Brad Thor Collectors' Edition #4 by Brad Thor

Author:Brad Thor
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Atria/Emily Bestler Books

CHAPTER 45

Even though he was contracted to the DoD, Harvath and his organization technically didn’t exist. That meant he couldn’t barrel up to Reston under lights and klaxon. He didn’t even have them.

Instead, he had to apply a lead foot and hope he didn’t get pulled over along the way.

The traffic wasn’t as heavy as it would have been only an hour before, but it was still rough. Harvath shot from lane to lane, ticking off a lot of other drivers, many of whom leaned on their horns and gave him the finger. The fact that he was driving a brand-new black Chevy Tahoe made no difference. If you didn’t have lights or a klaxon, you were the same as everybody else. He tried to not let his own stress and animosity get the better of him. Nobody knew who he was. To them he was an overly aggressive driver.

As he tore his way up to Reston, Harvath listened to the reports of death and destruction coming in on his satellite radio. It was horrific. One thing was for sure, Mansoor Aleem’s interrogation would be kicking off momentarily. There was no way the CIA was going to allow this attack to stand. The president and the director of national intelligence were probably already rattling the cage of the director of central intelligence. Every single law enforcement and intelligence agency was calling its personnel in right now. It was all hands on deck.

Just then, Harvath saw a set of red and blue flashing lights racing up behind him. He cursed out loud as he prepared to be pulled over. But as the lights grew closer, they suddenly swung over onto the shoulder.

Harvath had no idea to whom the blacked-out Suburban belonged. It was probably some Fed racing back to D.C. in response to the attack. Harvath decided to take advantage of his lead, and he swung onto the shoulder as well and slammed down his accelerator in order to catch up and ride his bumper.

At Springfield, the Suburban took the Capital Beltway toward D.C. and Harvath weaved back into traffic as he kept going toward Reston.

In the twenty minutes it took him to make it the rest of the way to the office, he counted no fewer than seventeen vehicles, complete with flashing lights, headed in the opposite direction toward D.C.

Pulling into the garage, he grabbed the first parking space he could find and made his way to the service door and the private freight elevator beyond.

The first thing he noticed when he stepped onto the twenty-fifth floor was that the guards at the entrance to the Carlton Group had been doubled and they were no longer in suits. They were outfitted in full tactical gear, with knee-to-cranium Crye Precision level IV ballistic protection, and toting MP7s. The company’s security protocols were very specific. A terrorist attack on U.S. soil automatically kicked their alert level up several notches.

Harvath was buzzed in and was told the Old Man was in the Tactical Operations Center, also known as the TOC.

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