Brad Thor - Blowback

“That’s a shame,” said Rayburn as he finished removing the wire cage and gently twisted the base of the deep green champagne bottle until the cork came away with a soft pop. “I have a feeling you and I might have been exceptional friends.”

“I doubt that.”

Rayburn poured champagne into their glasses and replaced the bottle in the ice bucket. “Well, then, maybe we should skip the niceties and move straight to business.”

“I couldn’t agree more,” said Claudia as she accepted a glass.

Skipping the toast, Rayburn took a sip of the champagne, smacked his lips contentedly, and then said, “You mentioned Marie Lavoine was holding out on me. How would you be in a position to know such a thing?”

Mueller set her glass down on the table and replied, “All of the artifacts that came out of that chasm were carried out by my father and Bernard Lavoine-equally.”

“Therefore, you feel you are entitled to an equal share. Am I correct?”

“Exactly.”

“Except now we have a problem. According to you, Marie Lavoine is no longer with us.”

“Actually, it’s according to the police.”

Rayburn took another sip of champagne and asked, “What exactly was Marie Lavoine’s cause of death?”

“Gunshot wound to the head,” said Harvath, who, disguised as a waiter with darker hair, glasses, and a goatee, had strode up right behind him. He placed the silenced pistol he had wrapped in a large linen napkin and hidden beneath his tray against the base of the man’s skull and added, “It was fired from a weapon very similar to the one you’re feeling against the back of your neck right now.”

Seeing that Harvath had made contact with Rayburn, Schroeder removed his cell phone from his pocket and sent a broadcast text message to his team. Forty-five seconds later, a pair of flashbang grenades detonated in front of the café. Everyone inside, including Rayburn’s men, strained to look out the window to see what had happened. As they did, three more flashbangs were pitched into the bar area along with several smoke canisters.

In the ensuing pandemonium at the front of the café, Harvath and Claudia hustled Rayburn through an emergency exit near the kitchen. Outside, two of Schroeder’s men were waiting, and Rayburn was quickly flexicuffed, blindfolded, and stuffed into the back of a waiting car.

They drove him to Sion International and the small hangar on the far side of the military base that they were using as their command center. An office in the back of the structure had been set up as a holding cell and makeshift interrogation room. The first person Rayburn saw as they removed his blindfold and his vision came back into focus was the last person he had ever expected to see again. “Scot Harvath,” said Rayburn as he looked around the room and tried to get his bearings. “What the hell are you doing here?”

Harvath didn’t even bother with a response. Instead, he cocked his fist and punched Rayburn right in the mouth.

It was a good punch, and the older man saw stars for several moments. After spitting the blood from his mouth onto the concrete floor, he looked up at Harvath and said, “I guess I deserved that.”

“You deserve a hell of lot more,” replied Scot. “That was just for starters.”

“Hardly a fair fight,” stated Rayburn as he struggled against the flexicuffs binding him to the chair.

“Since when were you ever interested in a fair fight? Besides, this isn’t a fight, it’s a beating and one for which you are long overdue,” said Harvath as he drew back his fist and hit the man again, this time in the stomach.

Outside the room, Jillian, Claudia, and Horst Schroeder listened as Harvath worked over his prisoner. He had to administer his blows very carefully. The first punch to the mouth was the only one he could allow himself to the man’s face. He’d been dreaming about that shot for years, but going forward he would have to keep himself under control. If he marked Rayburn up too much, the man would be of no use to them.

Spitting another mouthful of blood onto the floor, Rayburn looked up at Harvath and said, “If you’re going to kill me, why not just get it over with?”

“Always looking for the easy way out, aren’t you?” replied Scot as he hit the man again, this time in the solar plexus, knocking the wind from him.

As Rayburn struggled to regain his breath, Harvath began asking questions. “Where’s Emir Tokay?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Rayburn, doubled over and gasping for air.

Harvath waited until the man’s breath had returned and then grabbed his chin with his hand and jerked his head upward so he could look into his face and ask the question again. “Where’s Emir Tokay?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” repeated Rayburn.

The man was lying, and Harvath knew it. It was written all over his face, which Scot now let go of and then slowly walked to the other side of the room. “I know you’re lying to me, Tim. I can see it in your face.”

“What do you see? A facial expression that lasted for only a fraction of a second and gave away my guilt? That’s a bunch of Secret Service bullshit.”

“Bullshit or not, I’ve also seen footage of Tokay’s kidnapping in Bangladesh. You should have been wearing a mask, or at the very least have chosen a better spot to pick him up.”

“What are you talking about?”

“There was a new security camera on the bank across the street. When your goons opened the back door of the car door to stuff Tokay inside, the camera captured a perfect picture of you sitting on the back seat.”

Rayburn was silent.

“No snappy comeback?” asked Harvath.

“That was never my area of expertise, “He said finally. “You were always the wiseass.”

“It’s a little late to be flattering me, don’t you think?”

“See, you can’t help yourself, you never could. That’s your problem. You say whatever pops into your head and you allow yourself to blindly follow the flag. I’ve never seen anybody gobble up the duty, honor, and country bullshit the way you do.”

“That goes to show that I found something in the job other than just a paycheck. If you’re trying to insult me, you’ll have to try a lot harder than that. I’m proud of my service to my country.”

Rayburn spat out another gob of blood and started to laugh.

“What’s so funny?” said Harvath.

“You. You’re a fucking recruiter’s wet dream. Truth, justice, and the American way. You’ve been fed it so long, you don’t know what anything else tastes like. Step away from the red, white, and blue party line and you’ve got no idea who the fuck you are.”

“And you do?”

“You’re goddamn right I do. You and I are exactly alike.”

Harvath crossed back over to Rayburn’s chair and was about to crack him right in the jaw, but held himself back. “You and I are nothing alike.”

“The hell we aren’t, ”the man responded. “You’ve spent your entire career in both the SEALs and the Secret Service on the razor’s edge of being discharged. You’re a smart guy, but nobody ever seems to appreciate how smart, especially when you decide to six-gun things on your own.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You forget I was one of your instructors. I read your Navy jacket from cover to cover, and I watched the way you operated right up until I left the Secret Service. You may be skilled, but you never belonged with either organization. You’re too smart for them and it drives you crazy being told to sit on your ass when you know how things should be done. Welcome to life working for the government. Your superiors may have called you reckless, but that isn’t it. There’s a borderline brilliance to the way you operate, but none of them will ever see it. It’s only a matter of time before you do something that leaves them with absolutely no choice but to turn you loose-the same way they turned me loose-and then you’ll see that you and I are exactly the same. We’re defined by what we do. And trust me, once you make peace with that, you’ll be a much happier person.”