by Brad Thor
He embedded a probe into each of the men who had their meaty, sweaty hands on the metal poles and let the fifty thousand volts of electricity fly. It was a nasty and unexpected zap, which took the men completely by surprise. Harvath followed up by “drive stunning” the weapon into each of them, completing the circuit and incapacitating the last obstacle that stood in the way of his escape.
Harvath didn’t bother trying to knock the men out. He made a beeline for the door and let himself outside as quickly as possible.
Staying below the window line, he crept around to the front of the house and fished Rick Morrell’s keys from his pocket. He depressed the remote entry key fob and saw the headlights illuminated on a silver Chevy Tahoe. It would have been a perfect car to make his getaway in except for the fact that it was pinned in at the top of the driveway.
Harvath fished out the other set of keys and repeated the process. A pair of headlights illuminated behind Morrell’s SUV, and Harvath whipped out the Benchmade knife he’d taken from the guard outside his room.
After flattening the tires of the other vehicles, he hopped into the guard’s pickup truck, slid the key into the ignition, and turned, but nothing happened—not even the sickening click, click, click of a shot starter or the whirring noise of an almost dead battery.
There was no way Harvath could escape these guys on foot. Many of them had special operations backgrounds and would easily be able to track him. His one hope was the water. As long as they didn’t have access to a boat, he might be able to outswim them. All he needed to do was put enough distance between him and them before returning to dry land where he could flag a ride or steal another car.
He was about to hop out of the guard’s Ford pickup and make for the water when he discovered the vehicle’s antitheft kill switch.
Seconds later, Harvath pulled out of the driveway and headed the truck north toward D. C. and the man he was going to force to give him some answers.
Chapter 68
NORTHERN VIRGINIA
P hilippe Roussard despised America and Americans for many reasons. He despised them for their gluttony, their sloth, and their arrogance. Most of them had never traveled beyond their own borders and yet they believed themselves to be the center of the world and that their way of life was the only correct and righteous way.
He despised them for what he saw as their empire-building—their constant meddling in the affairs of other nations. He despised them not only for the act, but for the concept of globalization. If America was not stopped, he knew that their poison would continue to ooze and affect every nation on the planet until puss-filled sores of capitalism and democracy erupted everywhere. It was America’s greatest failing, the notion that there were only two types of people in this world—Americans and those who wished they were.
As much as he hated America, however, there was much about the actual physical geography of the country that he found quite enchanting. With the vehicle’s windows rolled down, Roussard drove through the rural Virginia countryside and admired its beauty.
It often confused Roussard why Allah should have blessed the infidels, in particular America and her Western allies, with such prosperity, abundance, and geographical beauty while He allowed the true believers, his Islamic faithful, to often languish in abhorrent conditions in some of the earth’s most desolate locations.
Roussard knew it was wrong to try to discern the mind of Allah, but it was a question he often found himself occupied with. His God was great and He was merciful. In His wisdom He had assigned His people their stations in life so that they might struggle in His name and prove themselves worthy of His acknowledgment. The day of the Muslim people was close at hand. Soon their struggles, their laborious jihad, would bear fruit—ripe, plump, heavy fruit bursting with the sugary sweetness of having vanquished their enemies and having rid the earth of all nonbelievers.
The terrorist recalled a proclamation from a fellow mujahideen who had said that the followers of the Prophet, may peace be upon Him, would not rest until they were dancing upon the roof of the White House itself. The image always made him smile.
He was contemplating whether he would see such a glorious development in his lifetime when the cell phone he had purchased the day before vibrated in his pocket. He had only given the number to one person.
“Yes,” said Roussard as he raised the device to his ear.
“I read the update you left for me,” said the handler.
“And?”
Though they both switched cell phones after each conversation, the handler was not fond of communicating this way. The Americans and their listening programs could not be underestimated. “I spent significant time crafting the itinerary for your visit. Your changes to it are—”
“Are what?” asked Roussard, angry. He didn’t care for the way in which his handler second-guessed everything he did. He was not a child. He knew all too well the risks he was taking.
There was a pause and Roussard knew what his handler was thinking. The mistake had not been made in California—it had been made outside Harvath’s home. Tracy Hastings should have been killed. She should be dead right now, not lying in some hospital bed on life support. But she had turned at the very last moment. That accursed dog had yelped, or twitched, or had done something to cause the woman to move her head ever so slightly, so that Roussard’s shot had connected, but not where he had intended.
Maybe things were better that way. Maybe the pain would be more intense for Harvath. There were ten plagues in total, and each plague would be visited upon people close to him. He would be made to suffer through their suffering, and then, finally, his life would be taken. It was the ultimate price for what Harvath had done.
“Your changes cause me concern,” said the handler.
“All of them,” demanded Roussard angrily, “or certain ones in particular?”
“Please. This is not—”
“Answer my question.”
The handler’s voice remained calm. “The shopping mall was particularly dangerous—too many cameras, too many ways you could have been recorded. You should have stayed with the health club.”
