by Brad Thor
The officer nodded and relayed the information to the other units. For Harvath, Cordero, Ryan, and McGee, it was now a waiting game.
The Coast Guard relayed one last series of instructions to the man on the fly bridge, and when he didn’t respond, the boarding teams were given the green light to launch their assault.
As Harvath watched the teams work, something out of place at the stern caught his eye. Suddenly there was activity over the radio, which the Harbor Patrol officers had turned up the volume on so that Cordero and everyone else could listen in on what was happening.
The man on the fly bridge was dead.
“Dead?” Cordero repeated. “How the hell is that possible?”
The patrolman started to shrug when another message was received. The boarding team had located a survivor. The rest of the vessel was clear.
Harvath stepped into the pilothouse and said to the copilot, “Radio the Coast Guard that we’re coming aboard.” To the officer piloting the boat, he said, “Bring us alongside, now.”
• • •
When it was explained that Cordero was not only Boston PD but the partner of the rogue cop, they were granted permission to board.
The first person they saw was the survivor, Jonathan Renner. He was sitting in the boat’s salon, wrapped in a blanket.
Harvath approached the man and asked, “Mr. Renner?”
The man looked up and nodded.
“I’m very glad to see you alive, sir. We’re going to get you back to shore and to your family as quickly as possible, okay?”
Renner nodded again, and Harvath walked out of the salon and back onto the deck.
Climbing up to the fly bridge, he joined Cordero along with Ryan and McGee, who were already there.
“It’s not Sal,” the female detective said.
“Who is it, then?” he asked.
“Tom Cushing,” Ryan replied.
“Whoever killed him,” said McGee, “used fishing line to keep him in a seated position. The boat has an autopilot.”
Harvath studied all the blood pooled in the man’s lap and running down his legs. “Somebody gutshot him. Not many more painful ways to go than that.”
“I think we can make an educated guess as to who pulled the trigger,” Cordero stated.
“And with Renner safe downstairs, I think we also can make a pretty well educated guess who I found underwater.”
“Vaccaro,” said Ryan.
Harvath nodded.
“Then where’s Sabatini?”
Harvath led the group down the stairs to the stern of the cabin cruiser. Two of the Coast Guardsmen had already vented the engine compartment and made sure there was no threat of fire.
Leaning over the back of the boat, he pointed at the swim platform, where two nylon tie-down straps were dangling.
“How much do you want to bet that until just a little while ago, there used to be a WaveRunner or a Jet-Ski there?”
Ryan looked at McGee. “We need to warn Wise.”
• • •
The knock on the hotel door was loud and unsettling. In fact it wasn’t even a knock. It was a pounding.
“Boston Police! Open up!” the voice commanded. “Police! Open the door!”
Not only did Bill Wise have a prisoner secured to a chair and gagged, but the room was also awash in Class 3 weapons and other assorted items like Tasers and recording devices. Without credentials, there was no way he’d be able to explain his way out of this. Police involvement was something they absolutely didn’t need.
What they needed was to get Stark to D.C. as quickly and as quietly as possible so he could tell his story there. That step, though, was now suddenly in jeopardy.
One of the guests or hotel security must have seen or heard something.
As he approached the door, his cell phone back on the desk began ringing, and another thought suddenly gripped him.
“Police!” the voice shouted as the pounding recommenced. “Open up!”
Bill Wise raised his MP5 ready to fire just as the door was kicked in from the outside.
He stumbled backward and landed on his ass in the bathroom. A fraction of a second later, something was tossed into the room and was followed by a blindingly bright light and an overpowering explosion.
CHAPTER 68
Ryan’s cell phone rang just before the Harbor Patrol unit boat reached the dock.
“It’s Wise,” she exclaimed, as she activated the call. “Bill, we’ve been trying to reach you. We think Sabatini may be on his way to you.”
Wise interrupted her and she listened as he relayed what happened. She then told him to hold on while she shared it with the others.
