by Brad Thor
Since Parker was the best shooter in their group, he got the hardest job. Leaving him at the front door, Harvath and Finney raced toward the back of the house.
The back door with its multiple deadbolts was still open, and they raced through it and into the garden. They took their places just as Palmera slid his key into the heavy iron lock of the garden door.
The key began to turn and then stopped. Harvath knew why. Palmera had expected to hear something. Undoubtedly, the dogs normally went nuts when they heard Palmera’s key in the lock.
Harvath shot Finney a look. They might be able to take Palmera and his pals in the gangway, but with the element of surprise no longer on their side, something very bad could easily happen.
Finney got the message. Reaching over to the lean-to doghouse he rattled the sheets of corrugated metal.
The two men stared at the door, their ears straining for any sound from the lock that would signal Palmera’s intent. Nothing happened. Obviously, the sound they had created was not what Palmera was looking for. Harvath changed his focus from the door to the top of the wall, certain that at any moment Palmera or one of his cronies was going to pop his head over to see what was going on.
The moment never came. Instead, Palmera provocatively rattled his key in the lock. He was toying with the dogs—trying to get them worked up. Perhaps they were even better trained than Harvath had imagined. After all, they hadn’t sprung until he was already over the fence and in the garden. This could have been a game Palmera played with them, getting them all worked up before he revealed himself as being the “perceived danger” on the other side of the door. Harvath knew plenty of people who liked to tease their dogs good-naturedly from time to time. Maybe his plan would work.
As the key turned and the heavy lock thunked open, a small smile crept across Harvath’s face. It was definitely going to work.
Palmera’s face was the first thing he saw. It was pockmarked from years of horrible acne and barely covered by a lousy excuse for a beard he had grown in reverence to his Muslim faith. His black hair was unkempt and his dark, narrow eyes told Harvath everything he needed to know about him. After Harvath was finished with Palmera, he would kill him. But first, they had a little talking to do.
When the Mexican terrorist had stepped all the way into the garden, Harvath sprang from his hiding place and let the barbed probes of his Taser rip. They tore through Palmera’s thin cotton shirt and lodged in his chest. Instantly, the electricity began flowing, and the assassin was treated to something American law enforcement officers referred to as “riding the buffalo.”
As his muscles locked up and his six-foot frame raced face first toward the ground, Tim Finney put all of his weight behind the garden door. It slammed shut with a deafening crack that sounded like a rifle shot and sent both of Palmera’s cohorts tumbling into the gangway—leaving one of them unconscious.
Before the other man realized what had happened, Finney had reopened the door and was on top of him. With one well-placed blow to the head, the man had joined his friend in the realm of the unconscious.
Parker had been charged with kneecapping the Arabs if things had turned sour, but now that they’d been both knocked cold, he jogged down the gangway and helped Finney drag their bodies into the garden.
With Palmera’s hands Flexicuffed behind his back and a piece of duct tape across his mouth, Harvath relieved him of a semiautomatic pistol, two knives, a can of pepper spray, and a Keating Stinger. This guy was a real sweetheart, and Harvath couldn’t wait to go to work on him. If he was lucky, Palmera would be difficult and require a very lengthy interrogation.
Harvath kept his knee pressed into the back of the man’s skull as Parker and Finney duct-taped and hogtied his amigos with Flexicuffs and pitched them into the corrugated lean-to to sleep it off on top of the dead dogs.
Once they were done, Harvath stood up and yanked the just-reviving Palmera to his feet. With the cold tube of his silencer pressed against the killer’s ribs, Harvath didn’t need to articulate what would happen if he did anything stupid. Palmera was a smart man and knew all too well what was in store for him.
Chapter 40
R on Parker drew the living-room curtains as Harvath tore the piece of duct tape from Palmera’s mouth and shoved him into a chair.
When the man opened his yapper to curse the three of them, Harvath kicked him in the maracas so hard it knocked the wind out of his lungs.
