Brad Thor - Takedown

As the team stared at the dead body, they all noticed that it appeared too pale to be Arab. “He almost looks Caucasian,” said Hastings, not realizing that in the truest sense of the word she was absolutely right.

“Who the hell are these people?” asked Herrington as he removed the man’s balaclava so they could get a good look at his face. “Are we sure we’re dealing with al-Qaeda?”

Harvath went through the man’s pockets but found nothing helpful. He was just as in the dark as his team was. All he knew was that they were less than a step behind the terrorists now and he didn’t want to lose any ground.

The group fell into a stack formation, pushed on into the corridor, and got ready for the fight they all knew was waiting for them just up ahead.

When they hit the Grail’s entry chamber, it looked like a scene straight out of Iraq or Afghanistan. The charred walls were riddled with bullet holes. The floor was covered with spent shell casings, blood, and body parts. Off to the side, three more Caucasian corpses, their balaclavas removed, were lying facing the Lexington Avenue wall. Or had they been positioned that way-facing east toward Mecca? Harvath filed that part of the scene away, and once they had gone through the dead men’s empty pockets, he led the team deeper into the facility.

The carnage inside was just as bad, if not worse than what they had seen at the three previous sites. The marine guards were all dead, as was each and every facility employee. And for what? What were these people after? Why risk so much just to attack these sites? No matter how hard Harvath tried, he just couldn’t wrap his head around it.

The other thing he couldn’t understand was where the rest of the terrorists were. Including the man he had gunned down in the stairwell, there were five corpses in the Grail facility, all dressed in the same black Nomex fatigues with patches identifying them as members of the FBI’s Hostage Rescue Team-yet another ingenious ploy. With everything going on today, the cops were even less likely to question federal officers than their own Emergency Service personnel. What’s more, the NYPD for the most part knew very little about the makeup of HRT. The chances of the terrorists being uncovered as frauds, at least in the short run, seemed pretty minimal.

As Harvath and his team continued to clear the facility, they readied themselves for the inevitable. There had to be more men somewhere-the satellite photos had shown at least two teams of four to seven men. Would the four dead men have needed to come here in two separate vehicles? There had to be others and they had to be close. Harvath could feel it.

Walking back into the center of the main room, Harvath took another look at its raised floor platform. It was about thirty by thirty and similar to those he’d seen in brokerage houses, as well as in the FBI and DHS crisis management centers. Framed within the polished aluminum railings that defined the platform’s edges were the facility’s computer workstations. On the first pass, Harvath had thought he’d heard something strange, and now as he stood still, he could almost make out what it was-a strange beeping coming from one of the computers.

As he hopped up onto the platform, he radioed the special response officer downstairs on the train siding. Since no one had come out the 50th Street stairwell and he knew that even the wounded McGahan and his remaining officers had their eyes on the 49th Street stairwell and the adjacent garage, the only remaining egress the terrorists had was via the elevator.

The officer reported back that not only had they not seen anything, they hadn’t heard anything either. Wherever the elevator was, it hadn’t moved-he was certain of it.

Harvath was pretty sure of it too. Just as he was sure they hadn’t finished off the last of the terrorists. But if they hadn’t taken the elevator, where the hell were they?

The question was still banging on the front door of Harvath’s mind as he approached the beeping computer. Suddenly Tracy Hastings yelled, “Stop!”

As Harvath looked at her she added, “Whatever you do, don’t move.”

The beeping of the computer had been joined by something else-something barely audible just below the surface of the first noise. Harvath hadn’t been able to hear it until he neared the work station. It sounded like the high-pitched whine a professional photographer’s flash makes as it charges back up. The funny thing was, Tracy Hastings had heard it too and she wasn’t even standing on the platform. That could mean only one thing-the whining noise hadn’t actually begun until Harvath neared the computer.

“Stay put,” cautioned Tracy. “Don’t even shift your weight. Do you understand me?”

“What’s going on, Tracy?”

“I think you tripped a pressure switch.”

“A pressure switch?” repeated Harvath. “Are you sure?”

“EOD’s all about attention to detail, right? You said so yourself.”

As Tracy tried to find an access panel to get under the floor and see what they were dealing with, the rest of the team stood there, not knowing what to do. Harvath looked at Herrington and said, “If you want to watch me wet my pants, we can do it later once I down that bottle of Louis XIII you owe me. In the meantime, why don’t you guys figure out how our terrorists got out of here. If this ends badly, I’d rather face Allah by myself. Speaking of which-”

“Those three outside?” replied Herrington. “Yeah, I noticed. They were all left facing east towards Mecca.”

“What do you think?”

“If they’re Caucasian Muslims allied with al-Qaeda, then they’ve gotta be Chechens.”

“I was thinking the same thing,” said Harvath.

Bob was just staring at him wordlessly, so Harvath said something for him. “Get the hell out of here. Can’t you see Tracy and I want to be alone for a while?”

Herrington forced a smile and replied, “See you soon.”

Harvath nodded and watched as Cates and Morgan followed him out of the room. Once they were gone Harvath asked, “How are we doing down there?”

Several moments went by without a response so Harvath tried again. “Talk to me, Tracy. What are we looking at?”

Still nothing.

“Hey, Tracy. How about a situation report already?”

The waiting was interminable, especially when it was his ass on the line and he could do absolutely nothing about it. He was about to call out again, when Hastings popped her head up over the edge of the platform. Harvath was going to ask her if it was actually a bomb and if she could handle it, but he didn’t have to. The look on her face said it all.

“It’s a bomb. A big one.”

“Great,” replied Harvath as he began to shift his weight to his other foot and then caught himself just in time. “So what’s the bad news?”

“I don’t think I can defuse it.”

“Oh yes you can.”

Hastings turned her scarred face away.

“ Tracy, you can do this stuff in your sleep,” said Harvath. “Let’s just take it one step at a time.”

“I can’t, Scot.”

“Did I ever tell you what a good dancer I am?”

She looked back over at him, unable to keep the smile from her face. “What does that have to do with any of this?”

“It has everything to do with this,” he replied. “I was going to wait for a more romantic opportunity to ask, but I was hoping I could take you out when we’re all finished with this.”

“You want to take me out? Dancing?”

“That depends. If you don’t defuse this bomb, I think our budding friendship is going to be a little bit strained.”

Hastings smiled again.

That was what Harvath needed to see. “You can do this, Tracy. Get back down there and tell me what you see.”