by Brad Thor
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
Mark 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 “shoot out” 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
Philippe 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.
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.
Even so, he was smart enough to realize that with every attack he carried out, the odds of his being captured or killed were increasing.
Roussard wanted to skip to the end of the list, but his handler wouldn’t hear of it. Their relationship was growing strained. Their last conversation in Mexico had ended with the normally calm and collected Roussard shouting and hanging up.
When they spoke a couple of hours later, Roussard’s temper had cooled but he was still angry. He wanted Harvath to pay for what he had done, but there were other ways to do it. Vengeance should be bigger and more extreme. No survivors should be left behind. The people close to Harvath should die, and he should feel and see their blood upon his hands for the rest of his life.
Finally, his handler had relented.
Roussard watched as the last aerialists of the day climbed the stairs for their final jumps. It was time.
Carefully, he slung his backpack over his shoulder and walked down to the edge of the pool. The lack of security at the park amazed him. Spectators and staff smiled and said hello to him as he passed, none of them suspecting at all the horror he would shortly unleash.
The first device was packed inside a long sandwich roll and then wrapped in a Subway foods wrapper. It went into a trash receptacle near the main gate to the pool.
From there, Roussard calmly let himself in through the unlocked gate and headed toward the locker room. He was a chameleon, and 99 percent of his disguise came from his attitude. He had nailed the mountain casual, resort-town look perfectly. The ubiquitous iPod, T-shirt, jeans, and Keens—they all came together with his air of purpose in such a way that anyone who looked at him assumed that he either was a skier or worked for the park. In short, no one bothered Philippe Roussard because he looked like he belonged there.
In the locker room, Roussard quickly and carefully placed the rest of the devices. When he was done, he let himself out an unalarmed emergency exit and headed for the parking lot.
He placed the buds of the iPod into his ears, donned his silver helmet, and left the glass bottle with his calling card note where investigators should find it.
Firing up the 2005 Yamaha Yzf R6 sportbike he had stolen across the border in Wyoming, Roussard pulled out of the parking lot and slowly wound his way down the mountain.
Nearing the bottom, he pulled over and waited.
When the first of his explosions detonated, Roussard scrolled through his iPod, selected the music he wanted, revved his engine, and headed for the highway.
CHAPTER 43
SOMEWHERE OVER THE SOUTHWEST
Getting out of Mexico had been Harvath’s greatest concern. But once they were safely away, he traded one concern for another. After Finney’s jet had reached its cruising altitude and passed into U.S. airspace, a phone call came through.
Harvath and Parker listened as Finney chatted with Tom Morgan. He ended the call by telling his intel chief to send everything the Sargasso people had.
Finney then looked over at Harvath and said, “Scot, I’ve got some bad news.”
Harvath’s heart seized in his chest. Was it his mother? Tracy? He didn’t need to ask as Finney picked up a remote, activated the flat-panel monitor at the rear of the cabin, and tuned to one of the cable news programs.
Helicopter footage showed a raging fire with countless emergency vehicles gathered around one of the main buildings of the Utah Olympic Park that Harvath knew all too well. “What’s going on?” he asked.
“Someone placed several pipe bombs packed with ball bearings throughout the U.S. Freestyle Ski Team training area. At least two went off in the locker room while the team was there.”
“Jesus,” replied Parker. “Do they have casualty estimates yet?”
“Morgan’s emailing them now,” said Finney. “But it’s not good. So far they haven’t found any survivors.”
Harvath turned away from the television. He couldn’t watch any more. “What about the coaches?” he asked.
“Morgan’s sending everything he has,” responded Finney as he powered up his laptop and avoided Harvath’s gaze.
Harvath reached out and pulled the laptop away from Finney. “There’s a reason Morgan contacted you with this. What about the coaches?”
“You think this is connected?” asked Parker.
Harvath kept his eyes glued to Finney as he said, “The seventh plague of Egypt was hail mixed with fire.”
Parker was at a loss for what to say.
“Two of the coaches were my teammates,” said Harvath. “They were like family to me. I don’t want to wait for Morgan’s email. I want you to tell me what he said.”
Finney held Harvath’s gaze and replied, “Brian Peterson and Kelly Cook were pronounced dead at the scene along with nine other U.S. Ski Team members.”
Harvath felt as if he had been hit in the chest with a lead pipe. Part of him wanted to scream out Why? But he knew why. It was about him.
The more pressing question was, when was it going to stop? That, too, had an equally simple answer—when he put a bullet between the eyes of whoever was responsible for all of this.
He regretted losing Palmera. The idiot had run right out into the street and had gotten himself killed.
Not that it made much difference. They could have been there all night. If and when Palmera had cracked, his information wouldn’t have been worth anything, because he obviously wasn’t the man they were after. Someone else on that list was, and Harvath was determined to track him down before he could strike again. But time was obviously running out.
CHAPTER 44
SARGASSO INTELLIGENCE PROGRAM
ELK MOUNTAIN RESORT
MONTROSE, COLORADO
Tom Morgan finished his presentation by playing the CCTV footage from the San Diego Marriott and the Utah Olympic Sports Park in a split screen on a monitor at the front of the Sargasso conference room. “Though we don’t have a shot of his face, the cops found a note with the same message as the other two crime scenes—That which has been taken in blood, can only be answered in blood. Everything here tells me we’re dealing with the same guy.”
Harvath agreed. “Let’s get that footage to both hospitals. Even though we don’t have his face, I’d feel better about my mother and Tracy knowing their security people were keeping an eye peeled for this guy.”
“We’re going to send some of our guys out too,” replied Finney.
“What do you mean?” asked Harvath.
“We’ve handpicked two teams to cover your mom and Tracy,” answered Parker.
Harvath looked at him. “That would cost a fortune. I can’t ask you guys to do that.”
“It’s already done,” replied Finney with a smile. “The sooner you catch the asshole who’s responsible for all of this, the sooner I can bring my guys back and p
ut them on a gig that actually pays.”
“I owe you,” said Harvath.
“Yeah, you do, but we’ll take that up later. For right now, we need to figure out what our next move is going to be.”
It was a word Harvath didn’t want to hear, much less acknowledge. This was not our move, as Finney had put it. It was his move—Harvath’s. He loved Finney and Parker like brothers, but he preferred working alone. He could move faster and there was less to worry about. While Finney and Parker had been a big help to him in Mexico, he couldn’t put them at risk anymore.
He was already struggling under a mountain of guilt. He needed to start compartmentalizing his life—firewalling off everyone he could from danger, and that included Tim Finney and Ron Parker.
Turning to Tom Morgan, Harvath asked, “What do we know about the three remaining names on the list?”
Morgan handed folders to everyone and then opened a file on his computer. The CCTV footage on the monitor disappeared and was replaced with three head-and-shoulder silhouettes, with names and nationalities underneath. “Not much. Scattered intelligence references. A smattering of aliases. Little to no known contacts. What I could find is in the folder. I’m afraid it looks like we’re going to be at the mercy of the Troll for running these three down.”
“Have you put them through our domestic databases?” asked Harvath as he studied the screen and set his folder on the table.
“Yes,” replied Morgan, “but I can’t find any visas, visa applications, airline tickets, or anything else that suggests any of them have recently entered the United States.”
Harvath wasn’t surprised. “This guy isn’t going to leave a trail.”
Morgan nodded.
“Then do you think Mexico was a red herring?” asked Finney.
