Rising Tiger: A Thriller (9)

“There are four screws on the faceplate. Take them out and then you can pop it off.”

Harvath slid a Leatherman multitool from its sheath, found the Phillips head bit, and began to remove the screws.

He was on the last one when its head stripped. “Damn it,” he cursed under his breath.

Switching to the multitool’s blade, he tried to pry the steel faceplate the rest of the way off, but could get it to move only so much.

He tried not to think about the approaching vehicles. They sounded like they were almost on top of him.

Flipping open the needlenose pliers, he grabbed the corner of the plate and began wrenching it away from its base. Finally, he heard a snap, the faceplate came free, and he could see inside the unit.

“Faceplate’s off,” he said over the radio.

“Based on the spec sheet,” offered Nicholas, “that lock runs on four double-A batteries. The first thing you should do is power-cycle the lock and—”

Harvath had already tuned him out. Reaching in, he stripped all four batteries and tossed them aside.

Everything from his night vision to his optics ran on double-As, and he always carried spares. Pulling four of them out of a waterproof holder, he slid them into the unit and tried the combination again. Bingo.

Closing the tile that hid the keypad, he pushed his way through the gate and entered the rubble-strewn courtyard. “I’m in,” he said.

“Good copy,” Nicholas replied. “Stay dark. Those vehicles are almost to you.”

“Roger that,” said Harvath. Flipping his night-vision goggles down, he headed for the door of the main structure.

The keypad was easy to find and, unlike the one at the gate, had power. As soon as he entered the combination, the lock released; he swung back the thick metal door and slipped inside.

His first priority was to clear the structure and make sure it was secure. As he moved from room to room, his weapon up and at the ready, he could see that the CIA guys had left in a hurry. Some clothing still hung in the closets, there were toothbrushes in the bathroom, and a stack of dishes sat in the kitchen sink.

The stench wafting from the garbage can was like something out of a crime scene. There could have been a million dollars hiding in there and Harvath wouldn’t have dared lift the lid—not without some level 4 hot-zone respirator on.

While it would have been the perfect place to hide something valuable, nothing inside the safe house suggested anyone was doing that kind of thinking. Up on the roof, two charred-out burn barrels and a pair of empty jerry cans served only to put an exclamation point on how fast the previous occupants had bugged out.

Risking a glance over the parapet, he looked down onto the street. Several buildings over, he could see the SUV, as well as the two pickups, both of which appeared to be mounted with a .50-caliber machine gun.

And as if that wasn’t bad enough, the vehicles’ heavily armed occupants had dismounted and were going house to house. He doubted they were door-knocking to register voters for the next Taliban election. They were looking for someone, and that someone was him. He was sure of it.

Having a fortified position and holding the high ground were two items very much in his favor. The walls of the compound were high enough that he wasn’t worried about them being scaled—not without a ladder or getting one of the vehicles close enough that his opponents could scramble up and over. The weak point of his position, however, was the gate.

If they had chains and could get a man close enough to attach them, they could tear it out. Or they could simply use the truck-mounted .50-cals as can openers and hammer the gate until it dropped.

This was starting to look a little like the Alamo. With his limited ammo, he was going to be able to keep them at bay only so long. He needed to come up with a plan. Quickly.

Retreating inside the building, he returned to the first floor and started tearing through everything.

While the Agency team had left a lot of personal items behind, the one thing they hadn’t left was anything professional—specifically weapons. He would have given a year’s salary at this moment for a single RPG, or some more frag grenades.

Near the front door, he noticed something that had briefly caught his eye on the way in. It had looked like a small fuse box of some sort, but seeing it again, he realized that it was actually a key box.

Opening it up, he saw there were six pegs. Two had keys. One of them had a handwritten label hanging from a piece of wire that read “shed.” The other key had a black plastic head and was instantly recognizable. He grabbed them both and headed outside.

The shed was a small, concrete utility building on the other side of the courtyard. Keeping one eye on the gate, he unlocked the padlock on the shed door and opened it up.

It was filled with junk—buckets, hoses, mops, brooms—nothing useful. Except, over in the corner, something had been hidden under a plastic tarp. He moved to it and pulled it back. Underneath was a dirt bike—a red-and-white Honda XR.

He checked the wheels, the tires, and then the chassis—all of which seemed to be in decent shape.

There was no fuel gauge, so, straddling the motorcycle, he rocked it from side to side and listened. It didn’t sound good.

Opening the gas cap, he turned his flashlight on low and peered inside. The tank wasn’t very large to begin with, probably less than three gallons, but even half a tank of fuel would have made him feel better. By the looks of it, there was less than a quarter.