CHAPTER 1
* * *
SØR-TRØNDELAG, NORWAY
WEDNESDAY
The limbs of the tall pines hung heavy with ice. When they snapped, they gave off cracks that echoed through the forest like gunfire.
With each one, the small counterterrorism team from Norway’s Police Security Service, known as the PST, halted its advance and froze in place.
Seconds—sometimes even entire minutes—passed before they felt comfortable enough to begin moving again.
No one had expected the storm to be this bad. Ice covered everything and made the sloped ground almost impossible to walk on.
Several of the team members had wanted to wait. Their leader, though, had ordered them forward. The assault had to take place tonight.
Backing them up was a contingent of Norwegian Forsvarets Spesialkommandos, or FSK for short. Their commander wasn’t crazy about hitting a target under these conditions either, but he had reviewed the intelligence and had come to the same conclusion.
The two outsiders, sent up from North Atlantic Treaty Organization headquarters at the last minute and forced onto the team by the Norwegian government, didn’t get a vote. Though the American looked as if he could handle himself, and probably had on multiple occasions, they knew nothing about his background or the woman he was with. Therefore, the pair from NATO HQ also didn’t get any weapons. None of the Norwegians wanted to get shot in the back.
Encrypted radios, outfitted with bone conduction headsets, kept them connected to each other and to the PST operations center. They wore the latest panoramic night-vision goggles and carried a range of firearms from H&K 416s and MP5s to next generation Glock 17s and USP Tactical pistols. Theirs was one of the best-equipped, best-trained teams the country had ever fielded for a domestic counterterrorism operation.
Their target was a weathered cabin in a remote, heavily wooded area. It had a long, grass-covered roof pierced by a dented black stovepipe. A season’s worth of firewood had been chopped and stacked outside.
Even if the weather hadn’t gone bad, conventional unmanned aerial vehicle surveillance was worthless. The density of the trees, combined with the shrieking, bitterly cold winds, also meant that the Nano drone the FSK carried was impossible to fly. They had been left with no other option than to go in “blind.”
As the teams slowly picked their way through the forest, sheets of snow and ice blew at them like shards of broken glass.
The last five hundred meters were the worst. The cabin was built in a wide ravine. Maneuvering down, several team members lost their footing—some more than once.
Because of the trees, the FSK’s snipers couldn’t find anywhere to set up. There were no clean lines of fire, and they were forced to move closer to the cabin than they would have liked. The operation was feeling more and more like a mistake.
Ignoring the trepidation sweeping through the ranks, the PST leader pushed on.
Three hundred meters from the cabin, they could make out light from behind the shuttered windows.
Two hundred meters away, they could smell the wood smoke pouring from the stovepipe.
With one hundred meters left to go, the signal was given to halt. No one moved.
Something was wrong. Everyone felt it. Heart rates increased. Grips tightened on weapons.
And then, all hell broke loose.
CHAPTER 2
* * *
There was a chain of explosions, followed by waves of jagged steel shrapnel that tore through the flesh of the approaching counterterrorism operators.
As the antipersonnel devices, hidden waist-high in the trees, began to detonate, Scot Harvath knocked his colleague to the ground and threw himself on top of her.
“I can’t breathe!”
“Stay down,” he ordered.
Being stuck at the rear of the column had given them an edge, but just barely. Harvath’s quick reaction had saved both their lives.
Other members of the team hadn’t been so lucky. Blood and body parts were everywhere.
When the explosions stopped, those who could scrambled for cover, dragging their injured teammates behind them. Any dead were left where they lay.
As a former U.S. Navy SEAL, Harvath knew what was coming next. There wouldn’t be much time. Rolling off the woman, Harvath rapidly assessed her for injuries. “Are you hurt?”
Monika Jasinski shook her head.
Pulling out the Sig Sauer pistol he had hidden under his parka, he pointed toward a slab of rock two PST agents had taken refuge behind. “I’ll cover you,” he told her. “Go. Now.”
Jasinski looked at the gun and then at him with confusion. She had a million questions. Chief among them—Where had the weapon come from and who the hell was this guy really working for? But now wasn’t the time to ask. Getting to her feet, she ran as fast as she could.
Once she had made it to the rock and was safe, Harvath raced over and joined her.
Both of the Norwegians there were in bad shape. One of them was actively bleeding out, the icy ground around him pooling with blood.
Grabbing the tourniquet from the man’s chest rig, Harvath tossed it to Jasinski. “Apply it here,” he said, pointing to the correct spot on the agent’s severed leg.
Then, picking up the man’s rifle, he turned to the other agent and asked, “Can you fight?”
Though the man’s left arm looked as if it had been dragged at high speed down a gravel road, he nodded—the pain from his injury evident in his face.
As soon as Harvath asked the question there was an eruption of automatic weapons from the cabin.
The rounds slammed into trees and chewed up the ground around them. When they connected with the slab of rock, large pieces were chipped off and broken away.
Harvath hated gunfights. Both as a SEAL and now as a covert counterterrorism operative, he had seen way too many of them. A gunfight meant you had lost the element of surprise. He hated them even more when there were injured men on his side and the bad guys were holed up in a fortified position.
Quickly returning the Sig beneath his parka, he plucked out his earpiece and let it dangle over his shoulder. The radio was jammed with traffic, all of it in Norwegian and all of it only adding to the chaos.
Checking to make sure the rifle was hot, he flipped the fire selector to semiauto and peeked out from behind his cover.
The cabin was one story, with three windows along its side. The shooters appeared to know what they were doing. They had set up inside, several feet back from the windows, probably prone and atop tables or some other sort of perch. That meant they’d be very tough to take out. But it also meant that their field of fire was limited.
Focusing on the closest window, Harvath let loose with his own volley. The PST agent with the bad arm did the same.
Immediately, gunfire was returned on them, and they were forced to retreat behind the rock.
Nearby, other Norwegian operatives did the same, but it was an anemic response. There weren’t enough of them in the fight. They were pinned down.
When the rounds stopped hitting their cover, Harvath leaned out again. Before he could fire, though, he noticed that the volume of smoke coming from the stovepipe had increased. They were burning more than just logs. Now, they were likely burning evidence. Targeting the same window, he opened up with another barrage of fire.
Emptying his magazine, he leaned back behind the rock and motioned for Monika to toss him a fresh one from the chest rig of the PST agent she was tending.