Brad Thor - Takedown

“What were they? Military? Government?”

“That’s just it. We don’t know. We’ve got two locations in Manhattan that appear to have been involved in some sort of covert operations-there’s nothing about them or their employees that we can pull from any of our databases. The only connections we can find between them are that everyone was well armed and all the work they were doing was via paperless workstations.”

“And how were these locations attacked?” asked Olson as he shifted the phone to his other ear.

“From what we can tell, two assaulter teams hit each location and gunned down everyone inside.”

“What for?”

“We don’t know,” replied Lawlor.

“ Gary, I appreciate the update,” offered the lieutenant colonel, “but why are you telling me all of this?”

“Because three of those killed were U.S. marines. I need to find out who they were and what they were doing there.”

Olson was already running on an unstable fuel of adrenaline and pure hatred of Islamic terrorists, but to now hear that on top of everything else today the terrorists had purposely taken out three marines sent him around the bend. It took all he had to keep his anger under control and craft a professional, un-obscenity-laden response. “Believe me, I would like to help you, but this is way above my purview. You need to get in touch with DOD directly.”

“That’s just it,” replied Lawlor. “I can’t.”

“Why the hell can’t you? You’ve got three marines dead, not to mention a bunch of their civilian colleagues. I’m pretty confident they’ll make this a priority.”

“Just give me five minutes, Sean, to explain. If after that you still don’t think you can help me, I’ll find somebody else.”

Olson reluctantly agreed.

Three-and-a-half minutes later the lieutenant colonel had heard enough. He hung up with Lawlor, called his assistant into his office, and began giving orders. Getting to the bottom of what had happened to those marines was now one of his top priorities.

The Chechens had never met Hussein Nassir. In fact they hadn’t met any of Ali’s bombers, so asking them to find him and bring him in was out of the question. Besides, it was Ali’s mess. It was he who should clean it up.

Changing into street clothes, Ali secreted a nine-millimeter Spanish Firestar pistol inside a copy of the New York Post, tucked it beneath his arm, and had the team drop him on Central Park South.

Though Ali had studied his map well, the park was still unfamiliar territory and made him nervous. He had decided on his way over that this was not going to be a rescue. He was going to put a bullet in Hussein Nassir’s head and hide his body so that by the time it was found it would be too late to make any difference.

From what Ali could tell, the last three messages to his pager placed Nassir somewhere near the Central Park Zoo. At least the fool hadn’t forgotten all of his training. The area was normally well frequented by tourists, many of them foreigners, and if he remained calm, there was no reason he would draw any undue attention to himself. The more disturbing offshoot of that logic was what would a Middle Eastern man, or anyone else, for that matter, be doing at the zoo when New York had just suffered the worst terrorist attack in history? Anyone with any sense, especially a Middle Eastern man, would not be wandering the city but would be off the streets enjoying the safety and concealment of his home or hotel room. Nassir was an even bigger idiot than Ali gave him credit for.

Ali bore no concern over his own appearance. His surgeries had softened his Middle Eastern features, and he was often told he looked more Sicilian than anything else. If put to the test, his Italian was exceptional, and even a native speaker would be hard-pressed to question his pedigree.

Approaching from the southwest, Ali decided to avoid the more direct thoroughfare into the zoo for as long as possible. Though he had precious little time at his disposal, he tried not to rush. Something was beginning to trouble him about the situation. Coming alone might have been a mistake. He radioed the Chechens to ascertain their positions, but it did little to calm his unease. They needed to keep moving. Staying in one spot too long risked discovery. Though they spoke English, it was heavily accented. Only Ali could have passed for an American, and without him in the lead vehicle, they were asking for trouble by just sitting in one spot, waiting for him. A very nervous part of him hoped that ordering them to keep moving was the right decision.

Emerging from beneath the somewhat hidden and rarely used In-scope Arch, Ali’s senses were on fire. He climbed the short flight of stairs at the end of the underpass and found himself on the pathway known as the Wien Walk. Making his way toward the zoo, Ali scanned the area for any sign that he was walking into a trap.

He passed a group of people-three women and a man-who were obviously distraught over the bombings and felt nothing but contempt for them. What they had experienced today was only the beginning for America. It had proven it would never learn its lesson, and therefore it would drink from the same bitter cup it had forced on the Muslim world for decades.

Arriving at the zoo, Ali was eager to finish his business and be on his way. He soon discovered that everything was closed-including the café where he had expected to find Nassir. He would have to comb the area.

As he did, he lost even more time. With every minute he wasted, he vowed to make Nassir’s death as painful as possible.

Nearing the building known as the Armory, Ali noticed a figure up ahead. Even though it was from the back, he could tell it was a man about the same height and build as Hussein Nassir. He was sitting alone, wrapped in a Mylar space blanket, the kind given to runners after a marathon or to victims needing to stave off shock after a major calamity such as a terrorist attack. Abdul Ali was confident that he had found his man.

Reaching inside his NewYork Post, he wrapped his hand around the butt of the Firestar and quickened his pace. It would all be over in just a matter of moments now.

Tracy Hastings spoke into the microphone hidden beneath her collar and said, “Contact. Probable target thirty yards and closing. Mid-forties, dark hair, wearing dark trousers and a black button-down shirt.”

“Is this our guy, Tracy?” asked Harvath from his position on the other side of the Denesmouth Arch.

“He doesn’t look very Middle Eastern-maybe Spanish or Italian, but I can’t say for sure.”

“Is he carrying anything?”

“Just a newspaper.”

“How’s he carrying it?” said Harvath.

“Under his left arm.”

“Can you see his hands?”

“Negative. They’re folded across his chest. One looks like it might be actually inside the paper.”

That was enough for Harvath. He signaled Herrington and said into the radio, “I need you to tag him for Bob and then see if he’s got any trailers. You know what to do. Be careful.”

“Roger that,” replied Hastings. Getting up from the bench she had been sitting on, Tracy headed south on the Wien Walk toward the suspect. With a concerned look on her face, she removed her cell phone from her pocket and began sweeping it through the air as if she were trying to get a signal.

As she neared the man in the dark shirt and trousers, she stopped and did a complete three-sixty, holding the phone high in the air. Though she pretended to be too wrapped up in finding cell service to notice, she could feel the man’s eyes all over her. It wasn’t the same feeling she got when people stared at the scars on her face. This was something completely different. It gave her chills, but she had tagged him, and right now Herrington would be tracking him with his rifle.