by Brad Thor
“As for running the plagues in reverse, you must already comprehend what a disturbed individual Philippe was. In his mind, the first plague was the most shocking and dramatic, so he ran the plagues backward, conducting himself as God’s opposite, the devil, if you will, who was saving his favorite plague for last.”
“And you thought you could reprogram this monster?” said Harvath.
“For a while, yes. If I could convince him to follow my orders, I would not only have beaten Adara, but in a small way, I would have regained my son. But I realized eventually that he was out of control and likely would have come after me. Which is why I left the hospital in Italy and returned here.”
The man was absolutely pitiful, and Harvath shook his head and turned to walk away.
“Where are you going?” demanded Schoen.
“Home,” replied Harvath, who hoped to never gaze upon Ari Schoen’s hideous face again.
Schoen laughed. “You don’t even have the courage to pull out your gun and shoot me.”
“Why should I?” replied Harvath as he turned back to face him. “As far as I’m concerned, a bullet is too good for you. And as for courage, if you had any you would have already shot yourself. The worst thing I can do for you is to wish you a long life and walk right out that door.”
And that was exactly what Harvath did.
As he exited the shop he noticed a black SUV with heavily tinted windows parked across the street. It was strangely out of place.
Reaching beneath his jacket, Harvath’s hand hovered just above the butt of his pistol.
The SUV’s rear window rolled partway down and in the sea of black, there was suddenly a flash of white. It belonged to a long white nose and was followed by a pair of dark eyes and two long white ears.
Harvath crossed the street and held his hand up for the dog to smell. As he scratched Argos behind his ear, the SUV’s window rolled the rest of the way down.
“Did you have a nice visit?” asked the Troll, who was sitting inside between his two Caucasian Ovcharkas.
“Hello, Nicholas,” replied Harvath. “Why am I not surprised to see you here?”
“We have unfinished business between us.”
Harvath removed his hand from the dog’s head and said, “No we don’t. I made good on my promise to you. You cooperated and I didn’t kill you.”
“I want my data and the rest of my money back,” responded the Troll. “All of it.”
The man had balls, big ones. “And I want my friend Bob and the other Americans killed in New York back,” stated Harvath. “All of them.”
The Troll leaned back and conceded. “Touché.” Slowly, the little man’s eyes drifted up to the apartment above the antique store. “What about Schoen?” he asked. “Did you kill him?”
Harvath shook his head. “No, I didn’t.”
“After everything he did to you. Why not?”
Harvath thought about it for a moment and then replied, “Death would have been too good for him.”
“Really?” stated the Troll, raising an eyebrow. “I’m surprised you feel that way.”
“If you could see what he’s been reduced to,” said Harvath, “you’d understand. Life is a much crueler punishment for Schoen. He’s already been blown up on two occasions.”
The Troll withdrew a small beige box, extended its antenna, and depressing its lone red button replied, “Then maybe the third time’s the charm.”
The explosion blew the windows out of the top-floor apartment and shook the entire block. Shards of broken glass and flaming debris rained down onto the street.
Harvath picked himself up off the ground just in time to see the Troll’s SUV recede into the distance.
Chapter 124
H arvath had refused all the president’s invitations to come and meet with him at the White House.
Though the charges of treason against him had been dropped, Rutledge still wanted to have a serious heart-to-heart so that they could put the past behind them and move forward.
To his credit, Harvath was smart enough not to deny the president’s requests outright. Since Tracy’s release from the hospital, she had been living at his place. He told everyone that taking care of both her and his recovering puppy kept him busy around the clock.
The president knew Harvath was lying, but let it go. Harvath had been through a lot. He’d been thrown under the proverbial bus, and not only had the president not helped him out from under, but he had ordered him to stay there while the bus’s tires rolled right over him.
Rutledge didn’t blame Harvath for not wanting to see him, but enough was enough. The president called Gary Lawlor and told him in no uncertain terms that he wanted Harvath standing in front of his desk inside the Oval Office by the end of the day or it was going to be Lawlor’s ass on the line.
Ever the good soldier, Lawlor had his assistant clear the rest of his day, and he went to drag Scot in to meet with the president.
