his responsibility. If only one of them was still alive, Harvath needed to find him, so he pushed deeper into the burning hallway.
He had gone no further than a few steps when there was an earsplitting crack as a larger section of the floor above came pancaking down.
With visibility next to zero, Harvath would have been crushed had it not been for a hand that reached out, grabbed him by the drag handle of his plate carrier, and yanked him into the stairwell.
“We’ve got to get out!” yelled Pat Murphy who had burst into the building from the back.
“No,” Harvath shot back.
“They’re all dead. Let’s go.”
“We don’t know they’re dead.”
“They’re dead,” Murphy insisted as he dragged Harvath away from the landing.
After the first couple of steps, Harvath began moving on his own. When they hit the ground floor and exited the lobby, a crowd had already formed in the street. The people blanched when they saw the two ash-and-soot- covered men exit the building carrying weapons.
Someone noticed that they were wearing Swedish Security Service plate carriers and started to ask Murphy questions in Swedish. The ex-Green Beret ignored him.
“The other car is about two hundred meters behind the woods,” said Murphy, leaning in so Harvath could hear him, but keeping his voice low enough that the onlookers couldn’t discern that he was speaking English. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”
Harvath had no choice but to agree. There was nothing they could do here. If they stayed, they’d be arrested and an already tragic situation would be made much worse.
Harvath nodded at Murphy, and the two set off for the back of the building, the woods, and the car parked just beyond. Neither the truck nor the car with the book on the dashboard could be traced back to them, so Harvath didn’t think twice about abandoning them. The key now was to get out of the country as quickly as possible.
They were about to swing around the side of the burning apartment complex and disappear, when there was the sound of breaking glass and screams from the crowd of onlookers.
Harvath spun just in time to see a man falling backward out of a fourth-story window of a building across the street.
CHAPTER 26
Chase now knew that Karami had been sketching the windows. Somehow he had figured out the signal he had created with the blinds. Karami had either known or suspected an attack was coming and he’d set up an ambush across the street, duplicating Chase’s entire signal. And if he had done all that, then he had to know Chase was not who he said he was. Therefore, the young operative wasted no time.
He was dramatically outnumbered and the only thing he had on his side was surprise. Surprise, and the shock the men in the room around him were in due to the explosion from across the street.
As soon as he knew he was going to have to fight his way out, he again wished he’d brought along the shiv he’d made.
The hookah was the nearest and best weapon he had available and it broke over the head of the first jihadist he struck with it. Unconscious or dead, Chase didn’t care. The man dropped to the floor and that left three.
Chase slashed the second Islamist’s throat with the jagged, broken glass base of the hookah as the two remaining men turned on him.
They charged in unison. Chase caught the first man with a low thrust kick to the knee and the other with a foreknuckle strike to the throat.
The man who received the kick to his knee fell to the floor screaming in pain. The other man, who had been struck in the throat, was a different story. His windpipe should have been crushed, but Chase had failed to grab his hair or his clothing and pull him into the strike. The man had recoiled just as the punch came in, lessening its severity. Like an enraged bull, he gathered himself and charged again. This time, Chase would not screw it up.
As the man came in, he bent his head and ran at Chase with his fingers spread and his hands outstretched like claws. Wherever he had grown up, apparently it was his mother who had taught him to fight.
Chase slipped between the man’s arms and caught him right beneath the chin with a perfectly placed uppercut. Chase drove him backward with two jabs to his face.
The man swung wildly and got lucky, punching Chase in the side of the head. The blow hurt like hell and immediately his ear felt as if it was on fire. Chase let his anger get the better of him.
Spinning, he kicked the man directly in the center of his chest, sending him out through the glass window down to the street below.
Chase knew he couldn’t have survived the fall and didn’t bother to look to see if he had. There were five men left in the apartment and he moved quickly. He wasn’t about to wait for them to come find him.
He had made it almost all the way to the doorway when he saw the barrel of the rifle. He wasn’t surprised that the terrorists had had guns hidden away. Grabbing the weapon, he tried to twist it away from his attacker.
There was a rapid burst of fire as the rifle erupted. Where all of the rounds went, he had no idea. All he knew was that one had torn right through his right bicep and hit the bone. The pain was excruciating, and he immediately lost the use of his arm.
Sweeping his left arm, he came up underneath the barrel and knocked it off him just as another volley of shots was fired. The noise at such close range was deafening.
By moving the weapon, Chase had his opponent off-balance. Finding the weapon’s upper handguard, he pushed down with all his might, forcing the man to lean forward. As he did, Chase snapped his head forward. There was a spray of blood and a sickening crack as Chase connected with the bridge of the man’s nose.
It was game over. Chase snatched the rifle away from him. Balancing the buttstock against his left shoulder, he depressed the trigger and put a three-round burst right through the man’s chest.
He then spun and capped the jihadist with the blown-out knee who was coming back at him from behind. Five down, four to go.
He could sense movement from out in the hallway and didn’t bother looking to see who it was. Propping the gun up against his shoulder once more, he fired a burst directly through the wall.
There was a scream and the sound of a weapon clattering to the floor. Shooting without identifying the target was usually a bad thing, but Chase didn’t give a damn. Even if he had capped Karami, this was kill or be killed.
He doubted Karami would have come down the hallway himself. That’s what cannon fodder was for. He hoped he’d just nailed Sabah, but he doubted it. It was probably one of the two goons from the garage.
Bending his left arm into an L shape, he positioned the stock in the crook of his elbow, up against his good bicep. Popping the weapon around the edge of the door frame, he sprayed the hall with another burst.
He waited for any return fire, and when none came, he risked a quick look. His guess had been right. Lying facedown on the floor in a pool of blood was the man from the garage who had gone out and bought him the bandages and energy drinks. Six down.
Chase now had a decision to make. Duck back inside the room and wait the other three out, or take the fight to them. Neither option was that appealing. In a matter of seconds, the street outside was going to be filled with police and other first-responders. He needed to capture Karami and Sabah if he could, do a quick sweep of the apartment, and then get the hell out of there. He had no choice but to step out into the hallway and risk exposure.
Wedging the rifle against his shoulder again, he took a deep breath and swung into the hall. His right arm hung limp at his side. Blood was rolling down his hand and dripping off the tips of his fingers.
With his heart thudding in his chest, Chase moved forward as quietly as he could. His senses were hyper- alert, attuned for any sudden movement or noise he might hear above the ringing that might give his remaining attackers away. The apartment, though, was quiet. Too quiet.
As he moved, he was plagued by the thought that the technique he had used would be used against him, and any moment now he would be shot through the drywall. Hagakure, he reminded himself. Hagakure.
