Path Of The Assassin

When they turned the corner and were only fifty feet from the entrance, a huge explosion rocked the Beckwith Realty Building and shook the ground beneath them. Harvath pulled Meg behind the safety of a parked car as broken glass rained down on top of them and an enormous fireball climbed into the black sky. It took Harvath only a moment to realize that the car they were using for cover belonged to Nick Wilson and his partner, who were supposed to be meeting them upstairs at Cassidy Public Relations.

Meg looked up and screamed. The blast had come from directly inside her corner office. Right away, Harvath knew it was no accident. And had they not gone for coffee, both of them would have been killed in the explosion.

“Oh, my God, my office! I have to get up there,” yelled Meg, her ears ringing from the blast.

Harvath grabbed her face in both of his hands and turned it toward him. His ice blue eyes bore into hers as he said, “No way. Whatever that was, it was meant for you. We’re not going up there.”

“But Judy…My staff,” was all Meg could say.

Harvath raised himself from behind the cover of the parked car where they were hiding, and looked up and down the block for any signs of people who might be injured and in need of assistance. His eyes swept past a motorcycle messenger and almost kept going, but something made him stop and look back.

That was all it took. Their eyes met and instantly, each knew who the other was. Before Harvath could draw his gun, the terrorist was firing up the motorcycle.

“Stay here and wait for the police,” Harvath said to Meg.

“Why? What’s going on?”

“Just do it!” he yelled as he ran across the street toward the half-moon driveway of the opposite office building. Underneath the canopy was a man waiting out the rain on his motorcycle.

“I need your helmet and keys, now,” said Harvath as he ran up to the man and flashed his Secret Service credentials.

“But, this is my Ducati, dude.”

Harvath pulled out his gun and said, “Your choice.”

The man handed his helmet and keys right over.

Harvath reholstered his gun, pulled the helmet on, and fastened the Velcro chin strap. In an instant, he had the bright red motorcycle throbbing to life. He revved the rpms into the red and popped the clutch, laying down a trail of rubbery fire under the canopy. When he hit the street, the bike fishtailed underneath him on the wet asphalt and threatened to tear loose, but Harvath got it back under control. Almost a full block ahead of him, he saw his target turn left onto State Street.

Rocketing down Hubbard, Harvath blew the stop sign and pulled an incredibly hard left on State that sent the bike shooting out of control through the intersection. He narrowly missed slamming into the side of a northbound green-and-white Chicago Transit Authority bus complete with a billboard encouraging young men and women to join the Army for excitement. The Army? How about the Secret Service?

Harvath chased Nidal three blocks north, where he turned and headed east. By this time, Harvath was only a half block behind and closing the distance fast. Nidal pulled out of the street traffic and raced up the sidewalk. Harvath followed right behind. Because of the wet conditions, Scot lost control several more times and thought for sure he was going down, but mercifully he got things under control at the last second. There was no doubt that this ride was taking years off his life.

When the dueling motorcycles hit Michigan Avenue, Nidal removed a Micro-Uzi from beneath his jacket. Harvath saw the weapon, but not before Nidal let loose with a rolling wall of nine-millimeter lead that tore through several cars and shop windows on both sides of him.

Harvath desperately wanted to unleash his own weapon, but as he was right-handed, to do so meant he would have to let go of the gas-something he couldn’t do at this point if he hoped to keep up with Nidal. Though he was good at shooting with his left hand, he wasn’t that good.

They continued racing east, with Harvath trying at every chance to overtake Nidal. At the next intersection, he turned south and Harvath followed right behind. They crossed the Chicago River and Nidal headed toward the lake, but then slammed on his brakes and pulled a U-turn, rocketing down onto lower Wacker Drive.

The pair were now out of the rain and on dry pavement. Harvath gunned the Ducati for everything it was worth. They darted around astounded commuters at speeds over ninety miles an hour. Even if Harvath could have removed his Secret Service issued SIG Sauer, there were too many innocent people within his field of fire.