When he arrived at Bishop’s Gate, he didn’t see Harvath’s car and figured he had gone out to pick up groceries or medications for Tracy or the dog, which they had named Bullet, after their mutual friend, Bullet Bob, who had been killed during the attacks on New York City.
Lawlor parked his car and walked up the front steps. Looking down at the threshold, he wondered for the umpteenth time what it must have been like for Harvath to come down and find Tracy lying there in a pool of blood. It was a horrible image, and he tried to shake it from his mind as he raised the heavy iron knocker and let it slam against the thick wooden door.
As he waited, he thought how ironic it was that Harvath should live in a former church. The man had become a devout penitent to the people whom Roussard had harmed. He visited his mother repeatedly in California, and as her eyesight began to return, he made sure she had the best of care once she was ready to come home. He visited both Carolyn Leonard and Kate Palmer at their hospital in D. C. as often as he could and kept their rooms filled with fresh flowers until they were well enough to be discharged. After that, he bombarded them with more flowers and basket upon basket of food. No matter what anyone said to him, Harvath wouldn’t stop. This was his self-imposed penance, and until the guilt was lifted from his soul there was no stopping him.
When it became known that Kevin McCauliff had used the NGA’s DOD computers on Harvath’s behalf, the young analyst was brought up on discipline charges. Harvath called in every favor ever owed him and pulled every string imaginable to have the charges dropped and for McCauliff to be honorably discharged from his position at the NGA. Tim Finney and Ron Parker offered McCauliff a job at Sargasso the very next day.
Lawlor knocked upon the heavy door once more, but no one answered. There wasn’t even the sound of Bullet’s barking which was a given lately.
Having been told where Harvath kept his spare key, Lawlor retrieved it and opened the front door.
“Hello?” he shouted as he poked his head inside. “Anybody home?”
Lawlor waited, but there was no response. Coming the rest of the way inside, he closed the door behind him.
He walked into the kitchen first and found that everything had been cleaned and put away. Normally, it was a chaotic jumble of pots, pans, dishes, and glasses as Scot and Tracy moved from one culinary undertaking to the next. Something definitely wasn’t right.
Opening the fridge to help himself to a beer, Lawlor found it completely empty. None of this was making any sense.
He strolled out of the kitchen and into the large area that functioned as Harvath’s living room. Everything here had been straightened and put in its place as well.
Suddenly, Lawlor noticed something on the stone mantelpiece above the fireplace. Walking over, he found Harvath’s BlackBerry and his DHS credentials. Next to them was a crisp piece of Tracy’s stationery folded in half.
Opening it, he read a simple two-word message that had been written in Harvath’s hand.
Gone fishing.
Acknowledgments
&n
bsp; My beautiful wife, Trish, made it clear that in this book I should thank my readers first. She’s right, of course (she’s always right, I’ve learned), but there’s part of me that wonders what kind of husband I would be if I didn’t thank her first. On more nights than I can count, Trish came home from her own demanding career only to gladly feed and bathe our little ones so I could keep on writing. Thank you, honey. I love you more than you will ever know.
Having snuck in that thank-you to my wife, I want to now thank you, the readers. It has been a pleasure meeting you on tour and at book festivals and writing conferences across the country. It is because you recommend me to your friends, family, neighbors, and coworkers that my career is growing. I continue to be humbled and appreciative of your support.
Without the fabulous bookstores and the Atria/Pocket sales staff, you wouldn’t be holding this in your hands right now. I am extremely grateful to all the people who have worked so hard to build me as an author and who strive to make every book bigger than the last. It is a team effort, and along with the Pocket/Atria art and production departments, I couldn’t hope to be aligned with more creative, intelligent, or nicer people in the publishing business.
I dedicated this book to Scott F. Hill, PhD, for many reasons. His knowledge of the thriller genre is broader and deeper than that of any human being I have ever met. He continues to be an excellent sounding board and a great friend to brainstorm with. More than that, Scott is a model patriot who has dedicated his life to improving the lives of our veterans. People like him make me proud to call myself an American.
