Full Black - Brad Thor [132]
“Just leave him in there,” said the old SEAL. “What do you need to bring him into the house for?”
“Ever heard of sudden in-custody death syndrome?”
“As in you’ve got some wiseass and you decide to throw him off a bridge?”
“If you leave a suspect duct-taped in a confined space for too long he can die,” said Harvath.
“The whole country’s going soft,” replied McBride. “We used to leave shitbags like this in trunks for days at a time. I always found it made them a lot more cooperative.”
Harvath ignored him. “I need a pole. Something that’ll support a lot of weight and won’t break. A sheet, too.”
McBride shook his head, walked into the house, and reappeared a couple of minutes later.
After making sure there was nobody who could see them from the street, they pulled Sarhan from the trunk and laid him down on the concrete apron on his stomach. They slid the pole under his duct-taped ankles and then beneath his FlexCuff’d wrists, which Harvath had reinforced with more tape. Throwing the sheet over the pole, they lifted him like a couple of Bushmen returning to their village with a fresh hog and moved him inside.
Once safely into the kitchen, Hank let go of his side of the pole. “Woops,” he said.
Harvath lowered his end, withdrew the pole, and pulled off the sheet.
“Where do you want to put him?” asked McBride.
“We can leave him right there.”
“You don’t care who he sees or what he hears?”
Normally, Harvath wouldn’t have cared, but he had no idea where Sarhan was going to end up. The less he knew about everything, the better.
“Do you have someplace we can put him?” asked Harvath.
Hank shook his head. “I should start charging rent,” he said as he motioned for Harvath to follow him.
Harvath grabbed Sarhan by the back of his shirt and dragged him across the linoleum floor and down a short hallway to McBride’s laundry cum hobby room. He knocked and the door was opened by another man, who Harvath assumed was Ralston. Sitting next to the old SEAL’s workbench was Larry Salomon. Harvath had seen his picture many times before.
On the floor, and also restrained with duct tape, was a man about Hank’s age with greasy black hair and a pug face.
“Sorry we’re late,” said Harvath as he let go of Sarhan.
“Another piñata,” replied Ralston. “Now things are getting interesting.”
“If you gentlemen want to use the kitchen to talk,” said Hank, “I’ll keep an eye on these two.”
Harvath thanked him and followed Ralston and Salomon out. As he was leaving, he reminded the old SEAL not to abuse his prisoner. Hank picked up a ball-peen hammer from the workbench and told him he wouldn’t dream of it. Shaking his head, Harvath joined the other men in the kitchen.
Ralston introduced himself and then Salomon.
“I’m a big fan,” Harvath said to the producer.
“Thank you. We appreciate your coming.”
“Why don’t you tell me what’s going on,” said Harvath as he motioned at the kitchen table for the men to sit. He saw that Hank had a pot of coffee made and helped himself. He offered to pour for the other two men, but they politely refused.
Sitting down at the table he listened as Luke laid out what had happened and Salomon filled in some of the details.
Twenty minutes and an additional cup of coffee later, Ralston finished by saying, “That’s when Hank called you and here we are.”
It was an amazing story. Harvath leaned back in his chair, processing what he had heard. “For what it’s worth, you were smart not to kill Yatsko.”
“I gave my word,” replied Ralston. “That said, I probably ruptured his eardrum, discharging the weapon so close to his head.”
“He deserves to pay,” said Salomon.
Harvath nodded in agreement. “You both did the right thing, though.” Changing gears, he asked, “What happened to the homeless guy in his trunk?”
“After I dumped Yatsko here, I drove the car back up to L.A., wiped all of my prints off it, and left it in his garage.”
“Where’s the hard drive?”
Ralston reached under the table where it had been taped, removed it, and handed it across to Harvath. He then gave him the code