Roussard didn’t answer.
“But what is done is done,” said the handler. “You and I are cut from the same cloth.”
Roussard winced at the suggestion
“I will not lie to you,” continued the handler. “Giving in to your impulses and deviating from the itinerary, no matter how productive those deviations turn out to be, is dangerous. When you deviate, you venture into unknown territory. Without my guidance, you place not only yourself, but me at great risk.”
“If my performance is unsatisfactory, maybe I scrap the plan entirely and finish this my way.”
“No,” replied the handler, “no more deviations. You must finish your work as agreed. But first, a problem has come up that needs to be dealt with—we have been betrayed.”
“Betrayed by whom?”
“The little man your grandfather once used to gather information,” replied the handler.
“The Troll?”
The handler, deep in thought, grunted a response.
Roussard was concerned. “How can you be sure?”
“I have my contacts and sources of information. Do you think it was coincidence that you were sent to Harvath’s on the same day the Troll sent his gift?”
“I know it wasn’t,” conceded Roussard.
“Then do not doubt me. The dwarf knows of your release and is actively seeking information about you.”
“Do the Americans know what we have planned?”
“I don’t think so,” said the handler. “Not yet.”
“Do you want me to take care of him?”
“I don’t like the idea of your having to leave the country before your current visit is complete, but this problem needs to be taken care of before it grows any larger, and you’re the only one I can trust to make sure it is taken care of properly.”
“He is small and weak.
It will be my pleasure.”
“You must not underestimate him,” admonished the handler. “He is a formidable opponent.”
“Where is he now?”
“I am still working on tracking him down.”
“He’s not in Scotland?” asked Roussard.
“No. I’ve already had the house and the estate searched. He hasn’t been there for some time.”
“Let me help you find him.”
“No,” stated the handler. “Focus on your next target. I will find him myself.”
“And then?”
“And then I will decide how he is to be disposed of and you will follow my orders exactly. Is that clear? We are getting very close now. I do not want any more surprises.”
Though the bile choked his throat, Roussard kept his anger under control. When this was over, he would deal with his handler.
His voice barely above a whisper, the operative replied, “Yes, it is clear.”
Chapter 69
P hilippe Roussard pulled off the crushed-gravel drive and allowed his vehicle to roll to a quiet stop. From here, the car would be out of sight of any vehicles passing along the main road, as well as from anyone in the small, stone farmhouse about a half mile away.
He gathered the items he’d need from the trunk and proceeded the rest of the way in on foot.
It was actually quite a beautiful day. The sun was bright and only a few thin clouds drifted overhead. Roussard could smell the distinct scent of freshly mown grass from a nearby property.
As he crept through the woods, a variety of birds called out from the treetops above him, but other than that, there were no sounds but his own footfalls to be heard.
At the tree line, he removed the binoculars from his pack and made himself comfortable. This wasn’t anything he needed to rush.
Twenty minutes later, the woman appeared, and snapping at her heels was the dog. He was surprised that she trusted the animal enough not to run off. Harvath had left her with it only a matter of weeks ago, but the accursed dog was still young, nothing more than a puppy, and apparently bonded easily with anyone who paid attention to it.
The woman was older, but not elderly in any sense of the word. She was in her late sixties, tall and attractive, with a face bronzed a deep copper color by the sun. Her steel-gray hair came to her shoulders and she walked her small farm with a haughty self-confidence that Roussard assumed was a prerequisite for anyone who had ever worked for the Federal Bureau of Investigation.
She was tending to her daily chores—gathering eggs from the small henhouse, feeding the chickens, then slicing open a bale and dropping hay into the corral of her two horses.
There were two atrocious potbellied pigs, which only a culture like America’s could have ever warmed to as pets, and a clutter of cats that delighted in asserting their dominance over the tiny dog.
As Roussard studied the woman, he found himself thinking of his own mother. It was entirely unprofessional and entirely inappropriate. He was here to do a job and this American woman’s similarities, or lack thereof, to his own mother had no bearing on what he needed to do.
The unwelcome distraction edged Roussard into action. He had no desire to sit alone in the woods with his thoughts. It was time.
He would take the woman in the barn. His only concern was the dog, but Roussard believed he had that figured out.
As the woman disappeared around one of the farm’s outbuildings, Roussard picked up his backpack and ran.
Ever the pragmatist, he stopped near the small stone house and disabled her vehicle. Should something go wrong, he did not wish to leave her a convenient means of escape.
From the old Volvo station wagon, he then crept to the woman’s house. He pressed himself up against the facade, the stones of which, even in the morning’s increasing warmth, still felt cool to the touch.
Peering around the corner of the farmhouse, he waited until he could see the woman. When he saw her unwind a long garden hose to clean out the horse trough, Roussard made his move.
He chose not to run for fear of startling the horses. He walked quickly and with purpose, his hand clamped around the butt of the silenced pistol he had withdrawn from his backpack. If the woman noticed him and attempted to cry out, or to flee, he could easily take her even at this distance with a single round.