“Bill’s okay, but Stark’s dead. Sabatini pitched a flash-bang into the hotel room, and while Bill was down he put a round into each of Stark’s kneecaps and then a round through the base of his throat. There was nothing Bill could do for him. Bill says it was pretty obvious that Sabatini wanted Stark to die as painful a death as possible.”
“Where is Bill now?” Harvath asked.
Ryan asked him and then replied, “He sanitized the room as quickly as he could and barely made it out of the hotel. He’s about four blocks away now. Says there are police cars everywhere.”
McGee, who had been listening to the radio, nodded. “Boston PD has confirmed a gunshot fatality at the Renaissance.”
Harvath looked at Cordero. “Anyone answering?”
As Ryan’s call had come in, Cordero had checked her own phone. She had missed a call from home.
This was the second time she had tried calling back. Pulling the cell phone away from her ear, she shook her head. “That’s not like them. My parents always pick up.”
Whether it was the mother in her or the detective, she decided to call her tenants in the downstairs apartment just to make sure everything was okay.
As the boat pulled up to the dock, Harvath addressed Ryan and McGee. “You know where the rally point is, so pick Wise up, or have him meet you there. But hurry.”
Hopping out onto the dock, he offered his hand to Cordero and helped her out of the boat. No sooner had her feet touched the pier than all the color drained from her face.
“What is it?” Harvath asked.
“One of the neighbors saw Sal going into my building. We need to get back there. Now!” she ordered.
They both took off running and found her car right where she had left it. Leaping in, they made as much noise leaving the harbor as they had when they had arrived.
In any other city, Harvath would have wanted to be the one doing the driving, but with Boston’s nightmare of one-way streets, he was glad to have her behind the wheel.
As they entered her neighborhood, she killed the siren but kept the wigwags flashing. Then, a block before her home, she killed those, too.
The gradual falling away of her mental armor and police persona that Harvath had so admired earlier in the evening wasn’t happening this time. There’d be no stand-down until she knew her family was safe.
They parked around the corner and Cordero laid out how she wanted to handle it.
“Promise me,” she insisted.
Harvath didn’t like what she was proposing. Sal Sabatini was a killer. It didn’t matter how many years they had worked together.
“Promise me,” she repeated.
There was no way he was going to talk her out of it. She had made up her mind. Reluctantly, he agreed and gave her his word.
Standing there as she walked away, he was certain that they had both just made the biggest mistake of their lives.
• • •
Opening the downstairs door, Cordero crept up to her second-floor apartment as quietly as she could. The stairs were more than a hundred years old, and even in places you thought were safe to put your weight, they still creaked. It was almost as bad as having a little dog yapping the alarm that someone was coming. Not that it mattered, because when she reached the landing, she saw that her front door was wide ope
n and knew that Sal Sabatini was already waiting for her.
Stepping into her apartment, she saw her mother first, tears rolling down her cheeks. Next to her was her father, his face a mixture of fear and anger. Finally, as she stepped all the way inside, she saw Sal, holding them at gunpoint.
“Please close the door behind you,” he said.
Cordero did as she was told.
“Good. Now please, slowly, remove both of your weapons and slide them across the floor to me.”
“Where’s Marco?” she asked as she slid both of the guns to him.
Sliding the weapons into the new jacket he was wearing, he replied, “He’s safe.”
“Where is he, Sal? Tell me.”
“He’s in his room, asleep. You don’t have to worry.”
“Why did you come here?”
“I wanted to tell you that I took care of everything.”
“Meaning, what? That you killed those men?” she said. “Cushing? Vaccaro? Stark? Along with all the other people you’ve killed? That’s why you came here?”
Sabatini held his finger to his lips. “Shhh, be quiet. You don’t want to wake Marco.”
“Sal, this needs to end. You’re sick. You need help.”
The man smiled at her. “It is going to end. Trust me. By the way, where’s your new partner?”
“I don’t have a new partner, Sal. You’re my partner.”
