Brad Thor - Full Black

“That’s it?”

Ashford shook his head. “Not exactly. Standing is worried that the network has been compromised. He rushed the Dow attack forward because he wanted to create financial chaos. He wanted to really hit people where they’d feel it in order to add to their panic.

“If he can, I think he’ll activate one additional attack. He’s particularly enamored of a final attack on the nation’s infrastructure.”

“What part?”

“Standing has always been interested in taking down the Internet and as much of the power grid as possible. He wants everything to grind to a halt and to plunge the country into literal darkness. It’s kind of the coup de grace for him.”

“When? How soon?”

“When we discussed it, he said the best timing would be before all of the crops could be harvested. With no fuel being delivered to power tractors or trucks, food would rot in the field and never make it to market. Millions would starve and millions more would freeze to death over the winter.”

Harvath looked at Carlton and gestured toward the hallway. They left Ashford strapped to the chair and stepped out of the room, closing the door behind them.

“We’re going to need a complete map of that terror network. Names, pictures, telephone numbers, addresses, means of contact, all of it,” said Harvath. “Then somebody’s going to have to figure out how to take down all of the cell members, all at the same time, all across the country, without any word leaking out.”

“That’s going to mean an extremely well-coordinated law enforcement effort,” replied Carlton.

Harvath nodded. “We also need to get our hands on that unrestricted warfare plan. If Ashford has a copy, and we should assume he does, we need to get it ASAP. The more we know about what’s in that playbook, the better defense and offense we can mount.”

“Which brings us to James Standing.”

Harvath took a moment as he tried to be certain he had put all of the pieces together correctly. “If Ashford and Standing control the network and we have Ashford, then the only one left calling the shots is Standing.”

“Correct.”

“At some point, though, when he’s unable to make contact with Ashford, he’s going to know that something is up. In fact, when the Dow attacks don’t happen, he’ll know he’s been penetrated.”

“And could go for broke and activate all the remaining attacks.”

“Which is why we need to get to the network’s current commander, this Karami guy, as well as Standing, right away,” said Harvath. “If we can do that, we might be able to short-circuit the network and render it inert until all its members can be rounded up.”

“There’s just one thing,” said Carlton. “Taking out some foreign terrorist like Karami is one thing. Dealing with a politically connected billionaire American philanthropist like James Standing is something totally different.”

“I agree,” replied Harvath. “And I know exactly how we should handle it.”

Robert Ashford had provided Harvath with the rough layout of James Standing’s New York City apartment. He had also provided an accurate picture of the billionaire’s personal security detail.

For the overnight shift, only four men were kept on duty. One was positioned in the lobby with the doorman, while another was at the receiving entrance. A third man remained in the apartment in a small security room located off the kitchen, monitoring the building’s closed-circuit camera feed. The fourth agent operated as a “floater,” moving from position to position, relieving the other men when it was time for their respective breaks and filling in as an impromptu driver when needed.

Harvath had gained access to the building via the roof of an adjacent structure. He made his way down the interior security stairs to the back door of Standing’s apartment, underneath which he slid a fiber-optic surveillance camera. Cupping the scope to his eye, he slowly scanned the interior of the kitchen.

Because of the angle, he couldn’t see into the security room, but he had little doubt that the agent watching the CCTV feeds was there. Retracting the camera, Harvath put it back in his pack and removed a short aluminum cylinder wrapped in clear tubing, as well as a full-face respirator.

Placing the respirator over his head, he made sure the seal around his face was tight and then unwound the tubing from the cylinder and fed it beneath the door.

There was a barely perceptible hiss as he opened the valve and began to pump the contents of the cylinder into the kitchen.

Three-Methylfentanyl, or 3-MF as it was known, was an opioid analgesic that ranged anywhere from four hundred to six thousand times more powerful than morphine, depending upon what type of isomer it was combined with. Harvath was using a cis isomer, which pushed the gas being emitted from the tube beneath the kitchen door to its most effective range.

It was the same substance used by the Russians in the Moscow theater hostage crisis in 2002 and was extremely tricky to work with. Minimum exposure could knock a person out for hours. Anything more than minimum exposure and the chances of overdose and death rose exponentially. The common temptation to believe that if a little bit was good then a lot was better had to be avoided at all costs. The Russians had overadministered the substance in Moscow and had ended up killing not only the hostage-takers, but the hostages as well.

Harvath kept a close eye on his watch and then reached down and shut off the gas.

He pulled the hose from under the door, wrapped it around the cylinder, and tucked the device back into his pack. He then removed his lock-pick gun and went to work opening the door. A few clicks of the gun and a slight turn of the tensioning wrench later and he was in. Shouldering his pack, he drew a suppressed Glock and crept inside.

The door swung noiselessly on its well-oiled hinges and Harvath made sure to close and quietly lock it behind him. The only illumination in the kitchen came from dim undercabinet lighting. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the semidarkness.

Around the corner he could see the glow of television monitors spilling into a narrow corridor. Cautiously, Harvath made his way forward.

He found Standing’s agent slumped over a small desk in the tiny security room that had likely functioned as a maid’s quarters at some point. Reaching down with his latex-gloved hand, Harvath felt for a pulse. The security man was still alive. Glancing up, he checked the monitors and located Standing’s three other security men, all of whom were still downstairs.

Leaving the security room, Harvath passed through the kitchen, pausing only long enough to open a window, drop a piece of maroon foil from the top of an expensive Bordeaux in the trash, and locate a wineglass. Once he had taken care of those, he headed for the master bedroom.

Harvath estimated the apartment had to be at least ten thousand square feet. Once a safe distance from the kitchen, he removed his respirator.

At the end of a long hallway carpeted with Persian rugs, its walls lined with silk tapestries, was the door to James Standing’s bedroom. Harvath slid his fiber-optic camera underneath the door and took another long, slow look around.

Satisfied that Standing was in bed, alone, and still asleep, Harvath tucked the device into his pack and carefully opened the door.

His objective was approximately thirty feet away from Standing on the other side of the billionaire’s enormous bed. Harvath had no doubt that somewhere near the bed there was a panic button, so he crossed the room as quickly and as quietly as he could.

Slipping into the master bathroom, he set down his pack and organized his materials. When he was ready, he closed the drain and turned on the water in the tub.