by Brad Thor
It was one such intrigue that had brought Scot here. A joint CIA/DIA team had been tracking Mohammed bin Mohammed since he had returned to Africa. They had followed him up to Tangiers and onto a ferryboat for the quick jaunt across the straits to Gibraltar. They now had him under surveillance in a sumptuous, yet discreet villa near the harbor—not far from the hotel where Harvath was booked. Once Mohammed’s deal for the rogue nuclear material went down, the team had their orders to immediately back off. From that point forward, the al-Qaeda terrorist belonged to Scot Harvath and Scot Harvath only. No bullshit, no bureaucracy, and absolutely nobody but himself to answer to.
For two days, Mohammed played the merry holidaymaker, hitting the beaches by day and then prowling the open-air restaurants and discos for young boys at night. It made Harvath sick. He couldn’t wait to put a bullet in this scumbag. The only thing worse than seeing him pick up the boys was joining the CIA/DIA team in its daily sweep of his villa while he basked on the beach and the staff ran errands. The man was quite the budding cinematographer, and watching him actually in the act made Harvath want to vomit.
It was on the third night in Gibraltar that things finally started getting interesting.
Forgoing his usual nightclub trolling, Mohammed picked one of the more upscale restaurants in town, where he put away a considerable amount of food accompanied by an incredibly expensive bottle of Bordeaux. Afterward, he headed down to the marina and a vintage Riva runabout, which, once he climbed aboard, sped off into the open ocean.
With a host of airplanes, watercraft, and helicopters at his disposal, the lead CIA/DIA agent immediately mobilized all of his assets to follow Mohammed out into the Mediterranean. When offered the opportunity to tag along, Harvath declined. He had a strong feeling that if Mohammed didn’t plan on coming back, he never would have abandoned his newly minted video library back at the villa.
So while the joint task force pursued their man out into the darkening Mediterranean Sea, Harvath returned to his hotel room and, for the hundredth time since he’d arrived, disassembled and oiled his weapons.
Listening to the radio set in his room, he followed the team’s progress as Mohammed’s landing craft spirited him out to a large yacht with an innocuous Bahamian registry. The minute the highly sensitive nuclear materials aircraft zeroed in on it, their monitoring equipment started bouncing. Using the advanced microwave devices aboard the various covert pleasure craft that had sailed within listening range, the team was able to monitor almost the entire transaction.
Convinced they had what they were looking for, they informed Harvath that Mohammed bin Mohammed was on his way back to the marina and that the suspect was all his. Leaving his hotel, Harvath threw his gear into his rental car and headed toward the marina. Something told him that Mohammed might just be in the market for one last night of pleasure before leaving Gibraltar.
Little did Harvath know that someone else was banking on the exact same hunch.
One Hundred
The Troll disliked leaving the comfort and security of Eileanaigas House and had done so only because Mohammed bin Mohammed’s escape from American custody had made it absolutely necessary.
Never in a million years would the Troll have believed Abdul Ali able to pull it off, but looking back on the operation, he realized it was his own plan that had been flawed. Once Sacha had helped Ali locate Mohammed bin Mohammed, the Chechen was supposed to kill them both—something that never happened. The Troll had underestimated Ali, but for the moment, none of that mattered. What mattered was that Mohammed be decommissioned once and for all. The fact that the bearded grease tub had forced unspeakable sex acts upon the Troll decades earlier in the Black Sea resort of Sochi made his reasons for killing the man all too personal.
Having searched for him for years and finally locating him, the Troll had hoped that the Americans would do the job for him. The fact that there had been a five-million-dollar bounty on Mohammed’s head had only been icing on the cake. Now, though, the man was free once again, and from what the Troll had observed over the last several days among the bars, restaurants, and discotheques of Gibraltar, this leopard had no intention of changing his spots.
