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“Do we have a description?” Rapp said.
“Better. We’ve got a plate number. I’ve texted it to all our people.”
“Any intel on where al Badr is going to make its move?”
“No. But we have a few educated guesses.” He motioned Rapp over to a large satellite photo spread out on the floor. The light was just good enough to make out detail.
“The fact that it’s a truck helps us. A lot of the streets are too narrow for it to fit through, so we can rule them out.” He used a car antenna he’d found on the floor as a pointer. “We’ve got guys on roofs here, here, and here. Obviously, they’re spread out but because the buildings are packed in so tight, they’re actually pretty mobile. The concentric circles around their positions represent one minute of travel time each.”
“What about Pakistani soldiers?” Rapp said.
“Police and military are stationed on most of the larger plazas and major intersections,” Coleman responded. “All this political turmoil is causing a fair amount of civil unrest. The presence isn’t heavy, though. Just a show of force to keep people in line.”
“Do they know we’re here?”
“The army and the cops? No, and that’s the way we want it in this town. Both the general in charge and the chief of police are playing for their own accounts. We considered paying them off, but neither is reliable or competent enough to bother with. They’re just covering their asses and waiting to see whether the army or the government comes out of this on top.”
“So we can’t count on them to help us?”
“Definitely not. More likely they’re going to get in our way.”
A walkie-talkie lying on the floor suddenly crackled to life. “Spotter eight to base. Come in, base.”
Maslick snatched it up and pointed to the number 8 scrawled on the map in red. “This is base. What have you got?”
“I have eyes on the target. Heading northeast on Okara near where it changes names. Traffic is heavy. I think I can keep up on foot.”
Maslick glanced at Rapp, who gave a short nod. “Do it. And let us know if he turns off that road.”
Coleman was already going for the bikes, dragging a box of a gear out from behind them. Rapp followed while Maslick notified their chopper pilot that he needed to be warming up his bird.
The flak jackets were a nonstarter, as were the leather pants and jackets. It was just too hot and there was a good chance this could devolve into a running fight. Rapp slipped a tan-colored climbing harness over his khaki cargo pants and untucked his shirt to obscure it. A shoulder holster would be too visible so he ended up going with the setup he jogged with at home—a compact Glock 30 in a fanny pack.
Coleman was going with a larger weapon in a CamelBak and was forced to wear a full helmet to cover his blond hair and fair skin. Rapp had been threatening for years to pay one of Coleman’s contracts with a tanning bed and a shipping crate full of hair dye, but the former SEAL refused to take the hint.
“Comm check,” Rapp said, putting on a throat mike and inserting the earpiece.
“I’ve got you,” Coleman responded through the radio built into his helmet.
“Five by five,” Maslick said a moment later.
“I’m going to try to get behind them. Scott, you come down on them from the north.”
“Roger that. I’ll see you in a few minutes.”
Rapp threw a leg over the closest bike and kicked it to life. The door began to open and when it got about four feet off the ground, he ducked and twisted the throttle, shooting out into the alley.
CHAPTER 11
“THE American scout has seen the truck and is following on foot.”
Grisha Azarov didn’t acknowledge the
voice coming over his earpiece, instead continuing to pace steadily across the abandoned manufacturing plant. Twenty-three meters. He calculated how long it would take him to run that section from a standing start and then moved on to a massive industrial machine that dominated one side of the shop floor.
“I repeat. The American scout has seen the truck and is following on foot.”
Azarov activated his mike as he paced off another portion of the building. “Understood. Authorize the driver to divert.”