Act of War - Brad Thor Page 0,7

protection contracts with the Department of Defense, they had developed unparalleled human networks throughout Afghanistan and Pakistan. Nobody collected better intelligence in the region than they did; not even the CIA.

Within twenty-four hours of being tasked, the Carlton Group had reached out to its networks and had assembled an impressive dossier on Yaqub. They knew exactly where he was, how long it would take him to do his banking and assorted business in Karachi, and where he’d be spending his last evening. But the Carlton Group’s expertise didn’t end there.

In addition to hiring top people from the intelligence world, Carlton also recruited the best talent from the Special Operations community. One of his greatest accomplishments had been landing Scot Harvath.

Harvath had served on SEAL Teams 2 and 6, with the Secret Service’s Presidential Protection Division, and under a prior president who had successfully used him to covertly hunt and kill terrorists. Harvath and the President had enjoyed a simple understanding—if the terrorists refused to play by any rules, Harvath wasn’t expected to either.

Carlton saw in Harvath a bottomless well of raw talent. When he hired him, he had not only honed Harvath’s exceptional counterterrorism skills, he had also taught him everything he knew about tradecraft and the world of espionage.

When he was finished, Harvath had become more than just a talented hunter and killer of men. He had become an apex predator—a creature who sat atop the food chain, feared by all others.

There was one other plus Harvath brought to the current assignment—plausible deniability. The Carlton Group was a private organization. If Operation Blackbird went sideways, there wouldn’t be a trail leading back to the White House.

In order to give the United States even greater insulation, Harvath had suggested using Kurdish Peshmergas instead of American operators for the hit. The Peshmergas had trained with U.S. Special Forces, were tough, and could be relied on no matter how bad things got.

The Peshmergas would be augmented by a couple of trustworthy Pakistanis from the Carlton Group’s network who had supported delicate, in-country covert operations in the past. Harvath and his people would not get involved unless absolutely necessary. That was the best he could offer. The U.S. had to move on Yaqub. Time was running out. It had to be now and it had to be in Karachi. The Secretary of State had reluctantly agreed.

Once they had the green light, Harvath and Carlton began planning the operation. There was layer upon layer of detail to be covered—weapons, logistics, contingencies, and personnel chief among them. The key was to get Yaqub in transit. That was when he’d be most vulnerable. Harvath knew exactly who he wanted with him on the assignment.

Chase Palmer was smart, aggressive, and very talented. By twenty-eight, he’d seen more action than many Unit operators ever would and was already looking for his next adventure. Having worked with him on a previous assignment, Harvath had been quite impressed and knew he’d be perfect for the Carlton Group. That was all it had taken.

With Chase on board, there was only one other operator he had wanted along.

With the Taliban and Al Qaeda having put a price on her head for all her kills in Afghanistan, the Army had removed Sloane Ashby from combat. They had assigned her to the Unit compound at Fort Bragg, where she had become a trainer for Delta’s all-female detachment known as the Athena Project. She was a good instructor, but she was far too young to be mothballed and she missed the action. When Carlton met her and offered her a position, she had jumped at the chance.

Noting the intersection they were approaching, Sloane said, “Khayban-e-Jami coming up.”

They had driven the routes between Yaqub’s safe house and his favorite restaurant multiple times. The team knew every intersection and had plotted multiple points where they could grab him. When they did, the Peshmergas would have to move fast. The key was incapacitating his bodyguards as quickly as possible.

Yaqub’s destination was a popular restaurant called Bar-B-Q Tonight. It was close to the Karachi Yacht Club and just across the street, ironically enough, from Benazir Bhutto Memorial Park. Whether that provided an added sick appeal for Yaqub was anyone’s guess.

“Fifteen meters to the intersection,” Sloane called out.

“Damn it,” Chase swore as the car immediately in front of them began to slow. “We’re going to lose them. The light’s changing.”

Yaqub’s two-car motorcade had already entered the intersection, trailed by the Peshmergas.

“Try to stay with them,” Harvath replied.

Chase leaned on the