Page 11 of Rising Tiger

“Tell him to come back.”

“We have. He’s holding just off the property, not far from the main terminal. But we’ve got another problem.”

“Naturally,” said Harvath as he swerved around a pile of garbage someone was burning in the street. “What’s the rest of the good news?”

“The team tried to push back the departure to buy you extra time. They were denied. As the last flight out, they’re either wheels up as scheduled, or they’ll be forced to deplane, remain overnight, and depart in the morning.”

That was definitelynotgood news. In fact, it was absolutely untenable. If Topaz and his family were discovered trying to escape, they, along with Harvath’s entire team, would be shot well before morning. That plane had to take off. On time. Tonight.

“Wheels up as planned,” Harvath ordered, swerving the motorcycle again for another obstacle. “With or without me. Is that clear?”

“Good copy,” Nicholas responded.

Another barrage of bullets ripped through the air overhead and chewed up the road around him. The sound from the heavy .50-caliber machine guns was so loud that even at this distance, it was earsplitting.

Any moment, one of the Taliban gunners was going to make the right adjustment and drive one of those massive rounds through either himor the bike. Either would end up being game over for him. He needed to leave these guys behind once and for all—and he needed to do it before he ran out of gas.

At the next intersection, he leaned away from the bike and skidded into the hardest left turn he had ever made.

For a moment, it felt like the motorcycle was going to be ripped right out from underneath him. Then he felt the tires bite into the dirt and, almost as if by magic, the bike defied gravity and began to right itself.

He flew down the road, weaving from side to side, making himself as difficult a target as possible.

At the next intersection, he made an impossibly hard right, his knee grazing the road. It should have hurt like hell, but he was too amped up to notice.

When the next intersection appeared, he pulled another dangerous, hard left turn and opened up the throttle as far as it would go.

He barely registered the houses and storefronts as they whipped by on either side of the street.

He blew through the next intersection without slowing down and then another. It was only after he passed the third that he eased off the throttle.

It had been a few minutes since he had heard gunfire. Risking a look back, he glanced over his shoulder. No one was in sight. He had lost them.

Nevertheless, he was still in hostile territory, behind enemy lines. If he didn’t make it to the airport in time to evac with the rest of the team, he was in for a lot more trouble.

CHAPTER 8

Pulling another right turn, Harvath instructed Nicholas to plot him a route. His destination, however, had changed. He wasn’t going to the airport, at least not directly.

Instead, he wanted Dalton to meet him at an infamous gas station nearby.

Known by the codename “Oxygen,” it had been a rally point manned by Afghanistan’s elite “02” paramilitary unit in the final days of the U.S. occupation.

It sat on a quiet piece of road, on the north side of Kabul International, not far from where the Central Intelligence Agency had opened a secret passage through the barrier fencing called “Glory Gate.”

While the Taliban controlled the main commercial entrance to the airport, Glory Gate was how the CIA had evacuated high-value intelligence assets and embassy personnel. The gas station was where everyone had been processed and gathered up. Its existence had remained a secret all along. The Taliban never had a clue.

If Harvath could make it there, he might have a chance of making it the rest of the way onto the airfield. There was just one thing he needed from Dalton—twoif you also included fuel.

Nicholas had routed him via back roads, helping avoid any checkpoints. When he arrived at Oxygen, he coasted in on fumes.

The gas station looked like it had been abandoned for years. Inexchange for allowing them to use it, the owner had convinced the CIA to take him with them when they left.

Almost anywhere else, someone would have tried to step in and restart the business. Not here. What little fuel that did make it into the country was quickly commandeered by the Taliban. No matter how great the demand, without a somewhat predictable supply of product, running any business was next to impossible.

The place looked well picked over. Harvath doubted there was a single can of gas just lying around. What’s more, he didn’t have a moment to spare to search for it.

Leaning against a brown Toyota sedan, waiting for him, was Dalton. He had a thick, gray beard, gnarled hands, and a weather-beaten face.

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