As Palmera lay on the floor gasping for air, Harvath yanked him up by his shirt and placed him back in his chair. “I ask questions and you answer them. That’s how this works. Any deviation from that program and I am going to get nasty. Do we understand each other?”
Palmera didn’t respond. He simply glowered at Harvath.
Removing the Taser from the holster at the small of his back, Harvath pressed the device against Palmera’s neck and pulled the trigger. Even without an additional cartridge that could be fired from a distance, up close the Taser could still be used as an effective touch-stun weapon.
Instantly, Palmera’s body locked up, and he fell forward out of the chair. When he hit the floor, his nose bore the brunt of the impact and shattered.
As Harvath helped him back into his seat, he leaned in toward his ear and said, “You know every one of those cases of people dying in America via a Taser are bullshit. Ninety-nine percent of the time they have an underlying heart condition. How’s your heart, Ronaldo?”
“Fuck you,” the man spat as he fought to fully regain his breath.
Harvath placed the Taser on the other side of his neck and said, “We can do this all night. I brought lots of extra batteries.”
Palmera began to spit in his face, so Harvath let him ride the buffalo again.
Harvath placed the man back in his chair and waited until his breathing had stabilized. “If this isn’t getting your attention, we can prepare a footbath for you and get the battery out of your truck. It’s up to you.”
Instead of English, this time Palmera cursed at him in Spanish. It was a subtle indication that they were beginning to wear him down.
Palmera’s broken nose was bleeding, so Harvath signaled for Finney to bring them a towel from the kitchen.
When Finney returned and handed him the towel, Harvath wrapped his hand with it, grabbed Palmera’s nose as hard as he could, and pulled the man toward him.
The assassin roared in pain. Harvath made sure he spoke loud enough to be heard. “What were you doing in D. C.? How’d you find my house? How’d you find my mother’s house?”
Palmera didn’t answer. He was on the verge of passing out from the pain. “Why are you targeting the people around me?” demanded Harvath. “Are you working alone or did someone send you? Answer me!”
Harvath was ready to give the scumbag another ride for five with the Taser when Finney put a hand on his shoulder. He didn’t need to say anything. The gesture was enough. They had all night if they needed to work on him. Beating him unconscious would only serve to hinder what they had come to do. They were here to get information, and if Harvath didn’t get control of his emotions, he was going to blow it.
He let go of Palmera’s broken nose and tried to push the images of what had happened to Tracy and his mother from his mind. There’d be plenty of time to take out his full anger on Palmera, but not yet.
Harvath stepped away from his prisoner and watched as the man’s chin slumped against his chest. It was a good thing Finney had stopped him when he had. Palmera’s eyes were unfocused and half-closed.
Just as Harvath was about to slap him around a bit to bring him to, Palmera began mumbling. It was faint and neither Harvath, Finney, nor Parker could understand what he was saying. He was probably just reciting verses from the Koran. They all did that when they were scared. No matter how tough Palmera thought he was, he was no match for Harvath. It was very likely that the man saw in Harvath what Harvath had seen in him—the ability and the willingness to kill.
Until Harvath kn
ew exactly what Palmera was saying, he knew he needed to treat every utterance as potentially important. Placing the Taser up against the man’s groin, Harvath sent the unmistakable message that Palmera could keep playing the tough guy, but that it would be at his own peril.
As Harvath leaned forward to try to decipher what the man was saying, there was what sounded like an enormous oak tree being split down the center by a white-hot bolt of lightning. Harvath’s vision dimmed and he stumbled backward.
Bumping into the coffee table, he lost his balance. From somewhere behind where Palmera had been sitting, Harvath heard the sound of breaking glass and Finney and Parker desperately shouting at each other.
Seconds later there came the sound of squealing tires from outside on the street. It was followed by a sickening thud, and even in his haze Harvath knew that a car had hit someone. He prayed it wasn’t Palmera.
Shaking off the stars that were clouding his vision, along with his self-contempt for being suckered into such a powerful headbutt, Harvath forced himself to his feet and struggled out the door and into the street.