The killer’s smile faded, replaced by anger. “What do you think I am? Stupid? You don’t think I see how he looks at you?”
“Sal, he doesn’t—”
“Shut up!” he roared. “Shut up!”
“Sal, I want to get you help.”
“I don’t need any help. I help you. Remember? When your husband died?”
“I remember, Sal. You helped us a lot.”
“You don’t remember shit. All you care about is yourself, you selfish bitch!”
Cordero’s father attempted to stand, but Sabatini shoved him back down.
The female detective tried to deescalate things and spoke calmly to her father in Portuguese.
“That’s right,” Sabatini sneered. “You tell him that if he does that again, he’s a dead man.”
Cordero said a few more words and then turned back to the killer. “Sal, if you came to say goodbye, let’s say goodbye. Please, before anyone gets hurt.”
His face went from enraged to an odd smile. “I didn’t come to say goodbye. I came to take you with me.”
“I’m sorry, Sal. My place is here, with my son.”
“Marco will be with us.”
The way he said it sent shivers down her spine.
“I’m not going to hurt anyone. I’m done hurting people. I’m done hurting myself. No one is going to feel any pain anymore.”
“Sal, please—” she began, hoping she could talk him into laying down his weapon and not harming anyone else.
“Fuck please!” he shouted. “I’m the lion. You don’t tell the lion what to do. Not now. Not ever. You do what I say, when I say it. You obey me. Do you understand me?”
Cordero nodded. The man was coming completely unspooled.
“Now, where’s your fucking boyfriend? And don’t you lie to me.”
“I don’t have a boyfriend, Sal.”
“Liar!” he screamed, reaching out with his free hand and striking her across the face.
Cordero’s father leapt up to challenge him and Sabatini struck him across the side of his face with his pistol. The older man’s knees buckled and he fell back onto the couch.
Cordero spoke to him rapidly in Portuguese once more and then turned her attention to the killer.
“Sal, stop this.”
“Sal, stop this,” he replied, mocking her. “No more games. It’s time to go.”
Grabbing her by the hair, he pulled her head down so she had to walk with it sideways. Looking at her angry father and terrified mother, Sabatini said, “If you move, everyone dies. The boy dies. Do you understand?”
Cordero spoke again in Portuguese to her parents, who sat frozen in place on the couch, and they nodded.
Sabatini smiled. “Good. Let’s move,” he commanded as he dragged her over to the base station for her cordless phone, ripped it out of the wall, and then dragged her down the hall toward Marco’s room.
“Sal, you don’t have to do—”
“Shhh,” he whispered, cutting her off. “It’s all going to be very quiet, very soon. You’ll see. We’re going to be happy.”
They reached Marco’s room and Sabatini used the toe of his boot to push the door open. He looked down into the bed, but the little boy was gone.
Sabatini flipped right back into rage mode.
“Where is he?” he shouted. “Where the fuck is he?”
Cordero didn’t reply.
Pulling her with him, he stepped into the room and flipped over the race car bed. He then threw open the closet doors but the little boy wasn’t there either.
He then dragged Cordero back down the hall and threw her like a piece of trash onto the living room floor. He pointed his weapon at her and was about to threaten to kill her in order to get her parents to tell him where the little boy was hiding when he noticed her parents were gone, too.
“What the fuck is going on here?” he screamed. “Where the fuck are they?”
“Out stealing me a new sailboat, asshole,” said a voice from behind.
Before Sabatini could even react, Harvath depressed his trigger twice, the shots perfectly aimed and placed exactly where the killer deserved them.
CHAPTER 69
TIERRA DEL FUEGO
FIVE DAYS LATER
With its money and powerful reach, the Federal Reserve, or more precisely Monroe Lewis acting under the auspices of the Federal Reserve, was able to make the impossible possible, including establishing phony flight plans for its Aerion Supersonic Business Jet.
As Reed Carlton, Lydia Ryan, and Bob McGee huddled with General George Johnson and his team at the Directorate of National Intelligence, Harvath had been able to cut through all the red tape and trace the plane with one phone call.
