Brad Thor - Blowback

He removed two flashbangs from the bag, scrambled up the ladder, and pitched them up and into the room above him.

Immediately after their detonation, Harvath sprang off the top rung of the ladder and into what could only be described as some sort of bottling plant.

Terrified by the explosions and the heavily armed man who had just crawled out from beneath the floor, workers ran in all directions. They scurried around and beneath rows of automated conveyor belts carrying bottles just like the ones Jillian had recovered from the warehouse in Riyadh.

Heavy stainless steel machines filled the plastic bottles with water and some other compound which Harvath assumed had to be the antidote. They were then sent in orderly rows to be capped, labeled, shrink-wrapped, and stacked on enormous pallets, where they were picked up by a forklift operator and moved to a loading area.

As he was studying the operation, all of a sudden everything around him erupted in a hail of gunfire. Hitting the deck, he saw Ozan Kalachka and the man who would be caliph-Prince Hamal-flanked by two of the meanest-looking, long-bearded, turban-wearing men Harvath had ever seen. With their earth-tone robes and huge machineguns, the bodyguards appeared more suited to the Wild West-style streets of Kabul than a holy city like Mecca.

Harvath rolled beneath one of the conveyor belts and fired his MP5, sending a shower of sparks along the metal platform where the men were standing. Immediately, they returned fire, and Harvath felt water pouring down on him as the bottles up above were sawn in half.

Rolling back out into the open, Harvath applied pressure to the trigger of his MP5 and dropped one of the two Taliban twins bracketing Hamal and Kalachka.

The remaining bodyguard once again returned fire, but this time capped it off with a special twist-a live grenade. As the grenade hit the concrete floor only feet away, Harvath scrambled further beneath the machinery. He crawled in the other direction as fast as his hands and knees would carry him. And then the unthinkable happened-he got stuck.

It took Harvath only a fraction of a second to realize what had happened-the demo bag he had slung over his shoulder had become hung up on a bolt sticking out from one of the legs supporting the conveyor belt above. As hard as he tried, he couldn’t pull it loose, nor could he untangle himself from it. The heavy-duty canvas bag had been meant to take tons of abuse without ever tearing or giving way.

Harvath knew the grenade was only seconds away from going off, and so he did the only thing he could think of. Bracing his back against the underside of the conveyor belt, he planted his legs and gave one big push. He felt the bolts pop away as the conveyor belt tray sprang loose from its supports and flipped over onto the floor, sending a mountain of water bottles along with it. The demo bag was finally free, but all Harvath could do was hit the deck.

As he did, the grenade exploded, the upturned conveyor belt and pile of water bottles absorbing most of the blast.

Raising his MP5, Harvath shook off the effects of the grenade, leapt off the floor, and ran forward shooting. The remaining Taliban twin tried to return fire, but Harvath caught the man just above his eyebrows, killing him instantly. Reflexively, he then turned his weapon on the remaining two targets and focused on the bigger of them-Ozan Kalachka.

In a move that shouldn’t have surprised Harvath, Kalachka grabbed Hamal, swung him around to use as a shield, and put a gun to the prince’s head.

“Descendants of the Prophet Muhammad who also have Turkish blood in their veins must be pretty easy to come by,” yelled Harvath as he kept his MP5 trained on the man, who, just like Timothy Rayburn, had used and betrayed him. The urge to take the shot regardless of the consequences was overwhelmingly tempting. He could always tell the Crown Prince someone else had shot his son, but that wasn’t how Harvath operated. He had given his word. Without a laser sight, Harvath decided against pulling the trigger.

“It would appear we’re at a bit of a crossroads,” yelled Kalachka from the metal observation platform above the bottling plant floor. “For what it’s worth, my offer still stands. What better place for you to convert to Islam than in its holiest of cities?”

“Thanks, but I’ve already converted. Crown Prince Abdullah gave me a nice little ceremony, but I don’t think it’s for me,” replied Harvath as he maneuvered for a cleaner shot. “Bad clothes and even worse holidays. My answer is going to have to remain no.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” answered Kalachka as he too moved, preventing Harvath from setting up a straight line of fire.

“I’ll make you a deal, though,” said Harvath. “Give me what I want, and I’ll let you live.”

Kalachka laughed. “You’ll just let me walk right out of here?”

“No, I said I would let you live.”

The Scorpion pretended to think about it a moment and then answered, “I think I’m going to walk out of here anyway. Something tells me that even you don’t have the balls to risk killing a member of the Saudi Royal Family.”

“You think so?” said Harvath as he tightened the stock of the MP5 against his cheek. “Why don’t you try me?”

Kalachka took another step to his left and Harvath let loose with a three-round burst that tore chunks out of the wall behind him only inches away from the man’s shoulder. There was a look of abject terror on the face of Prince Hamal, and Kalachka shuffled back to his original position. “Maybe we can come to some sort of arrangement, “He shouted.

“Like what?” replied Harvath.

“The Wahhabi leaders are as good as dead anyway. Even if I did provide you with what you are looking for, there’s not enough time to save the house of Saud. Soon, we’ll have three nuclear weapons, and no one will dare move against us.”

“How can you be so sure Saudi Arabia even has nuclear weapons?”

“Because I’ve seen them with my own eyes. It’s this country’s best-kept secret. Even America isn’t sure of their existence. That means, even if you wanted to take them out, you wouldn’t know where to find them.”

“So what’s your deal?” said Harvath, cutting to the chase.

“I’ll tell you what you need to know about the illness, but only after you’ve let me go.”

“You need to tell me now. People in America have already begun to come down with it.”

“That’s ridiculous. This illness has not been sent to the U.S. Not yet, at least. You’re stalling, “He yelled. “Give me your answer. Do we have a deal or not?”

“Why don’t you ask Hamal about America? He’s the one with the export business. It seems things may have grown a little bit faster than you had anticipated.”

Jamming his pistol into Hamal’s ear, Kalachka demanded, “Is this true? Did you ship that poison to America?”

“Yes,” Hamal stammered, “but we shipped the water for the Sunni faithful too.”

“What do you mean, we?”

“Faruq. He coordinated it. He said the only chance we stood against the Americans was to attack them at home so we’d be guaranteed they could never move against us.”

“You fool, that was not what we had planned.”

“But Faruq said-”

“Faruq is an even bigger idiot than you are.”

Harvath had managed to creep several more inches to his right and almost had the perfect line of sight when Kalachka yelled, “That’s far enough. No more games.”

Harvath stood stock-still.

“Now I know why Faruq was so intent upon cleaning out the warehouse in Riyadh,” said Kalachka.

“But it was too late.”

“Maybe, but it’s not too late for these buildings here. Everything you need is under this roof-the illness, the antidote, everything.”