Brad Thor - Blowback

The pair worked several grueling cases before the White House finally decided Harvath was ready for the big leagues of presidential protection.

Harvath’s new position kept him very busy, and gradually, the two friends fell out of touch. Harvath had felt guilty about it. Had he known that Rayburn had purposely let the friendship lapse because he had no further use for the former SEAL, he probably would have felt a lot different. It wasn’t until Rayburn was forced back onto Harvath’s radar screen that the young Secret Service agent realized he’d been taken.

Rayburn headed a team of Secret Service agents that had been assigned to complement a State Department security detail protecting a high-level foreign dignitary visiting the United States. Two days into the visit, the dignitary was assassinated.

Because of his expertise in counterterrorism, Harvath was asked to consult in the investigation. The deeper he dug, the more his gut told him the killer, or killers, had somehow received help from the inside. As much as he hated to go in that direction, he had no choice but to conduct a thorough examination of the security detail.

As Harvath connected the dots, a picture began to emerge-and it wasn’t flattering. His hunch had been right. Someone had been bought. The trail eventually led to the door of one of Rayburn’s men, but there had still been something about all of it that didn’t feel right, so Harvath kept digging, quietly.

Harvath’s involvement in the investigation was something Rayburn had never planned on. The older agent had picked a fall guy and had planted the evidence implicating him so deep that by the time the investigators found it they would be not only exhausted but completely convinced they had their man. Harvath, though, was no stranger to being wrongfully accused of a crime he didn’t commit, and had worked overtime to help clear the agent he sensed wasn’t guilty. Nailing Rayburn as the real bad guy was another story entirely.

When it came down to it, most of the evidence against Rayburn, as well as how Harvath had uncovered it, wasn’t admissible in court. There was, though, enough to get him booted from the Secret Service and to make sure that he never worked in law enforcement again. Fueled by the anger he felt over Rayburn’s betrayal, Harvath continued to work outside official channels and eventually tracked down a numbered account in the Caymans that Rayburn had used for his blood money. Working through an “unofficial” contact, Harvath had the funds discreetly transferred to a compensation fund established for the deceased dignitary’s family.

Draining the account provided only a small measure of satisfaction. As far as Harvath was concerned, the man should have stood trial for murder. After the investigation had been officially closed, Rayburn disappeared. But Harvath had never forgotten him. He figured the U.S. government hadn’t either. Somewhere within the intelligence community, somebody might still be keeping an eye on him, but as long as Senator Carmichael was looking to put Harvath’s head on a stake, Gary Lawlor had made it clear that he didn’t want him reaching out to any of his contacts within the community, including Lawlor himself. Gary had established a roundabout way for Harvath to get in touch with him, but only if he absolutely had to. For the time being, Harvath was operating without a net, and given the current situation back in Washington, if he fell, no one was going to step forward and identify his remains.

That left Harvath with only one option-he would have to get creative, and the first thing he would have to get creative with was a way to get his hands on the specific intelligence he needed.

With a ban in effect on reaching out to any of his official intelligence contacts, he realized he would have to go outside his normal circle. It took him a moment, but he soon came up with somebody who could help him. The only question was, would Nick Kampos be in the mood to do him such a major favor?

After parting with Kalachka, Harvath had needed only one phone call to the Cyprus office of DEA agent Nick Kampos to get his answer. When his cab dropped him later that night at an outdoor taverna near the port of Kyrenia, Kampos was already sitting at a table by the water.

“Classy,” said Harvath as he pulled out the plastic chair opposite the man and sat down. The squat wooden table was covered with a redand-white-checkered tablecloth, complete with paper napkins, dirty flatware, and a chipped hurricane lamp. “If I didn’t know you better, Nick, I’d swear you were just trying to impress me.”

“Are you kidding me?” said the DEA agent as he swept his arm toward the harbor and its brightly colored fishing boats. “Look at this view.”

“It’s terrific,” replied Harvath as he leaned over and shoved a stack of napkins under one of his chair legs to even it out.

“If I really cared about impressing you, we would have eaten at one of the fancy joints up the road. It would have cost twice as much, but the food wouldn’t have been half as good.”

“I guess I’ll have to take your word for it,” said Harvath as a waiter arrived with an ice bucket and a bottle of white wine.

“I took the liberty of ordering us something to drink.”

“I can see that.”

“You’re not going to give me any macho bullshit about only being a beer drinker, are you?” asked Kampos.

Harvath laughed and shook his head. It was funny to hear Nick pimping him about being macho. The man was a six-foot-four solid wall of muscle with gray hair, a thick mustache, and a craggy face weathered with a permanent tan from a lifetime spent out-of-doors. Divorced, with two daughters in college back in the States, Kampos liked to joke that it was the women in his life who had grayed his hair, but Harvath knew better. Nick and his ex were still on good terms, and he adored his daughters more than anything else in the world. He put up a pretty tough front, but underneath it all, the guy was a complete teddy bear.

“Good,” replied the DEA agent as he politely waved the waiter away and poured full glasses for both of them. “Local stuff. A little rough at first, but you get used to it. Cheers.”

Harvath regretted not chickening out and ordering a beer the minute the wine hit his taste buds. “Smooth, “He said between coughing fits.

“You’re getting weak, sister. Too much time in DC and not enough in the field.”

“I’m never out of the field, it seems,” replied Harvath as he took another swig and this time managed to get it down without registering how bad it tasted.

“There you go. That’s the Scot Harvath I know and love,” said Kampos with a wide grin. “After this, we’ll move you onto the hard stuff.”

“Bring it on,” Harvath stated with a smile.

Kampos discreetly belted out the army yell, “Hooyah!” and took another long swallow of local vintage.

Scot couldn’t help liking the guy. In fact, when he thought about it, the DEA was one of the only agencies he’d ever worked with where he’d actually liked every single person he’d come in contact with. Though they shared many of the same facilities as the FBI training academy at Quantico, the two cultures couldn’t have been more different. While the FBI focused on hiring lawyers and accountants, most DEA agents were ex-cops, or ex-military like Kampos. What’s more, they were the best close-range shooters in the business. In fact, the DEA was so good at close-quarters battle, or CQB as it was more commonly known, that they trained all of the president’s Marine One helicopter flight crews.

When Harvath transferred from the SEALs to White House Secret Service operations, he’d been so impressed with the HMX-1 Nighthawks’ level of CQB proficiency that he had asked if he could train with them in his off time. Shooting, after all, was a perishable skill, and any law enforcement officer who carried a gun was always encouraged to log as much range time as he could-especially in his off time. The bottom line was that the more you fired your weapon, the better shooter you became, and that was certainly true in Harvath’s case, especially while Nick Kampos was his instructor.