Brad Thor - The Apostle

Harvath looked at Gallagher. “Do you have anything to add?”

“It’d be great if the elders’ militia could escort us to where the cars are,” said Baba G.

Daoud translated the request and Baseer was happy to oblige. The men stood, embraced, and wished one another peace. Harvath gave Baseer his Afghan cell phone number and asked him to please call if he thought of or heard anything else about Massoud, the Russian, or, most important, Julia Gallo.

When they stepped out of the meeting room, Fayaz’s security detail snapped to their feet as they said good-bye and Baseer told some of his men to escort the party back to their vehicles. Harvath could tell that the man he’d locked eyes with earlier and who was calling for Usman to cross the room and come to him was not happy, but there was little he could do. He had his orders.

And though Harvath wanted to smirk, or toss him a wink, out of respect for the elders he kept his urge to be a smartass in check. It was only a fleeting thought anyway. His mind was already on where they were going and what he prayed they’d find there.

After putting their shoes on, the group descended from the wooden structure and readied to head off toward the vehicles. Gallagher placed Asadoulah close to his side. Harvath looked for Usman, but he was nowhere to be seen. Harvath figured that the kid had already run home to spin the story of being held at knifepoint into a saga of how he had single-handedly fought off an entire battalion of bloodthirsty U.S. soldiers. After his father and brothers knocked the crap out of him for stretching the truth, they’d run out and tell their friends this story, but by then the American force would be upgraded to brigade strength at least. That was, of course, if the men in Usman’s house didn’t beat him unconscious for the shame he had brought upon them in accosting the American woman, who’d been, even as a prisoner, under Mullah Massoud’s protection. However it happened, Harvath hoped the kid got a top-notch ass-kicking.

As they moved out of the copse of trees, Harvath pretended to be talking to Gallagher as he raised Fontaine over the radio. “Convoy 2, this is Convoy 1. Do you read me?”

“Loud and clear,” said the Canadian.

“We’re on our way down to the vehicles. What’s your position?”

“I’m in a hide about thirty meters from the trucks. I already swept them. No bombs. They’re clean.”

“Anything we need to be on the lookout for?” asked Harvath.

“It’s all quiet down here.”

“Good. What about the Welcome Wagon crew we laid out?”

“I got some cell phones,” said Fontaine. “That’s it.”

“No maps? No radios?”

“Nope. None of that. One of them had a couple of naughty pictures that looked like they were from an old Playboy magazine, though.”

Harvath marveled at the hypocrisy. Ancient statues of the Buddha, bad. Pictures of Ms. April, not bad.

“I can see you guys coming now,” said the former JTF2 operative. “I’ll hold here until everyone has mounted up. Don’t go driving away without me.”

“Don’t worry,” said Harvath.

The group entered the small clearing on the very edge of the village where Gallagher’s Land Cruiser and the two other vehicles had been parked.

With no need to deal with checkpoints on the way out of the village, the vehicle assignments were changed. The battered pickup truck was the lead vehicle and carried a mixture of elders and their security. Fayaz and Asadoulah rode in the middle vehicle with the rest of the security team and Harvath, Fontaine, Gallagher, and Daoud in the rear position.

Once everyone was in their respective truck and the small column started moving, Harvath radioed Fontaine and told him to come out and hop in. As a precaution, Harvath stood next to the Land Cruiser with his weapon out and at the ready. Though he hadn’t seen anyone, he’d felt eyes all over him since they had left the jirga and begun their walk down to the trucks. If someone was going to try something, now would be the time.

Fontaine appeared out of the darkness on the other side of the makeshift parking lot and made his way to the Land Cruiser.

“We all good?” he asked as he stood up on the running board and prepared to hop in back next to Daoud.

Harvath took one final look around and said, “I think so.”

“Then let’s roll.”

Sliding into the front passenger seat, Harvath closed the door, but left it unlocked. Rolling his window down, he balanced the suppressor of his MP5 on the windowsill and tried to twist his body in such a way that the seat wouldn’t be jabbing into his sore back.

“You’re going to waste all of my heat,” said Gallagher as he put the truck in gear and pressed on the gas to catch up with the vehicles in front of him.

“It’s just until we clear the area.”

“So,” said Fontaine. “How was the party? Did they serve tea?”

For a moment, Harvath forgot about the throbbing in his lower back and the cold wind blowing through the window onto his face, and he laughed. “Yeah, they did. They also served up a nice juicy lead. I think we may know where Massoud and the Russian took Dr. Gallo.”

“That’s excellent news,” replied Fontaine. “Are we going to go check it out, or do you want to hand this thing off to the higher-ups?”

Harvath turned around to look into the backseat. “That depends on Mr. Daoud. We’d need his help for a little bit longer.”

Fontaine put his muscular arm around the pudgy Afghan. “What do you say? It could be fun.”

“I most certainly disagree about it being fun,” said the interpreter. “But that does not mean we cannot come to some sort of an arrangement.”

“A diplomat and a capitalist,” said Fontaine. “You ought to think about running for office.”

Harvath smiled as he turned back around in his seat and thought about rolling up his window. Suddenly, he heard the distinct, pressurized sound of gas releasing as a rocket-propelled grenade was launched.

He had barely yelled the words, “RPG!” when everyone in the Land Cruiser saw the lead vehicle explode in a roiling fireball.

THE WHITE HOUSE, WASHINGTON, D.C.

“I know it’s hard for female agents to get dates, but please tell me that things haven’t gotten so bad that you’ve resorted to seeing Hutch.”

After her meeting with Hutchinson, Elise had walked over to the White House to check the Secret Service duty roster and see if she could arrange for a couple more days off. Right now, with so many unanswered questions, she didn’t feel that she could rejoin the president’s detail and do her job effectively.

Turning around to see who was talking to her, Elise Campbell discovered Matthew Porter, a forty-year-old agent on Terry Alden’s detail. He was a decent guy with two kids and an attorney wife at the DOJ who processed FISA warrants.

“What are you talking about?” asked Elise.

“Don’t bullshit me, Campbell,” said Porter, as he smiled and shook his head. “It’s written all over your face.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“C’mon. I saw you two canoodling in Lafayette Park.”

“Me and Hutch?” stated Elise. “You’re crazy. Besides, who even uses the term canoodling anyway?”

“Whatever it was,” said Porter. “It looked pretty serious to me.”

“You’ve got an overactive imagination. It was nothing.”

“Well, you’re a big girl. You can make your own mistakes, but Hutch? You can do so much better than that. In fact, Claire and I’ve got at least a dozen guys we could set you up with.”

Elise looked him right in the eyes so he’d know she was serious. “Matt, there’s nothing going on between me and Hutch. We were talking shop.”