Brad Thor - Takedown

After almost getting killed crossing Fifth Avenue, Harvath galloped up 64th Street and tried to close in on the SUVs. Had the street been wide open, there was no way Harvath could have ever caught them, but with the traffic impeding the SUVs’ getaway, he actually had half a chance of catching up.

As soon as there were only four car lengths separating him from the nearest Tahoe, Harvath drew his.40-caliber H amp;K USP Compact and tried to synchronize himself with the rhythm of the horse. They were on the sidewalk, and the last thing Harvath wanted was for one of his shots to go wide and for some innocent bystander to get caught in his line of fire.

Squeezing off at least three rounds, Harvath blew out the rear window and drilled two holes through the Tahoe’s rear tailgate doors. If he didn’t have the terrorists’ attention before, he definitely had it now. In fact, he had everyone’s attention. The drivers of the cars behind the Tahoe panicked at the gunshots and slammed on their brakes, causing a dangerous chain-reaction collision.

From the backseat of the SUV, two men in black balaclavas raised submachine guns and opened fire. Harvath pulled up on the horse’s reins and as he did so the animal caught a round to the neck. The beast slipped and once again lost its footing. This time, though, it didn’t recover. Harvath followed it headfirst, straight down into the pavement.

When Harvath came to, the first thing he saw was Bob Herrington. “So much for operating as a team.”

Harvath didn’t want to hear it and ignored his friend as he tried to move.

“Take it easy,” said Bob. “Don’t try to get up too fast. Are you okay? Anything broken?”

Harvath slowed down and tried moving his fingers. Next he moved his toes and then worked his way through the rest of his body. “I think I’m okay. What about the horse?”

Herrington looked over his shoulder, then back at Harvath, and shook his head. “Nope.”

“How about the cop by the Armory?” asked Harvath.

“Two rounds to the chest. Morgan had one of those QuickClot sponges in his bag and got it on him right away. Probably saved his life. I think he’s going to make it.”

Harvath pushed himself into a sitting position and leaned back against a parked car. He rubbed his brow along his shoulder to get some of the sweat out of his eyes and then saw that it wasn’t sweat, but blood.

“Don’t worry,” said Morgan, the team’s self-appointed medic, as he pulled some supplies out of his pack, including a tube of medical Krazy Glue known as Dermabond. “You’ve got one hell of a road rash on the left side of your face, but as long as we can get those cuts closed up, I don’t think it’s going to be too serious.”

“So much for me being the only pretty face in this group,” said Hastings.

Harvath’s smile quickly turned into a wince as Morgan swabbed his wounds with antiseptic.

“We heard the shots from the park,” said Cates. “Were you able to hit any of them?”

“I don’t think so.”

“What about faces, or something distinct about the vehicle?” asked Herrington.

“At least four faces,” said Harvath, “all covered. And as for the vehicle, it’s a late-model black Tahoe which now bears the distinction of having lost its rear window while gaining a bullet hole in each of its rear tailgate doors.”

“That’s a start,” said Herrington, trying to remain upbeat and bolster his buddy’s spirits. “Not a very good one, but a start nonetheless.”

“So what you’re telling us is that you got an NYPD horse killed and yourself beat to shit for nothing?” asked Cates.

As Morgan began applying the Dermabond to close his wounds, Harvath surrendered to the inevitable. They had just blown their last and only lead. Holstering his weapon, which Hastings had found and now handed back to him, Harvath said, “Yeah, I guess it was all for nothing.”

WASHINGTON, DC

Please tell me you’re calling because you’ve got something good to report,” said Gary Lawlor.

From his office at the Pentagon, Lieutenant Colonel Sean Olson replied, “I’ll let you judge for yourself how good this is.”

Lawlor grabbed a pen. After finding a clean sheet of paper on his desk he said, “Go ahead.”

“The men your agent identified in New York City are definitely active-duty marines. At least they were as of their last fitness reports.”

“Which was when?”

“Eighteen months ago.”

“Eighteen months ago?” replied Lawlor. “Don’t the Marines conduct fit reps every twelve?”

“Yeah,” said Olson, “but for some reason the paper trail on these marines stops exactly eighteen months ago.”

“Any idea why?”

“Based on what you’ve told me, I think that’s when someone took them off book.”

“That would make sense,” said Lawlor. “Were you able to find out anything else?”

“They were all Marine Security Guard School graduates and had been doing embassy security.”

“Where?”

“Pretty much all over the place, but one thing they had in common was that they each had requested high-risk postings.”

“What do you mean by high-risk?”

“They wanted to serve embassies that were operating under very high threat levels, like Bogotá, Athens, Kabul, Baghdad…you name it, and these guys were not only willing, but wanted to go.”

“Can you place them together at MSG school or in one of the embassy postings? There must be a bigger connection.”

“That was one of the first things I looked for, but they all graduated from different classes and never served at the same embassy at the same time either.”

“So what’s that leave us with?” asked Lawlor.

“Those avenues in particular don’t leave us with anything, but I dug a little deeper and found something that may be helpful.”

“I’m all ears.”

Olson pulled a file up on his computer and said, “While they’re deployed, the Marines are under the operational control of the State Department, but their coordination, logistics, and training is still handled by the Marine Security Battalion out of Quantico, and here’s where it gets interesting. The battalion maintains a low-key group of force readiness officers responsible for assessing the strengths and weaknesses of Marine Security Guard details in over one hundred and thirty embassies and consulates worldwide.

“The same force readiness officer filed very complimentary reports for the three marines whose names you gave me, as well as at least fifteen more, all of whom had their trails wiped clean as of eighteen months ago.”

“You think this guy recruited these marines into whatever off-book operation we’re looking at in New York?”

“All I can say is that I think it’s worth checking into.”

Captain Bill Forrester’s small English Tudor was on a quiet street, in an equally quiet neighborhood in North Arlington, Virginia. Everything about it suggested it was inhabited by a normal, unassuming citizen-right down to the green-gray Subaru Outback parked in the driveway. What gave him away as something more were the Marine Corps and POW flags hanging from a pole above the front door.

Parking his car in the street and walking up the flagstone pathway, Gary Lawlor hoped the Subaru meant that somebody was home. He rang the doorbell and waited.

Moments later a solidly built man in his mid-fifties with salt-and-pepper hair cut high and tight, answered the door and said, “Can I help you?”

Gary raised his ID and said, “Captain Forrester?”

“Yes?” replied the marine.

“I’m Agent Lawlor from the Department of Homeland Security. I’m investigating the terrorist attacks of this afternoon and I need to ask you a few questions.”