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To Vince—thank you for Mitch Rapp. I hope this book makes you proud.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
WHILE this book draws upon some of the actual elements surrounding the raid to capture or kill Osama bin Laden, it is still a work of fiction. As such, I took certain artistic liberties with timelines and events. My meddling aside, this part remains true—on May 2, 2011, twenty-three Navy SEALs brought justice to the man responsible for the worst terrorist attacks on US soil in our nation’s history.
As a grateful American, I wish to say this to the countless men and women who made Operation Neptune Spear possible:
Thank you.
PROLOGUE
APRIL 17, 2011
ISFAHAN, IRAN
THE demonstration was a bit dramatic for Azad Ashani’s taste.
Then again, he was surrounded by dramatic people.
In a setting that was markedly at odds with the confidence displayed by the Quds Force operatives in charge of the demonstration, Ashani stood at the edge of a granite cliff overlooking a sprawling valley. The night was gentle in comparison to the day’s brutal heat, and even though it hadn’t rained in weeks, Ashani thought he could taste a hint of moisture in the air.
Or perhaps that was just wishful thinking.
In Ashani’s opinion, this entire gathering was held together by naivete, misplaced hope, and blind vengeance.
A cough racked his thin frame.
Turning, he spat a wad of phlegm onto the rocky soil. Though the demonstration’s fiery culmination still flickered from the rocks rimming the base of the cliff, the flames were much too far away to illuminate the color of his saliva.
No matter.
Ashani knew its hue all the same.
Red.
It was always red.
Withdrawing a red handkerchief from his pocket, Ashani ran the soft fabric over his cracked lips. He’d done an admirable job of hiding his symptoms thus far, but those days were quickly coming to an end. Ashani might be a master spy, but he was no magician. Sooner or later, he would experience a coughing fit in the wrong company, or the doctor he’d sworn to secrecy would whisper in the wrong ears, or the cocktail of medications masking his symptoms would cease to be effective. One way or another, the disease devouring his innards would make its presence known.
He was standing at the edge of a precipice in more ways than one.
“What is this madness?”
The question, though whispered, was not one that he could afford to ignore.
Ashani was in his late fifties, with a slim build and average stature. Though not physically imposing, he still inspired fear. As head of his nation’s Ministry of Intelligence, or MOIS, Ashani led an organization with a bloody history. Conversation ceased at Ashani’s appearance. Those who saw him on the street often crossed to the other side of the road.
But a man in his position had enemies.
Ashani had begun his career as a paramilitary officer, and he was a veteran of the Iran-Iraq War. He no longer had an operator’s muscled build, but there was a hardness to him. A sharp edge that even age and the ravages of his illness couldn’t entirely dull. For the most part, his adversaries were external to the organization he led.
For the most part.
But a knife thrust wasn’t any less deadly just because it came from a trusted lieutenant rather than a barbarian at the gates.
“I think the choice of venue is… inspired,” Ashani said.
His questioner snorted.
Ashani had served in the MOIS his entire life, rising to the rank of “minister” half a dozen years ago. Even so, the man standing next to Ashani was a mystery. True power in the Islamic Republic of Iran rested not with the nation’s president or any of the popularly elected officials who exercised pseudo governing authority in the parliament. These offices were just for show. A mechanism to convince the populace that they actually had a degree of say in the manner in which their nation was run.
They did not.
True power resided in just one body—the Guardian Council.
This conclave of twelve men consisted of six Shia clerics and six lawyers. The Supreme Leader, a cleric named Ali Hoseini-Nassiri, reigned over the council. This arrangement meant that the Islamic Republic of Iran was governed according to the whims of an eighty-year-old Shia imam. An elderly theocrat whose last remaining earthly wish was to witness the apocalyptic battle that would bring about the return of the fabled Twelfth Imam. Ashani did not think that the combination of a dictator fixated on leaving a legacy of blood and ashes and a cadre of sycophants singularly focused on providing him with the means to do so was a harbinger of good fortune for the nation he loved.