Once inside the barn, he concealed his pack and made himself ready. There was a gap between the exterior boards where he stood, and it gave him an excellent vantage point from which to observe the woman’s approach.
His heart pounded in his chest and he loved the sensation. There was nothing so exciting as lying in wait for one’s prey. The adrenaline surged through his bloodstream. Anything else, any other experience of life, was merely a fitful and incomplete dream of reality. To have the power to kill and to take and use that power—that was what life was all about.
Perspiration had begun to form on Roussard’s brow. He stood inhumanly still, the beads of sweat slowly trickling together and rolling down his face and neck. Soon, he thought to himself. Soon.
When the woman appeared again from the corral, the killer’s body slipped into a completely different state. Immediately, his breathing slowed. Next his heart rate began to decrease. His field of vision narrowed until all that he could see were the woman and the puppy at her feet. He stood as steady as a granite statue, his muscle fibers tautly spun coils ready to spring forward in sweet release.
When the woman neared, the killer stopped breathing. Nothing else mattered but this. She was almost at the wide open doors. A second later he could see her shadow spilling into the barn.
Finally, she crossed over the threshold and he sprang.
Chapter 70
WASHINGTON, D.C.
H arvath had dumped the Omega Team member’s Ford pickup almost immediately. Once he’d put some good distance between himself and the safe house, he had begun cruising the waterfront homes north of Coltons Point. It didn’t take him long to find what he was looking for.
It was a large and obviously expensive house, and Harvath was amazed that it didn’t have an alarm system. It was almost comical how little people thought about security once they left the big city behind them.
The keys for the magnificent thirty-six-foot-long Chris Craft Corsair had been hung on a peg in clear sight. While Harvath didn’t care for taking things that didn’t belong to him, given the circumstances, he wasn’t left with much choice.
The Corsair had a fully charged battery, a full tank of gas, and fired right up. He was “borrowing” a boat with a retail value of over $350,000, and Harvath vowed that its owners would get it back in exactly the same, mint condition it was in now.
He pulled the sleek pleasure craft out into the Potomac, pointed the bow northward, and bumped the throttles all the way forward.
The twin, 420 horsepower Volvo Penta engines growled in response. Like captive lions being set loose from their cages, the throaty engines popped the boat out of the hole and brought it right up on plane.
Harvath rolled up his sleeves and kept his eyes open as gusts of spray frothed up from the sides of the boat. He’d hidden the pickup in the house garage before climbing aboard the Corsair, but there was no telling how close his pursuers were.
The only thing he knew for certain was that even with Rick Morrell at their helm, the Omega Team would stop at nothing, not even killing him, to remove him from the picture.
At the Washington Sailing Marina, Harvath limped in feigning engine trouble and docked the Corsair. The staff left him alone to call his supposed Chris Craft dealer in Maryland, but instead, Harvath dialed a local cab company, and ten minutes later he was being driven the short distance to Reagan National’s extended parking lot.
Because the trip to Jordan had been not only personal, but also highly sensitive, he had left his DHS credentials, his government-issued BlackBerry, and his weapon with Ron Parker back at Elk Mountain.
While the taxi waited, Harvath located his black Chevy Tr
ail-blazer. From the hitch vault under the rear bumper he retrieved a spare set of keys, a rubber-band-wrapped wad of tens and twenties, a preloaded debit card, and a duplicate driver’s license to replace the personal effects Rick Morrell had taken from him when they off-loaded him from Tim Finney’s plane.
After exiting the extended parking lot, he paid the cab driver and headed toward D. C. As he drove, he removed one of the throwaway cell phones he kept in his bugout bag and dialed his boss, Gary Lawlor.
“I’ve been trying to reach you for the last two days,” said Lawlor when he answered. “Where the hell are you?”
“Never mind where I am,” said Harvath. “I need you to listen.”
Lawlor was quiet as Harvath spent the next several minutes filling him in on everything that had happened and everything he had learned since they last spoke.
When he was finished, Lawlor said, “Jesus, Scot, if what you’re telling me is true, you’ve been killing the people the president promised to protect! You’re undermining our word and making the president look like a liar. It’s only a matter of time before these people decide we’ve screwed them and they keep their promise about going after more kids.”
This was not exactly the kind of support Harvath had been hoping for when he brought his boss up to speed. “Look,” he replied, “one of those men released from Gitmo is killing innocent Americans. The president promised to leave them alone based on their past actions, not current ones. But did anyone stop to think that this may be precisely why the terrorists negotiated the deal in the first place? So they could have blanket immunity while they carried out new acts of terror?
“Sorry, Gary, it was a bad bargain. I didn’t make this mess, but I guess I’m going to be the one to clean it up.”
“Good,” stated Lawlor. “I want you to nail the son of a bitch.”
Harvath could tell by the tone of his voice that he had misread him. Something else had happened. “What’s going on?”