Finney looked up from where Ronaldo Palmera’s mangled body lay beneath the bumper of a dented green taxi cab and shook his head.
Harvath moved toward the corpse and Ron Parker grabbed his arm. “He’s dead,” said Parker. “Let’s get out of here.”
“Not yet,” replied Harvath, as he slipped out of his friend’s grasp and walked over to Palmera.
A crowd was beginning to form, but Harvath ignored them. Bending down, he slid the digital camera from his pocket, snapped a picture, and removed the man’s disgusting boots.
Joining Finney and Parker back on the sidewalk, Harvath said, “Now we can go.”
Chapter 41
CHARLESTON, SOUTH CAROLINA
M ark Sheppard’s police contacts warned him to mind his Ps and Qs in Charleston. Since 1995 it had been consistently recognized as the “best-mannered” city in America and they didn’t take well to rude or boorish behavior. Sheppard didn’t know whether to say thank you or be insulted. Either way, he didn’t plan on being in town long enough to make an impression.
Police shootings were very rare in Charleston, and Sheppard had no problem finding what he was looking for. According to the newspaper articles he’d read, the main tactical response group on site for the John Doe police “shootout” was the Charleston County Sheriff’s Office SWAT team. The SWAT community was a relatively small one, and Sheppard was able to parlay his influence with a high-ranking Baltimore SWAT member into an introduction with SWAT chief Mac Mangan in Charleston.
Though normally a smooth operator with the media, Mangan had never cared much for reporters. As far as he was concerned, they had one goal and one goal only—to make him and other law enforcement officers look bad.
Dealing with those from his own backyard was bad enough, but having to indulge a Yankee journalist who was undoubtedly on his way down here to second-guess his team and paint them as a bunch of trigger-happy hicks did not sit well with him. If he and his wife hadn’t been such good friends with Richard and Cindy Moss up in Maryland, he never would have agreed to this meeting.
Sheppard met Mangan—a big bull of a man in his late forties—at the Wild Wing café on Market Street, where they ordered lunch.
By the time their food arrived, Sheppard felt confident that he had exchanged enough cop talk to put his subject at ease and transitioned into what he really wanted to discuss. “I assume Dick Moss told you why I’m here?”
Mangan nodded and took a bite out of his sandwich.
“What can you tell me about what happened?”
The SWAT team leader thoughtfully chewed his food and then dabbed his mouth with his napkin. “Bad guy barricades himself inside house. SWAT team goes in. Bang. Bang. No more bad guy.”
Sheppard smiled. “I get it. Charleston County is not a place that takes kindly to bad guys.”
Mangan raised his thumb and forefinger in a pantomimed pistol and shot Sheppard a wink as he dropped the hammer.
The reporter laughed good-naturedly. “The Post and Courier article went into a little more detail, but it sounds to me like they got it pretty much right.”
The SWAT team leader opened his mouth and took another large bite of his sandwich.
“I’m beginning to think that maybe I should have started asking my questions before we got our lunch.”
Once again, Mangan raised his pretend pistol and pulled the trigger as he shot Sheppard another wink.
The reporter was getting pissed off. “You know, Dick told me to be prepared for the aw shucks dipshit redneck routine, I just didn’t expect it to start so quickly.”
Mangan stopped chewing.
“Don’t let me interrupt your lunch,” Sheppard continued. “As long as I’m paying for your hillbilly happy meal, I want to make sure you enjoy every bite. By the way, what kind of kiddy toy comes with barbeque and a draft? A pack of Marlboros?”
The SWAT team leader wiped his mouth with his napkin and dropped it on his plate.
Sheppard watched him, not caring at all if the man was pissed off. He hadn’t come all the way down to South Carolina to get jerked around by Stonewall Jackson here.
Slowly, a smile began to spread across Mangan’s face. “Dick said you could be a bit touchy.”
“He did, did he?” replied Sheppard.
