Black List by Brad Thor Read Free Book Online Page B

and wondered who would be behind the wheel. He didn’t have to wonder long.
    When the black Peugeot pulled up alongside them, Harvath saw the two Basque separatist operatives he had crossed paths with over the summer. They were both beefy men with thick necks. One had a sloping forehead and eyebrows as thick as Brillo pads. The other had a thin scar running down his right cheek.
    Last summer, the men had been sent to make sure Harvath made it safely to a meeting deep in ETA territory. They weren’t supposed to be seen, but Harvath had picked up on them fifteen kilometers after leaving Bilbao. At a rest stop along the Autopista, he ambushed them and forced them to drive to a remote country road. After hog-tying the men, he dropped them in the trunk of the Peugeot and drove on to his meeting.
    When they were cut loose and let out of the trunk in a tiny village called Ezkutatu, that was the last Harvath saw of them. Judging by the looks on their faces, they weren’t happy to see him again. He couldn’t care less. They were his ticket to where he needed to go.
    Fishing the car keys out of his pocket, he tossed them to the tobacconist and walked over to the Peugeot. “Do I sit in back,” he asked Scarface, signaling with his hand, “or in the trunk?”
    Neither of the men spoke English, but they understood when they were being insulted. They had little choice but to take it, since they had been told to go get Harvath and bring him back.
    Eyebrows, who was driving, stared out the window and grunted in response. Harvath took that to mean that it was up to him and slid into the backseat, placing his pack next to him.
    Closing the door, he leaned back and said, “Ready whenever you are, ladies.”
    ∗ ∗ ∗
    The drive up and into the mountains was longer than he remembered. It was also quite beautiful. It reminded him of Switzerland. The only difference was stone buildings with red-tiled rooftops that took the place of chalets.
    They passed oxen pulling wooden carts and meadows filled with sheep. Every once in a while, Harvath caught a glimpse of the stout, wild Pyrenean horses.
    After winding their way through several towns and villages, they finally drove through Ezkutatu. Harvath remembered the squat buildings and the tall church steeple, all untouched by time. No sooner had they entered the village than they had already left it behind.
    What followed next was a drive Harvath had only done once and in pitch-black night. He would have been hard pressed to do it again without some sort of guidance.
    The road rose and fell, bent and switched back as it climbed higher into the mountains. Harvath could feel the pressure changing in his ears.
    They drove farther still until they came upon a small gravel road bordered by high rock walls. Had Harvath been driving and blinked, he would have missed it.
    They turned onto the road and about three hundred yards later came to a gate. Beyond it was a pasture filled with livestock being watched over by several Basque shepherd dogs. As the car came to a stop, two of the dogs ran toward the fence and began barking.
    Two large men stepped from behind a formation of tall rocks and approached the car. Each was carrying what the Italians referred to as a lupara. Harvath was not familiar with the Basque word for the traditional, double-barreled shotgun that had been sawed off, with a rounded, pistol-style grip of checkered wood. The shortened barrels made it easier to conceal the weapon and also made it easier to handle in the woods and other close-quarters situations. Without any chokes in the cut-down barrels, the shotgun dispersed a wide pattern of shot that was particularly devastating at closer range.
    One of the guards chatted with Eyebrows and Scarface, while the other silenced the dogs and swung the gate open wide enough for the vehicle to drive through. As the Peugeot rolled forward, Harvath saw the wooden guardhouse with its propane heater and additional manpower, all of them