Brad Thor - Path Of The Assassin

At the Adams Street Bridge, Harvath saw a searing white light race from Nidal’s Baja and strike the engine compartment of another sight-seeing boat floating just off Union Station. He had never figured Chicago boaters for safety nuts, but apparently whoever owned the Baja kept a flare gun aboard, and the wrong person had found it. Nidal managed to get around the sight-seeing boat just as an explosion rocked through the engine compartment and blew a gaping hole in the hull. Passengers jumped, screaming, into the water as the boat quickly caught fire. Once again, Harvath had to pull back on the throttles, and once again, he lost valuable time.

After Harrison Street, the Chicago River opened up into a long straightaway. If he was going to catch Nidal, this would have to be place to do it. He tried to coax every ounce of speed he could from the Cigarette, and around Taylor Street, it looked as if the effort was paying off. Through the torrential rain, just ahead, he could make out the stern of Nidal’s Baja.

The gap was closing, but something was wrong. It was closing too fast. For a moment, Harvath let himself believe that one of his rounds had hit home and had caused the Baja to slow, but when he realized what was really happening, the searing bolt of a flare was almost on top him. He turned the Cigarette hard to port and played right into Nidal’s hands. Though the flare missed, rounds from the Micro-Uzi ripped down the starboard side of the Cigarette. Smoke began pouring from the starboard engine, and Harvath had no choice but to shut it down.

Running on one engine now, he pushed the remaining throttle as far as it would go and headed right for Nidal before he could load another flare and come around for a second attack. Harvath raised his SIG and pulled the trigger repeatedly until he heard the empty click of the spent magazine. In one fluid motion, he ejected the old clip and slammed in a fresh one, but it was too late. With Harvath operating on only one engine, Hashim Nidal had more horsepower and could easily outrun him. The driving rain had cut visibility down to nothing. With alarms buzzing and engine warning lights flashing, Harvath backed off on the remaining throttle and limped down the river, hoping against hope that maybe he’d catch a break and still be able to come across Nidal.

The only thing Harvath came across was the Baja abandoned just before Chinatown. Once again, the silver-eyed assassin had vanished into the storm.

By the time Harvath made it back to the Beckwith Realty Building, the fire department had the blaze all but extinguished and the police had established a command center in the lobby of the office building across the street. It was there that he found Meg, still being interviewed by police.

As he crossed the marble lobby toward where she was sitting, she could see that his clothes were soaked through. Though the look on his face said it all, she still had to ask, “Did you get him? Is he dead?”

“No,” Harvath replied. “I didn’t get him and he’s not dead.”

Meg had been hoping, praying, for Scot to return safely, but with a completely different report. “This is never going to end, is it?” she asked as tears began to well up in her eyes. “He’s going to hunt me down and he won’t stop until he’s killed me.”

“They’re not going to hurt you. I promise you.”

“But they already have. Hurting the people I care about is the same as hurting me.”

“How are the people in your office? Have you heard anything?”

“Two people are dead.”

“From your staff?”

“No, it was your friend and his partner from the FBI. They were apparently in my office when the bomb went off. Judy was outside at her desk. She’s at the hospital now. Why is this happening? Why can’t he just leave me alone?”

Harvath’s jaw tightened. Two more people he knew had lost their lives. Wherever he went, Hashim Nidal left a trail of dead bodies in his wake. He had a long list to answer for, and Harvath was going to make him pay for every name on it. The sooner, the better.

“Excuse me,” interrupted a young detective who identified himself as Daryn Gasteire. “Who are you and what are you doing in here?”

“It’s okay, detective. This is Agent Harvath. The one I was telling you about.”

“Are you the gentleman who was outside with Ms. Cassidy when the explosion happened?” asked Gasteire.

“Yes, I am,” said Harvath as he fished his Secret Service credentials from his pocket and showed them to the twenty-something detective. Gasteire appeared too young to have already made the rank of detective, especially in a city like Chicago. He had a youthful arrogance to him that grated on Harvath’s nerves. It was obvious the detective was attracted to Meg and had taken it upon himself to watch over her. Despite her beauty and outward show of strength, there was something about Meg Cassidy that made men want to protect her.

The detective also reminded him of Gordon Avigliano, and Harvath remembered that he hadn’t liked the young CIA man at first either. He would try to forgive the detective’s tone, but forgiveness had never been one of Harvath’s strong suits.

“You want to tell me what you saw?” continued Gasteire.

“To tell you the truth, no,” replied Harvath. “The two agents that died up there were friends of mine. I want you to tell me what you have.”

Detective Gasteire tried to be polite. “I’m sorry about your friends, but try to see things from my perspective. A bomb explodes in the office of one of Chicago’s now most-famous citizens, who single-handedly helped rescue the mayor and the CEO of United Airlines during a hijacking, a motorcycle chase ensues down numerous streets and sidewalks, followed by a boat chase down the Chicago River, I’ve got two deceased FBI agents, countless civilian injuries, an untold amount of property damage, and standing right in front of me are a prime witness and coparticipant in the chase, and you want me to fill you in on what I know? Forget it. I am going to ask you again nicely to answer my questions.”

“Or else what?” asked Harvath, his anger getting the better of him.

“Let’s just say, I have a way of easily losing my patience,” replied Gasteire, his smile never faltering.

Harvath fished a card out of his wallet and handed it to the detective. “I’d like to say I appreciate your position, Detective, but my investigation takes precedence here. Call the gentleman on that card and he’ll tell you the same thing.”

“What’s the deputy director of the FBI have to do with an agent of the U.S. Secret Service?” asked Gasteire.

“This may sound rude,” said Harvath as he lowered his voice, put his hand on the detective’s shoulder, and forcibly steered him away from Meg Cassidy, “but it’s none of your fucking business. This is a federal investigation and I don’t have time to dick around with you. Now, I’ve also got Mayor Fellinger’s card in my wallet, and you can feel free to call him if you want, but he’s going to tell you the same thing.”

“The mayor? Bullshit,” said Gasteire.

Harvath pulled Fellinger’s card from his wallet and handed it to the detective. “Now, you decide who the hell you want to call and get on with it. Let’s go. Chop, chop.”

Gasteire removed a cell phone from his pocket and angrily walked to the other side of the lobby to make his calls as Harvath turned back to Meg. “I’m so sorry about all of this, Meg. Even though we were being cautious, we never really believed he’d come all this way after you.”

“If we hadn’t gone out for coffee,” said Meg as her body started to shake again despite the warm, wool blanket one of the firemen had draped around her, “we’d probably be dead right now.” Her eyes were glazed and she was looking off into the distance at nothing in particular.