Customized by a reclusive gunsmith in southern France, the diminutive weapon the Troll was carrying had been specially designed to accommodate his exceedingly small frame. Chambered for the devastating .338 Lapua round, its optimal range was between 500 and 1200 meters, with anything below that necessary only when very deep penetration was called for. To use it for any other reason at close range was considered overkill, to say the least.
While the Troll prided himself on being a master of subtlety, he had no reservations about taking Mohammed at even point-blank range, if that was what the situation called for.
While the pedophile had frolicked on the beach by day and had cruised the nightclubs for conquests at night, the Troll had familiarized himself with routes both to and from his potential sniping areas, as well as the routes that could be used for egress from Gibraltar. As with everything else in his world, the Troll was ready for any eventuality.
That changed, though, when he noticed Mohammed bin Mohammed was under covert American surveillance. The team tracking him was exceptional, but not so good that the Troll couldn’t detect their presence. Even so, he decided to remain in play. There was a slight problem, though. The team had an additional man on board—a hitter. The Troll was sure of it. But who was he charged with taking out? Was it Mohammed? Was it the people he was doing business with? Was it both parties?
While the thought of leaving the job to the American assassin was tempting, the Troll knew that if he wanted this done right, he would have to do it himself. And if the American hitter got in his way, he would have to take him out as well.
Attaching a lightweight silencer to the front of his weapon, the Troll reaffirmed to himself that the only thing that mattered was taking down Mohammed bin Mohammed once and for all. If that meant sawing through one or two Americans who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time to do so, then that was just the way it would have to be.
One Hundred One
Though Harvath had been provided with an extremely efficient sniper rifle, he left it in the trunk, deciding instead on several tools designed for up-close work. When he took Mohammed bin Mohammed’s life, he wanted to look the man in the eyes and see the expression on his face.
He had watched the CCTV footage the Libyans had given the United States from New York over and over again. From what they could piece together, Mohammed’s accomplice—a man the CIA had tentatively identified as Abdul Ali—removed a wheelchair from the medical room, helped Mohammed down two or three floors via the stairwell, and then rode the elevator the rest of the way to the garage. While Ali pushed the wheelchair, bin Mohammed cradled the short-barreled M16 Viper of the marine they had overpowered, Brad Harper, and had used it to kill Bob Herrington. That was why Harvath wanted to look into bin Mohammed’s face when he killed him. He owed Bob that much. The only challenge was deciding where to make the kill.
While Harvath was confident that Mohammed would return to the villa to retrieve his clothes and cache of X-rated vacation footage, there was a possibility that his exploits might keep him out all night. If that was the case and he was pressed for time the next day, he might abandon the footage. The way Harvath saw it, his best bet was to wait for Mohammed at the harbor and quietly follow him, trusting that the right opportunity would present itself. For someone who liked to have all of the angles completely plotted out beforehand, this marked quite an operational departure for Harvath, but at the same time, this was not his usual kind of assignment. This was extremely personal.
Hearing from the joint CIA/DIA team that Mohammed’s boat was on its way back in, Harvath mentally checked the first obstacle off his list. How many were left, though, was anybody’s guess.
So as not to be forced to potentially pursue two targets over the water, it was agreed that the team would wait until Mohammed h
ad set foot back on dry land before taking down the yacht.
As the al-Qaeda operative stepped off the dock and headed for Casemates Square, Harvath radioed the CIA/DIA team leader. “Gravedigger, this is Norseman. Mickey Mouse has dry feet. I repeat, Mickey Mouse has dry feet.”
“Roger that,” came the reply. “Good luck.”
Harvath removed his earpiece, turned off his radio, and began to stalk his prey.
One Hundred Two
Forgoing Casemates Square altogether, Mohammed bin Mohammed walked up to the main post office, where he turned onto Bell Lane and headed for a long set of stairs known as Castle Street. Partway up on the left was a large sign that read Charles’ Hole-in-the-Wall. Harvath had only to observe a couple of the customers heading inside to know what kind of a club it was.
