Takedown by Brad Thor Page B

entire avenues were taken over by throngs of people still pouring out of lower Manhattan, making their way north. As part of the city’s emergency plan, the subways had been shut down and many streets were restricted to emergency vehicles only. The drivers who were still out, searching for a way off the island, faced an absolute traffic nightmare, with most of their routes blocked by people who had abandoned their vehicles and had fled on foot.
    To make matters worse, the sky was obliterated by a smoky haze, while a powdery gray ash, as if it were the cremated remains of the victims themselves, had begun falling across the city.
    Harvath, though, tried to force the macabre scene from his mind by focusing on the matter at hand. “For some reason, Stan decided to throw us a bone” was all Gary had said when Harvath called him to relay the update.
    Turning to Herrington, Harvath wondered aloud, “First Caldwell says the JTTF duty officer doesn’t know what he’s talking about, and then he sends him chasing after us with an interrogation on a silver platter. It doesn’t make sense.”
    “There’s a little too much fruit in this salad, but what do I know?” replied Herrington. “As far as I’m concerned, we shouldn’t look the gift whore in the mouth.”
    While chatting with the arresting officers, Harvath was handed the evidence bag that contained the few items the man was carrying when he was picked up. His backpack was with the bomb squad and held nothing of interest other than the explosives that failed to go off.
    Scot and Bob were shown into the brightly lit interrogation room. Cuffed to a chipped Formica table in the center was a Middle Eastern man in his early-to-mid-twenties. His face and arms were covered with cuts and bruises. Whether the injuries came from having been in the PATH tunnel when one of his colleagues’ devices went off or if he had “slipped” getting into the squad car, Harvath didn’t really care. What he wanted was information, and he hoped this bomb jockey had something that they could use.
    “Masaa al-Khair,” said Harvath as he pulled the metal chair out from the other side of the table and sat down. “Kayf Haalak?”
    The man looked up at Harvath and spit at his face.
    Why were they all spitters?
    Herrington, who had been trying to up the intimidation factor by leaning against the wall behind the prisoner, sprung forward, grabbed a handful of his hair and jerked his neck back so that he could stare into the man’s face. “My friend asked you how you were doing. It would be polite to respond.”
    “Elif air ab tizak!” groaned the Middle Easterner.
    Bob, who could also speak Arabic, was familiar with the insult involving the placement of an unfathomable number of male private parts into a certain orifice of his body and responded now with an even less tasteful insult of his own, “Elif air ab dinich.”
    The prisoner was enraged with the reference to his religion and struggled to free his head from Herrington’s grasp. “Bastard fuck you. Bastard fuck you,” he yelled over and over again.
    Harvath signaled for Bob to let go of him and step back. Upending the evidence bag, Harvath poured its contents onto the table and said, “Any more spitting and I’m going to leave you and my friend in here alone for some etiquette lessons. Understand?”
    “Lawyer. Give me lawyer,” the man replied in his broken English.
    That really pissed Harvath off—just as much as the fact that there were Americans who would fight to the death to see that this piece of shit got a fair and just trial. Where was the justice for the thousands, if not tens of thousands, of Americans who had just been killed by this asshole and his pals? “You don’t get anything unless you cooperate. No lawyer, no judge, nothing until you give us some answers. Let’s start with your name.”
    “I no hear you. I talk lawyer.”
    Harvath signaled Herrington, who came off the wall and slammed the man’s head