Ralston. He’s a pal of mine and he was with Salomon when he came home and found those guys. The two of them killed the entire Spetsnaz team.”

“Salomon and the guy from the Unit?”

“Yeah, it’s a long story.”

“Which they probably ought to be telling the police.”

“That’s just it,” said Hank. “They can’t. At least not yet. But here’s the good part. Ralston knows who helped coordinate the hit.”

“And he’s not talking to the police?” replied Harvath. “Hank, let me give you a piece of advice. Steer clear of this entire thing. If they can’t take this to the cops, there’s something very wrong.”

“That’s why I’m trying to help them, Junior.”

Harvath hadn’t had McBride call him Junior since he was a kid and had gotten in trouble for fighting back when he was in school. The tone no longer intimidated him, but it did catch his attention.

“So what is it you want from me?” asked Harvath.

“All my contacts, and all Luke’s, for that matter, are pretty much in the Special Operations community. We don’t know many secret squirrel types, at least none that we trust. You, on the other hand, are very well plugged in.”

“I know some people in Russian intelligence, if that would help, but it’s going to have to wait until-”

“No,” interrupted McBride. “We already crossed that bridge. The man who brought the talent into L.A. for the hit was a former FSB operative based here. The man who ordered the hit, though, was British intelligence.”

“British intelligence?”

“MI5, to be exact.”

Hank had to have gotten his facts wrong. “Why would somebody from Britain’s domestic intelligence service want to splash a Hollywood movie producer?”

“That’s what we need to figure out. Do you have any contacts you could reach out to?”

Harvath did. In fact he’d just helped MI5 and Scotland Yard take down a large terror cell in London and prevent a massive attack. “I’ve got a guy I can ask. What’s the name of this MI5 operative you think was behind the attack?”

When McBride said the name Harvath couldn’t believe his ears.

There was such a long pause, the old SEAL thought they might have gotten cut off. “Are you still there?”

“I’m still here,” replied Harvath.

“Can you help with this Robert Ashford character or what?”

“This is a very serious accusation. You’re going to need proof. Lots of it.”

“We’ve got proof,” said Hank. “You sound different all of a sudden. Why?”

Harvath ignored the question. “I want to see the proof you have.”

“You’re welcome to it. But it’s not something I can just put in the mail.”

“You don’t need to. I’ll come to you.”

“You’re here?” said McBride. “California?”

“I’m on the 405 right now. I don’t have my regular cell with me, so give me your address again.”

Hank did, and after Harvath told him to sit tight, not to move, and not to talk to anyone else, he ended the call and picked up his speed once more.

He thought about calling the Old Man. Carlton, after all, was the one who had introduced him to Ashford. But as quickly as the idea had materialized in Harvath’s mind, he dismissed it.

Robert Ashford had been read into their operational plans in Yemen. The Old Man had done it as a courtesy. Aazim Aleem was a British citizen and Ashford had been especially helpful to the Carlton Group in London.

Harvath was beginning to wonder, though, if Ashford could have been the reason the Yemen op had gone sideways. And until he had a firm handle on what the hell was going on, he wasn’t going to be making any phone calls.

Harvath backed into Hank McBride’s driveway and parked underneath the carport near the kitchen door.

“Thanks for coming,” said the old SEAL, giving him a hug.

“No problem,” replied Harvath. “You look good.”

“Must be all my healthy habits.”

Harvath knew what a hard drinker and terrible eater Hank was known to be and he smiled.

“C’mon inside,” said McBride. “Luke and Salomon are looking forward to meeting you.”

“I need your help getting something out of the trunk first.”

Hank looked at him. “Something or someone?”

Harvath directed him to the rear of the car and popped the lid.

“Who the hell is he?” the old SEAL asked.

“He was never here. You never saw him.”

“Did he have something to do with what just happened at LAX?”

“I don’t want to get into it,” said Harvath.

“Son of a-” said McBride. He pulled back his fist and punched Tariq Sarhan in the head before Harvath could stop him.

“For fuck’s sake, Hank. Knock it off.”

“So what? Tell them he slipped getting out of the car.”

“Are you going to help me or not?” asked Harvath.

“Just leave him in there,” said the old SEAL. “What do you need to bring him into the house for?”

“Ever heard of sudden in-custody death syndrome?”

“As in you’ve got some wiseass and you decide to throw him off a bridge?”

“If you leave a suspect duct-taped in a confined space for too long he can die,” said Harvath.

“The whole country’s going soft,” replied McBride. “We used to leave shitbags like this in trunks for days at a time. I always found it made them a lot more cooperative.”

Harvath ignored him. “I need a pole. Something that’ll support a lot of weight and won’t break. A sheet, too.”

McBride shook his head, walked into the house, and reappeared a couple of minutes later.

After making sure there was nobody who could see them from the street, they pulled Sarhan from the trunk and laid him down on the concrete apron on his stomach. They slid the pole under his duct-taped ankles and then beneath his FlexCuff’d wrists, which Harvath had reinforced with more tape. Throwing the sheet over the pole, they lifted him like a couple of Bushmen returning to their village with a fresh hog and moved him inside.

Once safely into the kitchen, Hank let go of his side of the pole. “Woops,” he said.

Harvath lowered his end, withdrew the pole, and pulled off the sheet.

“Where do you want to put him?” asked McBride.

“We can leave him right there.”

“You don’t care who he sees or what he hears?”

Normally, Harvath wouldn’t have cared, but he had no idea where Sarhan was going to end up. The less he knew about everything, the better.

“Do you have someplace we can put him?” asked Harvath.

Hank shook his head. “I should start charging rent,” he said as he motioned for Harvath to follow him.

Harvath grabbed Sarhan by the back of his shirt and dragged him across the linoleum floor and down a short hallway to McBride’s laundry cum hobby room. He knocked and the door was opened by another man, who Harvath assumed was Ralston. Sitting next to the old SEAL’s workbench was Larry Salomon. Harvath had seen his picture many times before.