Brad Thor: Takedown

Most of the Navy properties suitable for use as dwellings were saved for high-level defectors and other political personages the United States government found themselves responsible for. In Harvath’s case, the secretary of the Navy, a former ONI officer, was apparently quite pleased to see such a distinguished American entrusted with the property. The fact that Harvath was an ex-SEAL probably didn’t hurt his standing with the secretary either.

Bishop’s Gate in its entirety-the church building and the rectory that had been converted into a nice-sized house, an outbuilding that had been converted into a garage, and the extensive grounds-were deeded to Harvath in a ninety-nine- year government lease with a token rent of one U.S. dollar due per annum. All that was required of Harvath was that he maintain the property in a manner befitting its historic status and that he vacate the premises within twenty-four hours if ever given notice, with or without cause, by the United States Navy.

It had been over fifty years since the Navy had any use for Bishop’s Gate other than as a file graveyard, but Harvath was still stunned to have been offered it. Not including the garage, the unique house formed by the church and the attached rectory came to over four thousand square feet of living space, and all Harvath had to do was make sure the grass was mowed and his one-dollar-a-year rent was in on time. He couldn’t help but wonder at what he might do with the real rent payments he wouldn’t have to make anymore if he accepted the president’s generous offer.

Of course, the practical side of Harvath would plow as much of the windfall into investments as he could, but there was also part of him that had always wanted a sailboat, and now that he had the opportunity to live right on the Potomac, it didn’t seem like such an unreasonable goal.

He spent the better part of the day wandering the property and exploring the old church buildings as he tried to make up his mind. Though not a particularly spiritual person, he hoped somewhere along the way he’d be shown a sign. It was in the rectory attic that he found one-literally.

On a beautifully carved piece of wood was the motto of the Anglican missionaries. It seemed strangely fitting for the career Harvath had decided to remain in:TRANSIENS ADIUVA NOS-I go overseas to give help.

At that moment, Harvath knew he was home. What’s more, he didn’t need Emily Post to tell him that turning down a gift, any gift, from the President of the United States was not only impolite, but also a very bad career decision for a federal employee.

Though he still had reservations about accepting such a lavish reward, Bishop’s Gate had taken hold of Harvath, and it seemed a shame to allow it to go uninhabited for another day.

With the help of a few buddies, including Kevin McCauliff, Harvath rented a truck and spent that following Saturday moving his belongings from his small apartment in Alexandria over to Bishop’s Gate.

While his friends marveled at his luck, they were unanimous in their agreement that Harvath had a lot of work to do on the place. His pal Gordon Avigliano even joked that it looked to him that the Navy had actually gotten the better part of the deal. Not only did they now have a free night watchman in Harvath, but the sap was also paying them for the privilege. It didn’t matter that it was only a dollar a year. Nobody believed Harvath anyway.

Once the last of the beer had been consumed and all but the pizza boxes had been eaten, Harvath politely gave his friends five minutes to vacate his new estate before he threatened to release the hounds. It got a good laugh, and as he let them go, he secured promises that they’d be back to help him with the renovation work. There was a lot that needed to be done.

After a quick shower, he pulled on jeans and a Polo shirt, then hopped into his car for the airport. On a lark, he had decided to call Tracy Hastings to see if she wanted to come down and spend some time with him at his new place.

Hastings was thrilled and had booked one of the last seats on the shuttle for that night. They picked up takeout from A La Lucia in Alexandria and had a wonderful dinner picnic-style in front of the rectory’s fireplace.

The next morning, Tracy allowed Harvath to sleep in. He was exhausted from his last assignment, as well as the move, and was still recovering from the injuries he had suffered in New York. In all fairness, she hadn’t exactly gone easy on him either. Damn, they were good together.

With a smile on her face and a cup of coffee in her hand, Tracy opened the door and stepped outside. It was a gorgeous summer morning, and she took in a deep breath and tried to pinpoint the wonderful smells that seemed to be coming at her from all directions. She was worlds away from Manhattan, and being here with Scot was like nothing she had ever known. If their lives would let them, she could stay here forever and never leave.

As she bent down to pick one of the flowers growing wild alongside the rectory she noticed that someone had dropped off a beautiful wicker hamper. A large satin ribbon was tied to the top and she could hear rustling coming from inside.

Lifting the hamper’s lid, Tracy discovered a beautiful white puppy. Along with it was a book on Caucasian Ovcharkas and a note. Picking up the puppy and holding it to her chest, she read the crisp white card. Thank you for saving Argus. I will forever be in your debt. A friend.

Tracy had no idea who the note had come from, but she figured Scot might. Either way, he was absolutely going to love this dog. She just knew it. It was time that both of their lives started being filled with things that were good.

Nuzzling the puppy under her chin, Tracy Hastings turned to go back inside, but before she could cross the threshold, a bullet with her name on it came ripping through the trees.

As the weapon was disassembled, the assassin from Scot’s past took a perverse pride in knowing that this was only the beginning of the pain and retribution that was coming Harvath’s way. Harvath was about to learn that you never buried anyone unless you were absolutely certain they were dead.

I make no secret about the deep respect I hold for the brave American men and women who selflessly serve our nation in our military, law enforcement, and intelligence communities. As someone who wanted to do more than just write about these extraordinary people, I became involved with several different organizations that strive to serve them and their families. I strongly urge you to visit my Web site for a list of these organizations, but I want to single out one in particular here.

At a fundraiser for the Naval Special Warfare Foundation last summer, it was announced that I would name a character in this novel for whoever made the evening’s largest contribution. I am honored to say that the president and CEO of Zodiac North America, J. J. Marie, was that person. When the applause had subsided and Mr. Marie stepped to the podium, he called up Virginia Beach, VA, police chief A. M. “Jake” Jacocks, whom I’ve had the pleasure of knowing for many years. Once the chief had joined him, Mr. Marie announced that Zodiac North America wanted to honor the memory of the Virginia Beach PD’s own Bradley Harper-a twenty-five-year-old United States Marine Reservist who was killed south of Haditha, Iraq, in August 2005-by having the character named after him.

While I did not have the pleasure of knowing Marine Sergeant Bradley J.Harper, I hope in some small part the character I have created in his name lives up to the high standards I know he set for himself as an American, a member of the Virginia Beach Police Department, and as a United States Marine.