Mangan nodded.
“What else did he say?”
“He said that after I got done fucking around I should try to answer your questions.”
Sheppard noticed that his left hand had curled into a death grip around his Coke. With a laugh, he allowed himself to relax. “So does that mean you’re done fucking around?”
“That depends,” answered Mangan. “Are you done being sensitive?”
Typical cop ball-busting. Sheppard should have seen it coming. Cops were no different in Charleston than they were back in Baltimore. In response to the man’s question, the reporter nodded.
Mangan smiled. “Good. Now what do you want to know about the shooting?”
“Everything.”
Mangan shook his head back and forth. “Let’s just cut through all the crap.”
“Okay,” said Sheppard, playing along, “Dick said you were the first guy in the house. What did you see?”
“That’s the first thing we need to get straight,” he replied. “I wasn’t the first guy in.”
“What do you mean?”
Mangan signaled for Sheppard to turn off his mini tape recorder. When he did, the SWAT man looked over his shoulder and then, turned back to the reporter and said, “The only way I’m going to tell you anything is if you agree that it’s all off the record.”
Chapter 42
UTAH OLYMPIC PARK
PARK CITY, UTAH
P hilippe Roussard was fit and athletic, but he had never considered himself much of a sportsman. How an entire culture could be so obsessed with such a wide array of sports was beyond him. Surely, it was a luxury only a Western nation like America could afford.
Roussard sat and watched the young aerialists of the U. S. Freestyle Ski Team practice. It was a bright, cloudless day. The temperature was perfect—upper seventies and not much wind, excellent conditions in which to train.
The setting reminded him of the many villages where his family would rent chalets for their holidays. Of course, they were much more remote than this. The need for security in his family was such that the few times a year they did get together, it was always somewhere where they ran little risk of being seen, or worse, targeted.
The 389-acre Utah Olympic Park had been the site of the 2002 Olympic bobsled, luge, and ski-jumping events and was also a year-round training site for members of the U. S. Ski Team.
From his surveillance, he had learned that the aerialists were required to “water qualify” all new jumps before they’d be allowed to actually try them on the snow once the winter season arrived. Three plastic-covered ramps, or “kickers,” as they were
called, mimicked the actual ramps the skiers performed their aerial acrobatics off during the regular season. The difference here was that instead of landing at the bottom of a snow-covered hill, they landed in a pool of water.
Roussard had been anxious to see how it was done, and on his first visit to the park he had been greeted with some exceptional stunts. The aerialists, in their neoprene “shorty” wetsuits, ski boots, and helmets, would clomp up a set of stairs to the top of whatever ramp they were going to use, unsling their skis from over their shoulders, and then click into the bindings. The plastic ramps were continually sprayed down with water and the athletes skied down them exactly as they would on snow.
Racing straight down the plastic-covered hill, the skiers hit the ramp at the end and were launched into the air where their bodies conducted twists, flips, and contortions that defied gravity and sheer belief.
The surface of the splash pool was broken with roiling bubbles put in via a series of jets to help soften the skiers’ landings. Coupled with the bungee cord harnesses and trampoline jump simulators there was quite a bit of science at work here. It was a fascinating series of images that Roussard would carry with him for the rest of his life. He was thankful that he would be long gone before his plan took effect.
Sitting on the hill that overlooked the pool, the green valley below, and the snow-capped mountains beyond, Roussard closed his eyes and allowed himself to feel the sun against his face. Every day during his captivity, he’d wondered if he would ever breathe free air again. He had traveled the world and had visited few places as peaceful and serene as Park City, Utah. But that peace and serenity was about to change.
When his handler had contacted him on the disposable cell phone he’d purchased in Mexico there’d been an argument. Roussard wanted to finish his assignment. Maneuvering through this intricate list of persons in Scot Harvath’s life was not only dangerous, it was superfluous. Not that Roussard was worried about getting caught; he knew he had the advantage over everyone in this assignment as none of them knew where or whom he would strike next.
