Use of Force

CHAPTER 2

A Middle Eastern — looking man inside the bathroom kicked the door open and threw the contents of a large plastic cup where he thought Harvath would be standing.

The highly corrosive cocktail of drain cleaner and household bleach missed Harvath and splattered across the wall and window blinds to his left.

Harvath answered the attack by slamming his pistol into the bridge of the man’s nose.

Immediately, his adversary’s knees went weak and began to buckle. Harvath swept in behind him, wrapped his left arm around his throat, and demanded, “Where’s Hamza Rahim?”

The man, who must have seen Harvath peeking in the RV’s windows or heard him as he came in, struggled.

Harvath struck him again, this time in the side of the head. “Where is he? Where’s Rahim?”

The attacker continued to resist, so Harvath pointed his pistol at his left foot and pressed the trigger.

The resulting scream was so loud, Harvath had to cover his mouth for fear the man’s cries might draw attention. “Tell me where Rahim is or I’ll shoot the other one.”

The man clawed at Harvath. As he did, Harvath noticed that he was missing two fingers on his left hand. Harvath’s worst fears were confirmed. This guy was a bomb maker.

Harvath now had even more questions, but his eyes, nose, and throat were burning from the poisonous cloud of gas the man had created with his bathroom bleach bomb. They needed to get the hell out of the RV.

With his left arm still wrapped tightly around the man’s throat, Harvath jabbed the pistol suppressor into his back and pushed him toward the front of the RV. They had only made it halfway when someone appeared at the door.

The figure was dressed in what looked like a monk’s robe with a featureless mask made of chrome. The figure also had a weapon, and before Harvath could react, he began to fire.

Harvath used the bomb maker as a shield until he had to drop his lifeless body and dive for cover. Rounds from the attacker in the chrome mask continued to chew up the vehicle.

Harvath wanted to return fire, but he couldn’t see because of the toxic cloud. He couldn’t even breathe.

Shooting out one of the rear windows, he raked the broken glass with his weapon and leapt out, landing hard on the ground.

His instincts told him to roll under the motor home for concealment, but he knew chlorine gas was heavier than air. If any of the fumes were leaking out, they would pool beneath the vehicle. He needed to move away from the RV, fast.

Spraying the front of the motor home with suppressed rounds from his Sig Sauer, he scrambled behind a nearby pickup, hoping the dust storm would help hide his movement.

At the truck, he pulled his goggles back up around his eyes, tightened his keffiyeh, and tried to catch his breath. His lungs were burning. How much was playa dust and exertion versus how much was chlorine gas, he had no idea. All he knew was that his chest hurt like hell.

“Rahim’s not alone,” Harvath coughed over his radio. “There was someone else in the trailer.”

“Who?” the voice replied.

“A bomb maker. They’re not here to scout. They’re here to attack.”

“Jesus. Did you get them?”

“The bomb maker’s dead,” Harvath said, “but Rahim’s on the run. Dressed in a brown robe with a chrome faceplate. Get the drone up.”

“It won’t survive the storm.”

“I don’t care. Get it up. Now.”

“Roger that,” the voice responded.

Inserting a fresh magazine into his weapon, Harvath issued a final command before rolling out from behind the truck. “Tell the extraction team to split up. We have to find Rahim.”

“And when we do?”

“Take him out.”

With that, Harvath ended his transmission and began moving.

Mike Haney was a smart guy. The CIA had snapped him up two years ago. Before joining its secretive paramilitary detachment known as the Special Operations Group, he’d been a Force Recon Marine. Harvath knew he could count on him.

The extraction team was made up of four additional, highly experienced former military personnel: Navy SEAL Tim Barton; Delta Force operative Tyler Staelin; Green Beret Jack Gage; and Matt Morrison, who, like Haney, had also been a Force Recon Marine.

While Haney ran everything from the large tour bus they were using as their base of operations, the extraction team was a couple of blocks over in a heavily modified, six-person golf cart.

Though Black Rock City was designed for pedestrians and bicycles, they’d been able to get the cart in by providing documentation “certifying” one of the team members as disabled.

Beneath one row of seats was a storage area just large enough to hide Rahim and smuggle him out. Under another was the hidden compartment they had used to smuggle in their weapons.

Using spray paint, Christmas lights, and pool noodles purchased on the way in, they had “decorated” the cart. It looked like shit, but none of them cared. As long as it did its job, that was all that mattered.

Rahim couldn’t have gotten far. Unscrewing the suppressor, Harvath returned his weapon beneath his coat and moved from tent to tent.

Near an art installation of public telephones advertising “Talk to God,” he gave a description of Rahim’s costume and asked if anyone had seen his “friend.”

A woman wearing a motorcycle helmet and not much else said she had, and pointed down a road to the left. Harvath thanked her and took off.

Clouds of dust were still blowing through Black Rock City, but visibility was getting better. Harvath relayed his position to Haney and told him to have the extraction team members start closing in. As soon as he relayed his instructions, though, he saw a robed figure up ahead with a chrome faceplate.

Quickening his pace, Harvath tried to close the distance between them. The man weaved through one camp after another, slipping between parked vehicles, tents, and stacks of supplies. He was careful not to get caught in any open spaces. Someone had taught him good tradecraft.

“Where’s my drone, Haney?” Harvath demanded as he leapt over a pallet of bottled water and kept moving.

“Inbound. Thirty seconds.”

“This guy’s gonna be gone in thirty seconds. Hurry up.”

“Got him,” another voice said over Harvath’s earpiece. He recognized the voice. It was Staelin, the Delta operative who was teamed with Barton the SEAL.

“Where are you?”

Staelin gave his position.

“You’re still two blocks away,” Harvath replied. “You’ve got the wrong guy.”

“Bullshit. I’m looking right at him. Brown monk’s robe, chrome faceplate.”