Blowback

EIGHTY-FIVE

By pressing his face up against the wall as tight as it would go, Harvath had been able to peer inside the electrical panel and read the numbers on the digital timer. They had less than ten minutes left.

With its cinderblock construction, the warehouse was a virtual bunker. Punching through the roof was immediately ruled out, as they had no ladders to get up that high, and even if they did, there was no telling if the roof had been reinforced like the rest of the building. There had to be another way.

Scanning the sparse contents of the warehouse, Harvath’s eyes fell upon the forklift, and a plan began to form in his mind. With its two flat tires, there was no way they could drive it anywhere, much less straight through one of the walls, but it still might be useful in another fashion — as their very own homemade bomb.

Harvath kept his idea to himself until he got a closer look at the machine. Even from across the room, it was apparent it wasn’t an electric model. According to the label on the gas gauge, it was a diesel and more than half full. Locating the vehicle’s toolbox, he opened it up but only found a roll of duct tape and a metal claw hammer.

He yelled for Reynolds and Jillian to join him and threw the forklift into neutral as he explained what he needed them to do. With Jillian pushing from the side and using one hand to steer, Harvath and Reynolds threw all of their weight behind it and pushed as hard as they could.

With its heavy forks and two flat tires, it was nearly impossible to get moving, but soon the trio felt the vehicle inching forward. The problem, though, was that they weren’t inching fast enough. When they got the machine as close to the center of the wall, and as far away from the nearest doors and windows as possible, Harvath told Reynolds to eject all but one of the shells from his twelve-gauge while he used the claw hammer to tear away the fiberglass housing from around the forklift’s gas tank.

The housing shattered and came away with ear-splitting cracks. Once enough of it had been cleared, Harvath pulled off several strips of duct tape and fashioned the shotgun shells in the tightest grouping possible and then taped the entire thing to the exterior of the gas tank. Glancing at his watch, he figured they had less than two minutes. “How good a shot are you?” he asked Reynolds as they ran for cover.

The man replied honestly. “Not good enough.”

Harvath was the most accurate with a weapon in close-quarters situations, which meant less than thirty feet. For safety’s sake, though, they needed to be back at least two or three times that distance when the forklift’s gas tank was detonated.

Hiding behind a stack of pallets, Harvath took the shotgun from Reynolds and said more for Jillian’s benefit than anyone else’s, “There’s going to be a concussion wave, so don’t get up right away. Count to three after you hear the explosion and then run like hell for the opening, okay?”

Jillian and Reynolds both nodded their heads.

Leaning out from behind the pallets, Harvath raised the shotgun, took aim, and fired. The bullet hit its mark, detonating the shotgun shells taped to the gas tank and creating an enormous explosion.

The explosion not only tore an incredible hole through the block wall, but also sent the flaming wreckage of the forklift soaring out and into the street.

Without the benefit of sufficient cover, Harvath was knocked backward by the same concussion wave he had warned Jillian about. Before he knew what was happening, Reynolds had lifted him to his feet and was half dragging him toward the opening.

By the time they hit the rubble-strewn pavement outside, Harvath had regained enough of his equilibrium to move under his own power. Without looking back, they ran with all the speed they could muster, knowing the warehouse was about to evaporate in one of the biggest explosions Riyadh had ever seen.

They ran all the way to Reynolds’s Land Cruiser, which he had started and was pulling away from the curb before they even had their doors closed.

As the SUV lurched into the street, they felt the ground beneath the tires tremble as the warehouse exploded and sent a billowing fireball into the early evening sky. Hunks of debris rained down on them, denting the hood and cracking the windshield in too many places to count. With one hand on the wheel, Reynolds leaned across Harvath, flipped open the glove box, and revealed a box of twelve-gauge shotgun shells. Taking the Remington from his lap and handing it to Harvath, he said, “Load it up. We need to find Zafir.”

Harvath understood.