Hamza had been surveilling Randall Hall when the man had shown up. After checking his photo against the one he’d been given by Omar, he called Rafiq and instructed him to pick up their car and get over to Randall Hall as soon as possible.
They both carried pistols, but they were for self-defense only. Even suppressed firearms made noise and could draw unwanted attention. Any killing these men did was usually up close and personal, with their bare hands or a wide variety of quiet weapons like knives, needles, karambits, or any one of dozens of everyday items.
Just by how the man acted and carried himself while walking into Randall Hall, Hamza could tell that he was a professional. He was fit and agile, his eyes wary and alert. Though he dressed down with the clothes he wore, the man also had a formidable build. Even with the element of surprise, Hamza knew he would not be an easy kill. Too many things could go wrong and that was something they could not afford. That was why he had called for Rafiq. Together, the two of them could take him down without incident.
That was until he had suddenly left the building.
The man had been inside for less than ten minutes. As Hamza waited and then fell in a safe distance behind him, he used his Bluetooth headset to carry on a conversation with Rafiq and keep him informed of their position.
Dressed in jeans and hiking boots with a windbreaker over a denim shirt, Hamza carried a small backpack to better blend in with the student body population. It was a beneficial side effect of the 9/11 attacks that while Americans might be more suspicious of people who appeared to be Muslim, they had tied themselves in such politically correct knots that even campus police, fearing professional and personal discrimination lawsuits, would think four times before questioning someone who looked like Rafiq or Hamza. As a result, the two Saudi hit men had been able to roam the UVA campus with impunity.
Now, their problem was how to apprehend their target. Snatching someone off a crowded public street in Riyadh or Medina was extremely complicated. In America, it was all but impossible. The target would either have to be coerced into their vehicle or forced into an isolated area where he could be taken out.
Hamza was weighing the possibility of getting in close enough to use his knife when the subject suddenly turned.
CHAPTER 59
After doubling back, twice, Harvath began to believe he had imagined the whole thing. Nobody was on his tail.
When he was within half a block of his SUV, Harvath checked his six one more time, and decided to go for it.
With one hand on his remote key fob and the other gripped around the butt of his HK inside his bag, Harvath quickly closed the distance to his black Chevy Trailblazer.
After checking the street for suspicious vehicles, he scanned the sidewalks in all directions and then approached his SUV. He checked the cars parked both in front of and behind his. Then, pretending like he was going to cross the street, he stopped short, popped the lock on his truck, opened the door and hopped in.
As fast as he could, Harvath slid the key into the ignition and fired up the engine. His eyes flicked back and forth from the mirrors to the sidewalks on both sides of him. There was a white minivan coming from the end of the block behind him and he kept his eyes glued to it as he backed up his SUV in anticipation of vacating his parking spot.
Behind the minivan was a blue Nissan, several car lengths back, which must have discovered someone else leaving their spot as the driver had come to a stop and had applied his right turn signal indicating his intent.
Harvath waited for the minivan to pass him and then he turned his front wheels out toward the street and began to exit the space.
No sooner had he done so than the blue Nissan slammed into the side of his SUV, thrusting its nose back into the space and pinning his door shut. Running up hard on his passenger side was a short, dark-skinned man in a windbreaker and blue jeans. As he ran, one of his hands disappeared beneath his jacket.
Harvath got his head down just as a storm of bullets raked his Trailblazer.
The shots were being fired one at a time, probably by the driver of the Nissan and probably via a semiautomatic pistol of some sort. These guys apparently hadn’t come loaded for bear. They were going to regret that.
Harvath reached behind his seat, flipped up the lid on his Storm case and snatched his modified LaRue M4.
By the time he was back, the guy in the windbreaker already had his weapon out and was firing rounds through his windshield. Harvath leveled his sights and returned fire.
With the suppressor affixed, the weapon was amazingly quiet in comparison with the weapons his attackers were using.
Harvath’s rounds found their mark and he put two tight groups into the chest and head of the man in the windbreaker. He then swung the weapon to his left.
Jabbing the M4 through his broken window, Harvath ignored the rounds coming at him from the Nissan and depressed his trigger. When he hit the final round, he dropped his spent magazine and reloaded with a spare from the reserve carrier in record time.
After whipping his head around in search of any additional threats, Harvath fired fifteen more rounds into his attackers’ vehicle and then exited the passenger side of his SUV.
As he crept to the back of his Trailblazer, his head was on a swivel.
His weapon was up and in the firing position as he slipped out from behind his vehicle and approached the blue Nissan. All around him, UVA students were screaming and running for cover.
When he drew even with the driver’s side window he saw that the driver had sustained multiple shots to his head and torso and was definitely dead.
In the distance, Harvath could hear the staccato cry of approaching police cars. He opened the Nissan’s door and pulled the driver’s corpse out onto the street. He patted him down, but didn’t find any identification. He assumed it would probably be the same for his partner lying dead on the sidewalk.
Harvath swung his head around once again and this time caught some imbecile with a camera phone actually trying to take his picture. Without even thinking, he raised his weapon and pointed it at him. “Drop it,” he ordered.
The terrified student did as he was told.
“Now get lost,” ordered Harvath.
As he watched the idiot take off, he walked over and retrieved the phone. The sound of police cars was getting closer. Harvath didn’t have much time.
Hopping in the still idling Nissan, he threw it in reverse and backed up enough to be able to get his SUV out. Then, careful not to leave any prints, he did a quick sweep of the car for anything that might tell him who these guys were or who they worked for-visors, center console, glove box; all of it was empty.
After retrieving the man’s weapon, Harvath jumped out and used the camera phone he had confiscated to take two quick pictures of the driver and then one of the license plates.
He repeated the process with the corpse in the windbreaker, who as he had suspected wasn’t carrying ID either, and then pitched the men’s guns into the back of his Trailblazer.
Using two ratty towels he kept in back, he quickly wrapped them around his front and rear license plates and hopped into his SUV.
Screaming out of the parking space, he put as much distance between himself and the University of Virginia as fast as he could.
