Free State of the Union by Brad Thor Page A

assailant, though, was faster. The man lashed out with a sweeping kick that took Harvath’s legs right out from under him. He hit the floor hard, with his head crashing into the wall, which sent his night vision goggles flying. The pistol, though, was still grasped tightly in his hand.
    The only thing he was seeing were stars and all he could do was point his sidearm in the direction he believed his attacker to be. As he did, there was the quick schlink of what sounded like two pipes being fitted together, followed immediately by the sound of something slicing through the air. It was only as his assailant’s telescoping baton hit Harvath’s pistol and knocked it from his hand, that he fully realized what the noises had been.
    Harvath pulled his new Benchmade Auto AXIS knife from his pocket and depressed the button, which swung the blade up and locked it into place, but it was knocked from his hand as well. As an added measure, his attacker delivered a searing blow to the upper thigh of his right leg with the tactical baton.
    The man was good—too good, especially to be part of an FBI surveillance team, and as Harvath’s vision cleared he could see that his opponent was already regaining his feet. He didn’t want to risk another spinning kick and having his legs taken out from underneath him again, so he used his feet to propel him backwards as fast as he could go along the floor into the kitchen. The minute he took off, his attacker was almost right on top of him. Harvath made it as far as the kitchen sink before the man took another swing with the baton and connected with his ribs.
    As the man raised the baton for another strike, Harvath rolled hard to his left out of the way and ripped open the nearest cabinet door. The baton missed its mark, and Harvath thrust his hand under the sink. The first thing he touched was Frank Leighton’s canister of starter fluid. Pulling the canister from the cabinet, he flicked off the lid and sprayed the fluid in his attacker’s face as the baton came down again and caught him in the shoulder.
    With a yelp of surprise, the man dropped his weapon and his hands flew to his poisoned eyes. The fumes from the fluid caused him to gasp for air.
    Harvath leapt to his feet and threw a blistering kick into the man’s abdomen. As his attacker fell to the floor, Harvath swept the countertop with his arm until he found what he was looking for.
    He ripped the cord from the coffee maker and positioned himself behind his attacker, wrapping the cord around the man’s neck. “Who the fuck are you?” he commanded as he applied pressure. The man could only gasp for breath and Harvath realized he would never get anything from him like this.
    He withdrew the cord from around the man’s neck and shoved him face forward onto the floor. Harvath used the cord to bind the man’s hands behind him and then searched him for additional weapons. He found a semiautomatic Smith & Wesson, which he tucked into his waistband, and a small Motorola radio. Apparently, this guy wasn’t working alone. He unplugged the man’s earpiece and microphone from the unit and then hoisted him up and leaned him over the edge of the sink, where he turned on the water so his captive could rinse his face under the faucet.
    While the mystery man was flushing out his eyes, nose, and mouth, Harvath kept one hand firmly on the cord binding his wrists and used his free hand to turn up the volume on the Motorola. Before Harvath could make any assessments of how dangerous it was to leave the house and who might be waiting for him outside, he had to find out who he was dealing with.
    “Bath time’s over,” said Harvath as he yanked the man’s head from beneath the faucet and spun him around to face him. “I’ll ask you again. Who are you? FBI?”
    “Fuck you,” he replied.
    “Fuck me? Fine,” answered Harvath as slammed his fist into the man’s solar plexus. He waited several moments for him to catch his breath, then withdrew