On the bright side, he figured a handsome single man with his eyes constantly scanning the room wouldn’t be that out of place there.
He gave Mohammed a few minutes to get himself settled and then headed inside.
The dimly lit interior was awash in a fog of cigarette smoke. Eighties dance music blared from the sound system while patrons danced, drank, or made conversation. At a small table on the other side of the room, Mohammed bin Mohammed sipped a cocktail and surveyed the scene.
Harvath would have preferred to have taken him in a dark doorway or between a couple of parked cars somewhere outside, but it was high season in Gibraltar and the streets were just too crowded. That was okay with Harvath, though. He could just as easily do what he needed to do here. The only thing different would be which weapon he used, and he had plenty to choose from.
With his untucked linen shirt hiding the deadly array of tools affixed to his carbon-fiber belt, Harvath leaned back against the bar and tried to decide how best to make his move. Because he wanted to make this as personal as possible, a knife seemed the best choice. Considering how dark the bar was, he could slide up right next to the man, plunge the weapon in, and tear it right across his abdominal cavity with no one near Mohammed bin Mohammed being any the wiser.
Harvath would be able to sit with him and maybe even have a drink as he watched him die. Then, all Harvath would have to do would be to gently lay the man’s head on the table and it would look like he’d passed out from too much to drink. It wouldn’t take too long for the other patrons to notice something was wrong, but by the time they did, Harvath would be long gone.
As he stood up to make his move, a young man entered the establishment and, after flitting around for a moment or two, made his way over to Mohammed bin Mohammed’s table and sat down.
With no choice but to wait it out, Harvath ordered a beer and kept his eyes glued to the table. There was no way he could kill Mohammed when there was a witness present.
After two more rounds of cocktails, Mohammed and the boy stood up to leave. Harvath left some money on the bar, and once the pair had passed him, he counted to twenty and followed them outside.
As the two walked, Mohammed slid his hand down the boy’s back and let it linger on his rear end. Harvath hoped that when he dispatched Mohammed to the hereafter, Allah would have a very special cell waiting for him.
When they arrived at the villa, Harvath took up the post he had been using to surveil the house for the past couple of nights. He would wait until the boy left and then he’d sneak inside and take Mohammed out. Though he wasn’t crazy about having to wait, there was nothing he could do about it. Harvath had no desire to kill an innocent bystander, and while he could probably take a shot through one of the open windows, he wanted to be as close as possible as he watched the very last drops of Mohammed bin Mohammed’s life drain away.
The al-Qaeda operative led the boy out onto the veranda, then stepped back inside to make another cocktail. As he did so, Harvath noticed movement at the other end of the house.
As his eyes swung in that direction, he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. Inside were two enormous white wolves that were carefully making their way toward bin Mohammed.
One Hundred Three
When Harvath looked closer, he realized that what he was seeing weren’t wolves at all, but rather two extremely large dogs. They resembled the type of animal he’d seen the Russian army use. They also appeared to both be wearing harnesses of some sort. And where there were dogs, Harvath knew there was normally a handler, though for the moment he couldn’t see one.
He watched as the animals silently crept forward—obviously taking great pains so as not to be detected. Harvath was marveling at their discipline, when he finally saw the handler. It was only a glimpse at first and then, as one of the animals turned, he could make the figure out in its entirely. It was amazing. From Harvath’s vantage point the man couldn’t have been more than two-and-a-half to three-feet tall, max. The dogs towered over him.
Harvath focused on the bizarre weapon the man was carrying. It looked like it was crafted of plastic-style polymers and some kind of alloy. Obviously, it had been custom-made to accommodate the dwarf’s small size. But who the hell was he and what did he want with Mohammed bin Mohammed? Were the people Mohammed was doing the nuke deal with trying to double-cross him?
Leaping the small wall at the far end of the veranda, Harvath took cover just as Mohammed bin Mohammed stepped outside with a drink in each hand, oblivious to the threat quickly advancing on him from within the villa.
