Banners and tent flaps blew in the wind. There was a makeshift bar called 7 Deadly Gins, something called Camp Woo Woo, another place called No Bikini Atoll, and an enclave named Toxic Disco Clam. Just beyond was the blue RV.
“I see it now,” said Harvath, tossing the water bottle.
“Hey!” a woman behind him complained, but he ignored her and kept moving. He had come too far to let Hamza Rahim escape.
Through the dust, the evening air was redolent with the smoke from bonfires and burn barrels. Music thumped from every direction. Hidden out of sight, diesel generators rumbled their low growls, powering turntables, sound systems, and massive light shows. Dancers on the playa spun flaming orbs on long chains. Rolling art exhibits, brightly lit from end to end, spat fire into the night sky.
He did a slow loop around the camp that contained the blue RV. Everyone seemed to be congregated in a large tent, content to party and wait out the dust storm happening outside.
After a group of bicycles covered in synchronized LED lights passed, Harvath approached the RV.
It was dark inside. He tried to peer through several windows, but the blinds were drawn. A sunshade covered the windshield.
Pressing his ear against the door, he listened. Nothing. If there was anyone inside, they were being very quiet.
He tried to open the door, but it was locked.
Removing a set of picks, he looked over his shoulder to make sure no one was watching. No one was. Within seconds he had the door unlocked, had affixed the suppressor to his Sig Sauer pistol, and had slipped inside.
Even through his keffiyeh, the RV smelled terrible—like stale cigarettes and a toilet that didn’t flush well. After he peeled off his goggles, it took a second for his eyes to adjust.
Plates of half-eaten food sat on the table. Dishes were stacked in the sink. A white plastic trash bag, overflowing with garbage, was tied to one of the drawer handles. The upholstery was torn, the carpeting was stained, and there was playa dust covering everything. Hamza Rahim lived like an animal.
Noticing something on the floor, Harvath bent over and picked it up. Pieces of electrical wire. His heart rate went up.
As far as anyone at the CIA knew, Rahim had been sent to Burning Man for preattack surveillance. His job was to gather intelligence and feed it back up the chain. Harvath’s assignment was to snatch Rahim and break his network by any means necessary. The wires, though, suggested the CIA’s intelligence might have been dangerously off target. Raising his pistol, Harvath crept toward the rear of the vehicle.
The first thing he checked was a small closet. It was filled with junk. Across from it was a set of bunk beds—both of which had been slept in. Bad sign. Rahim was supposed to be alone.
Beyond the bunk beds was the master area. That bed had also been slept in.
There was only one place left to search: the bathroom.
The door to it was shut. Taking up a position to the side, Harvath slowly tried the knob. Locked.
He listened for any sound, but all he could hear was the thump of the dance music pulsing outside.
Stepping in front of the door, he raised his boot and kicked straight through the knob, shattering the lockset and leaving a hole where it used to be.
As the hinges were on the outside, the door was meant to swing away from the bathroom into the RV.
Harvath took one hand off his pistol and reached for the door. That was when it exploded.
CHAPTER 2
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* * *
A Middle Eastern–looking man inside the bathroom kicked the door open and threw the contents of a large plastic cup where he thought Harvath would be standing.
The highly corrosive cocktail of drain cleaner and household bleach missed Harvath and splattered across the wall and window blinds to his left.
Harvath answered the attack by slamming his pistol into the bridge of the man’s nose.
Immediately, his adversary’s knees went weak and began to buckle. Harvath swept in behind him, wrapped his left arm around his throat, and demanded, “Where’s Hamza Rahim?”
The man, who must have seen Harvath peeking in the RV’s windows or heard him as he came in, struggled.
Harvath struck him again, this time in the side of the head. “Where is he? Where’s Rahim?”
The attacker continued to resist, so Harvath pointed his pistol at his left foot and pressed the trigger.
The resulting scream was so loud, Harvath had to cover his mouth for fear the man’s cries might draw attention. “Tell me where Rahim is or I’ll shoot the other one.”
The man clawed at Harvath. As he did, Harvath noticed that he was missing two fingers on his left hand. Harvath’s worst fears were confirmed. This guy was a bomb maker.
Harvath now had even more questions, but his eyes, nose, and throat were burning from the poisonous cloud of gas the man had created with his bathroom bleach bomb. They needed to get the hell out of the RV.
With his left arm still wrapped tightly around the man’s throat, Harvath jabbed the pistol suppressor into his back and pushed him toward the front of the RV. They had only made it halfway when someone appeared at the door.
The figure was dressed in what looked like a monk’s robe with a featureless mask made of chrome. The figure also had a weapon, and before Harvath could react, he began to fire.
Harvath used the bomb maker as a shield until he had to drop his lifeless body and dive for cover. Rounds from the attacker in the chrome mask continued to chew up the vehicle.
Harvath wanted to return fire, but he couldn’t see because of the toxic cloud. He couldn’t even breathe.
Shooting out one of the rear windows, he raked the broken glass with his weapon and leapt out, landing hard on the ground.
His instincts told him to roll under the motor home for concealment, but he knew chlorine gas was heavier than air. If any of the fumes were leaking out, they would pool beneath the vehicle. He needed to move away from the RV, fast.
Spraying the front of the motor home with suppressed rounds from his Sig Sauer, he scrambled behind a nearby pickup, hoping the dust storm would help hide his movement.
At the truck, he pulled his goggles back up around his eyes, tightened his keffiyeh, and tried to catch his breath. His lungs were burning. How much was playa dust and exertion versus how much was chlorine gas, he had no idea. All he knew was that his chest hurt like hell.
“Rahim’s not alone,” Harvath coughed over his radio. “There was someone else in the trailer.”
“Who?” the voice replied.
“A bomb maker. They’re not here to scout. They’re here to attack.”
“Jesus. Did you get them?”
“The bomb maker’s dead,” Harvath said, “but Rahim’s on the run. Dressed in a brown robe with a chrome faceplate. Get the drone up.”
“It won’t survive the storm.”
“I don’t care. Get it up. Now.”
“Roger that,” the voice responded.
Inserting a fresh magazine into his weapon, Harvath issued a final command before rolling out from behind the truck. “Tell the extraction team to split up. We have to find Rahim.”
“And when we do?”
“Take him out.”