“Buenos Aires,” said Natalie, the Swedish flight attendant. “Additional passengers boarded, we flew further south to Tierra del Fuego and then everyone disembarked when we landed at the airport at Ushuaia.”
Harvath thanked her and gave the information to Johnson’s people. Within an hour, they had CCTV footage from Argentina. It didn’t take long to ID the men Phil Durkin had picked up in Argentina. They were a cross section of thugs and hired killers the Agency had used from time to time for assignments in South America.
When they had identified his destination, Ryan called his ex to see if she might know why he had selected it. Had he ever mentioned any assignments or did he have any contacts all the way down there? Brenda Durkin had laughed.
“Phil had plenty of contacts in Patagonia,” she said. “And they were all slippery, but not in the way you think.”
Brenda explained that her husband was an avid fly fisherman and had taken multiple trips to Tierra del Fuego. His favorite place was the Kau Tapen Lodge on the banks of the Rio Grande River. The river flowed from the Andes down to the Atlantic and boasted the best sea trout fishing in the world. Before their marriage had turned sour, he had talked of retiring there. Though she could never prove it, she half suspected he had been building a house down there.
That was all Harvath and the rest of the people gathered with General Johnson had needed to hear. They were convinced they knew where Phil Durkin was. At that point, it was only a matter of how to deal with him.
Argentina was a politically sensitive country for the United States to deal with. They could be helpful in some areas and downright obstructionist in others. It was decided that the less they knew about what was happening the better.
The weapons arrived in Tierra del Fuego via the Falklands and a contact the Old Man maintained in the British SAS. They offered shooters as well, but Carlton had politely
declined. What he did take them up on, though, was surveillance. The SAS had an excellent stable of covert operatives on Tierra del Fuego and they were happy to help out. By the time Harvath and his team arrived, Durkin’s house had been located and everything was in place. Back in Northern Virginia, General Johnson and the Old Man were watching everything unfold via satellite.
Lydia Ryan had insisted on coming along for the operation. From everything Harvath had heard about her, she was more than up to the task and he had no objection. The Old Man wanted Sloane Ashby there, too, and Harvath was glad to have her. Her record spoke for itself.
He had also roped in Matt Sanchez, who had performed so well in Somalia. General Johnson had recommended the team’s final member.
Chase Palmer of Odessa, Texas, had the distinction of being the youngest operator ever to have been admitted to the ranks of the U.S. Army’s elite Delta Force unit. He was smart, battle-tested, and an exceptionally talented killer of the enemy. The Department of Defense had file cabinets stuffed full with accounts of his exploits. His teammates had nicknamed him “AK” for Ass Kicker, but the nickname took on a whole new meaning when he was caught with an empty AK-47 and was able to bluff six heavily armed Taliban into surrender.
Some of his superiors resented not only his talent and meteoric rise, but also his above-average intelligence. When they called him AK, it stood for Asshole Kid. General Johnson, though, saw him for what he was—a tremendous asset to the United States—and had taken him under his wing. Though still technically a member of Combat Applications Group, or CAG (the name given to Delta Force to allow the Army to deny the existence of Delta Force), Palmer was assigned to General Johnson and served at his pleasure. Right now, the general’s pleasure was to see to it that Operation Sierra, the code name given to the capture of Phil Durkin, was successful.
“Targets have all been ranged. Command Six is good to go,” Sanchez replied over his microphone as Harvath asked his team members one by one for their SITREPs.
The terrain was barren and windswept; more rock and loose shale than anything else. It was cold and misty. Everyone would rather have been someplace else, but you wouldn’t have heard a complaint from a single one of them. This is who they were and what they did. Each of them consoled themselves with the knowledge that no matter how damp and how cold it was, it easily could have been worse, and that what they did, they did for their country. They all knew that there were people who would never know their names and would never know what they were doing this night, but that their way of life hung in the balance.