Handing one of the cocktails to his guest, Mohammed prepared to lie down alongside him on the chaise, when suddenly he heard a terrible growling from behind. Spinning around, he saw a hideous little dwarf flanked by two of the most vicious-looking dogs he’d ever encountered in his life. The sight was such a shock that the man’s large glass slipped from his hand and shattered on the flagstone terrace.
“Who are you?” demanded Mohammed. “What do you want?”
The dwarf signaled for the boy to rise from the lounge chair and step away from his host. Mohammed was surprised to see the young man so readily comply. His confusion evaporated as the young man approached the dwarf, stuck out his hand, and was given several large bills before quickly leaving the villa.
At the dwarf’s command, the dogs fell silent.
“Who are you?” repeated Mohammed. “What do you want?”
The Troll smiled. “You don’t remember me, do you?”
“Of course not. We’ve never met. I have absolutely no idea who you are.”
“You may not remember me, but surely you remember the Black Sea. There was a brothel near the town of Sochi.”
What little color remained in the al-Qaeda operative’s face now completely drained away. Could this be the same dwarf? If it was, then yes, he did remember him. He remembered the brothel too. Mohammed had wanted a very young boy, not a dwarf, but when the madam and her husband said that the dwarf was the best they were able to do, he had decided it was better than nothing and had had his way with him. Afterward, he had felt so disgusted with himself that he had beaten the little creature almost to death. If it hadn’t been for the quick thinking of one of the whores, who was able to give the dwarf the breath of life and compress his chest until his heart restarted, he would never have returned to the realm of the living.
“I paid dearly for that misunderstanding,” replied Mohammed. “The proprietors’ silence did not come cheap.”
“You might have paid them, but you never paid me,” answered the Troll. “I spent a good part of my life looking for you. When the Americans took you into custody, I was prepared to let you rot, but then you escaped. So tonight I will recoup what is owed me, with interest.”
“How did you know I was held by the Americans?”
“Because he was the one who turned you in,” said Abdul Ali as he stepped from the shadow of the villa.
As exceptional as the dogs were, they had never even detected the assassin’s approach. Now they began barking at both Mohammed bin Mohammed and Abdul Ali.
“Shut them up,” said the assassin as he pointed his silenced Beretta at the Troll. “An
d drop your weapon.”
When the Troll hesitated, Ali turned his weapon on the nearest Caucasian Ovcharka and pulled the trigger.
The Troll felt the round just as surely as if it had pierced his own heart. He wanted to cry out, but he retained his composure and signaled his remaining animal to be still. Then he dropped his weapon.
Even from where he remained hidden, Harvath could see enough of the newest party crasher to recognize him. He was the man from the CCTV footage at Libya House. The man who had not only helped Mohammed bin Mohammed escape, but who was responsible for the deaths of the NSA employees, the marines, and all the other victims of the terrible terrorist attacks on New York. Even more important to Harvath, it was this man, the one the CIA was calling Abdul Ali, who had armed Mohammed bin Mohammed and helped him to kill Bob Herrington.
Harvath had expected a long, hard hunt for Ali, but now the man had been delivered right to him. The promise he had made to Bob the night he was murdered was going to be easier to carry out than he had thought.
With a silencer already affixed to his own weapon, Harvath raised his H&K pistol and took aim at the most logical primary target—the only other man holding a gun. Though it wasn’t the long and painfully drawn-out death he would have wished on Ali, it was what the circumstances dictated. Taking a deep breath, he squeezed the trigger and watched as Ali’s brains exploded out the other side of his head. And with that shot, pandemonium instantly erupted.
Mohammed bin Mohammed threw his considerable bulk to the ground and began crawling for the villa as fast as he could. To help slow him down, Harvath put a round in the back of each of his legs.
As the al-Qaeda operative screamed in pain, Harvath swept his pistol from left to right, searching for the dwarf, who had suddenly disappeared. At the last minute, he found him.
