security fences and rows upon rows of razor wire. There, “behind the fence,” as people referred to it, no expense was spared on training the world’s most elite warriors.
These operators excelled in a wide array of clandestine operations including hostage rescue, counterterrorism, and counterinsurgency, as well as strikes inside hostile, off-limits, or politically sensitive areas. It was because of these operators that Harvath worried that coming to North Carolina could end up being a deadly idea. If Colonel Chuck Bremmer was tasking active military personnel for his kill teams, they might have something to do with the Unit.
But there was something else about the Unit, which was why Harvath had decided to risk the trip. Never content to rest upon its laurels, and always exploring new ways to make itself better, deadlier, and more efficient, several years ago Delta had asked one of its most aggressive and forward thinking questions—
It was an exceedingly good idea. Women attracted less attention in the field than men, and when they did, it was often of a completely different kind. They were welcomed in places men were not and could get away with things men could never dream of. A female operative who was prepared to kick in your door and shoot you in the head, or cuff you and stuff you in a trunk, was the last thing most of the bad guys ever expected.
With the approval of the Army’s Special Operations Command, under which Delta was chartered, a group of operatives agreed to become recruiters for the all-female team they were creating, the Athena Project.
The scouts were searching for intelligent, self-confident, polished women who could blend in and disappear into foreign cultures. They needed to be athletic and highly competitive. They needed to hate to lose, be mentally tough, and determined to win at all costs. Success needed to be part of their DNA. They also needed to be attractive.
People react to others differently based on how they look. If the female operatives were attractive, there was no end to what they could achieve. Men did things they shouldn’t do just to be near them, extending opportunities and even information that would never be offered to their male counterparts. In essence, the majority of men could often be counted on to underestimate and act stupidly around attractive women.
The Delta recruiters haunted high-end female athletic events, searching for potential candidates at triathlons, winter and summer X Games, universities, and U.S. Olympic training facilities. They also utilized a myriad of front companies. It was one of those very fronts that Harvath was there to visit.
After arranging to have the plane refueled, Mike Strieber borrowed the FBO’s courtesy car, a white Chevy Astro van, and he and Harvath drove into town.
“Pretty long way to fly for a manicure,” said Mike as Harvath removed the SIG-Sauer from the concealment pocket in his Camelbak and tucked it into the back of his jeans. “Angela’s never going to let me hear the end of this one.”
Harvath had decided on the detour about a half hour into their flight, and Mike had rerouted. He had no way to know if Riley Turner had been a target in Paris or if she’d simply been collateral damage in a hit focused solely on him. While the operators in the Athena Project had worked on assignments with the Carlton Group, they weren’t the Old Man’s employees. They were simply tasked to him on an as-needed basis. Their group was so classified Harvath didn’t have any contact information for any of them beyond e-mail addresses, which were locked away on his laptop in Virginia. This meant that he not only couldn’t let them know what had happened to Riley, but he also couldn’t warn them that they might be on the Black List as well.
The nail salon was in a strip mall not far from the center of Fayetteville. Owned by the wife of a retired Unit member, it was one of the first fronts Delta and the Athena Project started using when they began to broaden their search outside the ranks of the military. Not only did promising local candidates pass through the salon, it also gave the program a trusted location when it needed to quietly transact its affairs off-base. No one ever gave any of the women entering or leaving the salon a second thought. Even better, it was open seven days a week.
Harvath showed Strieber where to park and told him what to keep his eyes peeled for. Pulling one of Mike’s baseball caps down over his forehead, he climbed out of the van, crossed the lot, and walked into the salon.
The place was packed. All of the stations were full, as were all the chairs in the waiting area. Dan McGreevy and his wife looked to be doing very well.
“Hi. Do you have an appointment?” the cashier asked.
“Actually, I’m here to see Dan. Is he in?”
The girl picked up the phone and pressed a button for an extension. “Whom should I say is here?”
“Tell him a mutual friend from overseas suggested I pop in and see him when I got to town.”
The young lady seemed to know enough about what McGreevy did or had done in his past to be satisfied with that response. It wasn’t unusual for operators to suggest to other operators to look up a friend if they ever made it to their town. Harvath probably wasn’t the first person to have ever dropped in at the salon and to have floated a cryptic introduction to the receptionist.
Though he couldn’t see them, he knew the shop would have security cameras, and he did his best to make sure none of them were picking up on his face. He turned his back to the young lady and leaning against the counter, pretended to be looking out the plate-glass window of the waiting area.
The cashier relayed his message and hung up the phone. “He’ll be right up.”
Harvath thanked her and moved over as a woman came up to pay her bill. A few moments later, Dan McGreevy appeared.
He was a compact man in his late forties, a couple inches shorter than Harvath. He had blond hair graying at the temples and a deep cleft chin. The minute he laid eyes on him, Harvath could tell the man was already suspicious of him.
“Can I help you?” he asked.
It wasn’t exactly the way one normally greeted a friend of a friend who had stopped by to say hello. “Hey, Dan,” Harvath replied, sticking his hand out. “Kevin Kirk.”
The man shook his hand, but only briefly. “What can I do for you?”
“A mutual friend suggested I pop in and see you when I got to town.”
“What friend?”
“Is there someplace a little less public where we can talk?”
It was quite apparent that McGreevy wasn’t fond of people dropping in on him unannounced. “Why don’t you give me this friend’s name first?” he replied.
Harvath locked eyes with him and said, “Turner. Riley Turner.”
A sudden microexpression gave him away. “Never heard of him.”
“It’s not a
McGreevy jerked his thumb over his shoulder toward the rear of the salon. “We can talk in my office. And I’m not giving you five minutes. You’ve got three.”
CHAPTER 48
McGreevy pointed at one of the chairs in front of his desk and told Harvath to take a seat. “Your three minutes start now.”
Harvath decided to get right to the point. “Six days ago, Riley Turner was shot and killed in Paris.”
“Let’s assume for a moment that I even knew who this Riley Turner was and that I’d be interested in this information. Why would I believe you?”
“Because I was there,” said Harvath, taking note once again of another tell when the man mentioned Riley by name.
“Were you the one who shot her?”
“No, but I killed the men who did.”
Harvath nodded. “Yes. There were four of them; a wet work team.”
“And not only can you identify a
