SEAL Team Six Hunt the Falcon(20)

Within minutes the SEALs had packed their bags into the back of two Lexus SUVs and were racing down a modern, eight-lane expressway. Crocker sat in the passenger seat next to Anderson, who was driving 160 kilometers an hour, or approximately one hundred miles per hour.

“No speed limit?” Crocker asked.

“None that’s enforced,” Anderson replied with a grin that made his smashed-in nose stand out. “The freeways are F1 speed all the way.”

As he drove, he explained that Lieutenant Colonel Petsut of the RTP was a proud man who generally frowned on letting foreigners operate on his turf but was making an exception in this case because of the severity of what had happened, the international implications, and the deaths of American diplomats.

“But he’s only going to give you a small window to work in,” Emile Anderson said. “So you’ve got to respect boundaries.”

“In other words, you don’t want me to argue with him.”

“Like my daughter was taught in kindergarten: you get what you get, and you don’t complain.”

Crocker didn’t say that once the SEALs launched the op there would be no stopping them. And he understood that the cooperation of local authorities was an enormous asset.

The hotel was a modern six-story joint a few blocks from the Chao Phraya River and close to the busy night scene centered around Khao San Road. Anderson explained that many of the city’s attractions stood within walking distance—the National Museum, Grand Palace, Temple of the Emerald Buddha, and another spectacular gold-spired Buddhist temple called Wat Saket.

Mancini asked Anderson about Wat Phai Rong Wua, which he said was described as the “most bizarre tourist attraction on the planet” by a travel magazine he had read on the plane.

“If you’re into graphic scenes of people being tortured by demons and monsters with blood and entrails hanging out, you’ll love it,” Anderson answered.

“Manny loves entrails of all kinds,” Ritchie joked. “In fact, he was just telling me he wanted pig entrails for dinner.”

“I know a great little place where they serve them raw, grilled, or sautéed,” Anderson said, playing along as they passed through a cool caramel marble lobby decorated with tropical flowers.

Anderson left them there and said he’d be back to pick them up at seven.

“Cal, you still with us?” Ritchie asked as they rode the elevator up to the fourth floor.

“Yeah. Why?” Cal, their weapons expert and sniper, had a Polynesian face that seemed creased in a perpetual smile. He was an enigma to most men on the team because he rarely said anything and kept to himself. Crocker knew him to be laser focused and extremely dependable during missions, which is all he cared about.

“You haven’t said a freakin’ word since we left D.C.,” Ritchie said.

“That’s because he’s been sitting next to you, and he hates your guts,” Akil said.

Cal: “Not true.”

Electronic Asian music played over the elevator PA. “Sounds like a group of castrated gerbils,” Akil commented.

“It actually fits into a genre called K-pop,” Mancini said.

“What the fuck is that?” Ritchie asked.

“Electro pop-style music that originated in South Korea. Its best-known song is ‘Gangnam Style,’ by Psy. You’re familiar with that, right?”

“Of course.”

“Is there anything you don’t know?” Akil asked. “What do you do, stay up nights and just study random shit?”

Mancini ignored him.

Ritchie slapped Cal on the shoulder as they exited the elevator and started down the beige carpeted hallway. “So. What’s new?”

“Actually, I’ve been reading an interesting book.”

“Tell me about it.”

Cal reached into his backpack and pulled out a thick paperback entitled The Creature from Jekyll Island.

Ritchie looked at the cover and handed it back. “Who’s the creature?”

“The creature is the Federal Reserve System. According to this, the whole thing is a scam cooked up and run by some big banks. The system isn’t federal, and there aren’t any reserves.”

“Sounds like a real page-turner,” Ritchie said with a smirk.

The room they entered was spacious and clean, with two king-sized beds, a TV mounted on the wall, and a bathroom that stank of lime-scented disinfectant and mold, Mancini quickly pointed out, being the fussiest member of the group. His wife, Teresa, described him as Martha Stewart in an alligator-wrestler’s body.

“Two men to a room,” Crocker announced. “Akil and I will take this one.”

“How come you two always room together?” Ritchie asked. “Kind of makes me wonder.”