I have a pool of gentlemen and one lady who have definitely been there, done that, and have the T-shirt to prove it. I like to refer to them as my sharpshooters, and they work hard to make sure I get things right. When I don’t, it’s my fault, not theirs. In no particular order, these exceptional patriots are Rodney Cox, Chuck Fretwell, Steve Hoffa, Chad Norberg, and Steven C. Bronson. To this list I am honored to also welcome and thank Cynthia Longo and Ronald Moore.
My Sun Valley crew was right there with the latest in political and federal law enforcement issues. My sincere thanks, as always, go out to Gary Penrith, Frank Gallagher, Tom Baker, Daryl Mills, and Terry Mangan.
Anyone who has been to the annual gathering in Sun Valley knows how much we all appreciate the folks at Taser International. In particular, I want to thank my good pal Steve Tuttle for all of his help with this book. All of the good guys who deploy with Taser products know how exceptional they are and that they absolutely save lives. Thanks, Steve.
Ronaldo Palmera is a slime bag of the highest order who was based upon a real terrorist. In no way should he be confused with my delightful father-in-law, Ronald Palmer. Ron’s vast experience south of the border was the inspiration for all things Mexican in this novel, and his insight and guidance was, as always, very much appreciated.
Patrick Doak and David Vennett have remained my steadfast guides through the wilds of Washington politics. I couldn’t write what I write without them and I wouldn’t have near as much fun when I visit D. C. Thank you, gentlemen.
Bart Berry of Aquarius Training Systems can always come up with just the right thing to help me with my novel. He is both my cousin and climbing instructor, and while I didn’t need much climbing help with this book, like Ron, he also has significant experience south of the border, and I thank him for his input.
As always, if it flies, eats sushi, or speaks German, I will absolutely not write about it without running it by Richard and Anne Levy, as well as our dear friend Alice.
Tom and Geri Whowell once again provided invaluable assistance with my manuscript. From what I understand, “Scot Harvath” is now a password at both Fontana, Wisconsin’s Gordy’s Boat House bar and restaurant as well as the Cobalt boat dealership. How much of a discount it gets you, I have no idea, but I plan to find out this summer. I’ll know that I’ve really arrived when they decide to name a drink after me.
Tom Gosse is one of the neatest people I know. As a funeral director, he provided me with some invaluable information for this book. His brother-in-law Patrick Ahern is a great friend, and I am sure the fact that I killed off Pat’s character in my first book but let Gosse live in this one will be a source of good-natured grief I will have to live with for some time.
I have some other good friends who are out there kicking ass and taking hyphenated names on a daily basis. No matter where they are or what they are doing, they are willing to answer my questions. True to their reputations as “quiet professionals,” they asked that I not recognize them by name here. You all know who you are, and I thank you.
I also need to thank Mark, Ellen, and everyone else at La Rue Tactical down in Texas for their kindness to me and their unwavering support of our elite warriors in the field.
My two greatest assets, advocates, and allies are my magnificent agent, Heide Lange, and my superb editor, Emily Bestler. Their contributions to my career are immeasurable, and I know for a fact that neither of them will ever grasp how important they are to me. Thank you.
Two more ladies in the pantheon of publishing who are invaluable to me are my publishers, Louise Burke and Judith Curr. It is through their tireless efforts that my career is where it is, and I thank them.
Jack Romanos and Carolyn Reidy often operate behind the scenes without much thanks from their authors. Each year I learn a little bit more about the book business, and as I do, my appreciation for what they do, in particular for my career, grows. Thank you for everything.
With the passing of James Brown, David Brown has inherited the mantle of the hardest-working man in show business. On the eighth day God created publicists, but they were not all created equal. David Brown was created head and shoulders above the rest. From the Top of the Rock to the Pig & Whistle, thanks for everything, David.
Alex Canon, Laura Stern, and Sarah Branham continue to be incredibly helpful day in and day out. This small mention here hardly comes close to thanking them for everything they do for me.
Ernest Hemingway once said that to be a good writer you need to be possessed of a shockproof bullshit detector. I think the same attribute is necessary for a good lawyer, especially one in Hollywood. I’m extremely fortunate in that I don’t have a good lawyer, I have a great one. Scott Schwimer is hands down the best entertainment attorney in the industry. He has also become one of my best friends, and for that I am doubly blessed.
