Foreign Agent

CHAPTER 72

It was amazing how cold the desert could get at night, even after an unseasonably warm day. The rocks, the sand, all of it seemed to have released any stored heat the moment the sun had started to set.

Stretching his legs, Harvath checked his phone and noted their position. They were about one hundred kilometers from the border with Iraq.

As Thoman emptied a fuel can into the Land Cruiser, Mathan kept an eye on the prisoners.

They had parted ways with Yusuf and Qabbani hours ago. Harvath was relatively confident that the Syrians would be able to make it home without him. Just in case they ran into any problems, he had given them the rest of his cash and his Kobold chronograph.

He felt it was the least he could do — especially as he and the Hadids had kept all the weapons and the CIA’s Reaper.

Having the drone overhead had proved invaluable. Always knowing what lay ahead had made it possible to avoid problems. It had also caused them to take a few wide, extremely circuitous routes to avoid potential enemy engagements. As a result, they had burned a lot of fuel. And the Syrian desert wasn’t exactly populated with gas stations.

“That was our last one,” Thoman said as he placed the empty fuel can in the cargo area.

Harvath had been keeping track and already knew that. “There’s nothing between us and the border. We should be okay.”

Thoman smirked. “Tell that to Mr. Murphy.”

Harvath smiled back. The Hadids were good men. Tough, smart, and unafraid. Harvath had to hand it to McGee, the Agency knew how to judge talent. Whether or not they’d be able to tip the scales in Syria would have to be seen, but one thing was for sure: the Syrian people were incredibly fortunate to have the twin brothers fighting on the side of freedom.

Harvath respected the hell out of them. They could have been cooling their heels with their mother in Paris, but they weren’t. They were right here, right in the thick of the fight.

“Okay,” Harvath said as Thoman closed the hatch. “Let’s get moving.”

Unslinging their AKs, the men climbed back into the SUV. Changing up drivers, Harvath took the wheel, Mathan rode shotgun, and Thoman sat in back to watch over Baseyev and Rafael, who were on the floor, bound and gagged.

Harvath plugged his phone back into the cigarette lighter and placed it in the cup holder where he could watch it. Putting the vehicle in gear, he pulled back onto the desert road and continued on toward the border.

They had only gone a few hundred meters when Ryan’s voice came over his earpiece. “Norseman, you’ve got company.”

Harvath swung his head quickly from side to side and then turned to look out the rear window. “I’m not seeing anything. Talk to me.”

“Russian drone. Coming in hot.”

Harvath slammed on the brakes and shouted for the Hadids to get out.

“What about the prisoners?” Mathan replied.

Harvath grabbed his phone and yelled, “Leave them!” as he bailed.

With the brothers right on his heels, he ran down the steep incline from the road. Gesturing at a thick outcrop of rock five hundred meters away, he waved for them to follow.

“Hawk Four going hot,” Ryan relayed, using the code name for the CIA’s Reaper.

“How much time?” Harvath shouted as he ran.

“Stand by, Norseman.”

“Damn it!” he cursed. “How much time?”

Ryan wasn’t listening. She was completely focused on the battle unfolding above the desert.

“Russian drone, missile away,” she stated clinically. And then, as if suddenly realizing the target, urged, “Run, Norseman! Run!”

Harvath didn’t need to be told twice. “Hurry!” he shouted to the Hadids. “Incoming!”

They tore across the sand, running harder and faster than any of them had ever run in their lives.

“Impact,” said Ryan, “in three, two, one!”

There was a blinding flash of light and an enormous explosion just as Harvath and the Hadids reached the rocks and the missile from the Russian drone slammed into the Land Cruiser.

Harvath and the brothers dove for the safety of the outcropping as a braided pillar of hot, orange flame twisted into the sky and a powerful expulsion of heat, sand, and broken rock raced across the desert with the force of a hurricane.

Harvath had made himself as small as possible, protecting as much of his body as he could. The heat from the explosion was so intense it singed the hair on his arms.

As soon as it had passed, Harvath untucked and rolled up onto his knees so he could look beyond the rocks to what remained of the SUV. There was only a smoking crater in the road.

“Fuck,” he said aloud. “Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.”

Everything was gone. The prisoners. The hard drives. And, worst of all, their only means of transportation out of Syria.

Above the ringing in his ears, Harvath then heard, “Russian drone inbound.”

Again? What the hell was Langley waiting for? he wondered.

“Hawk Four locked on,” Ryan then stated. “Hawk Four missile away. Impact in five, four, three, two, one.”

Harvath had no idea where the drone dogfight was happening. All he could do was look up into the night sky. As he did, he saw a streak of orange flame as Hawk Four unleashed its air-to-air missile. It was followed, seconds later, by a brilliant explosion that illuminated the night sky.

“Russian drone destroyed,” Ryan reported.

Harvath looked over at Thoman and Mathan. Both men had survived. He then asked Ryan, “What the hell just happened? Why’d the Russians target us?”

“We didn’t pick up their drone until it went hot. But you’re in the middle of the desert, carrying AKs, and headed toward the border. That’s enough in their book.”

Murphy. Harvath had a bunch of choice words he wanted to utter, especially about the Russians, but now wasn’t the time. “We’re not going to make it to the extraction point.”

“Roger that. Stand by.”

As Ryan reached out to the Joint Special Operations Command for the two stealth helicopters waiting just inside Iraq, Harvath looked again at the Hadids. Thoman was smiling.

“What are you smiling at?” he asked, not exactly finding any of this amusing.

Rolling off his stomach, he revealed two pillowcases.

Harvath then looked at Mathan, who had the third.

He was just about to smile back when he saw motion back by the crater of where their Land Cruiser used to be.

Pulling his pistol, he got to his feet and ran toward it. Halfway there, he saw them. Baseyev and Rafael were alive.

Somehow they had managed to flop like fish out of the Land Cruiser and make it to the embankment. Rolling downhill, they had managed to avoid the blast.

Slowing his pace, Harvath reholstered his pistol at the small of his back and smiled. Shaking his head, he uttered just one word. “Murphy.”