by Brad Thor
Morrell held up his hand. “No you don’t. It wasn’t over, not by a long shot. For the United States, the trouble had only just begun.”
CHAPTER 66
Harvath didn’t know what to think, or what to feel, for that matter. He’d figured that the president had been motivated to do the right thing for the country and that was certainly what he’d done in this horrible scenario, but it still didn’t explain why he’d sidelined him.
He didn’t know if Rick Morrell had the answers he was seeking or not, but he knew each piece of information he got would bring him one step closer to solving the puzzle. Harvath knew they didn’t have much time left, so he decided to hold his questions and let Morrell finish.
Morrell was obviously concerned with the time as well. He glanced at his watch for the third time and then said, “The secretary of defense suggested to the president that a highly classified tracking program be used to trace the five men once they were released from Guantanamo.”
“Via a radioactive isotope,” said Harvath, sensing where this was going. “I’m familiar with it.”
“The U.S. didn’t know who it was negotiating with. And it knew even less about the relationship among the men it was about to free. If they could track the men, it was believed they could locate the organization responsible for the bus hijacking and either bring them to justice or at the very least exact some sort of revenge.
“The only problem was that somehow the other side knew about the blood-spiking program and fully transfused the five detainees in flight. They then used the extracted blood to lead the CIA on a fucked-up chase. The blood wound up in several containers that were tossed in multiple dumpsters and the trunks of several cars.
“The DOD blamed the CIA for losing the men, and the CIA blamed the DOD for hanging their hat on a program that wasn’t as ultra-top-secret as they’d thought.”
“So the U.S. lost them. I know that much,” said Harvath.
“What you don’t know is that the terrorists placed a few conditions on the deal they struck with the president.”
“Such as what?”
“Such as the men we released were never to be hunted, harmed, or reincarcerated,” replied Morrell. “As an insurance policy, the terrorists provided surveillance photos of over a hundred school buses from across the country. The message was clear. If we welshed, they’d be back, and things would be a lot worse the next time. We’d be forced to suffer a gruesome attack against our children and this time there’d be no negotiating.”
“That’s why the president wanted me sidelined.”
Morrell put his hand on his friend’s shoulder. “He didn’t want you sidelined, he had no choice. You’ve put him in a very difficult position.”
“So what? He wouldn’t even fill me in on who he supposedly has hunting this guy down.”
“Would it have made a difference? Would the president’s personnel decisions have convinced you to sit by while this nutjob was targeting your friends and family?”
Harvath didn’t know how to answer that question. Finally he said, “Probably not.”
“Scot, the president knows you were in Mexico when Palmera was killed.”
“How would he know that?”
“The CIA has CCTV footage of you at the airport in Querétaro. They traced the plane you used. They also know who the plane belongs to. That’s how we figured out you were on your way back from Amman.”
Harvath’s heart sank. If he was going down, he certainly didn’t want to drag people along with him, especially not decent, patriotic Americans like Tim Finney and Ron Parker. “The guys at Elk Mountain didn’t know anything about this.”
“You and I both know that’s bullshit,” replied Morrell. “They’re on the CCTV footage with you. The only thing working in your favor is that witnesses claim Palmera ran into the street and was hit by the cab. As far as they’re concerned, it was most likely a cartel thing. Whether the terrorists who helped arrange his release from Gitmo believe that is another story.”
“Where’s that leave us, then?”
“I need to know what happened in Amman. Why were you there? Who did you meet with?”
Harvath shook his head, no.
“Scot, listen to me. The Palmera thing can be made to look like he got mixed up with some bad people from his old life. It’s only one death, and while suspicious, it’s nothing definitive. Two deaths and we’re in big trouble and the shit is most definitely going to hit the fan.
“We have no idea how many school buses these people could potentially target. The only hope we have of avoiding more attacks is to manage this situation from out front. We can’t do that unless you give us what we need. What happened in Amman?”
“If the president had been up front about all of this from the start I could have—”
“Scot, what happened?”
“Abdel Salam Najib is dead. His handler too.”
“Shit,” cursed Morrell.
“What did you expect? What did anybody expect? The lives of the people I care about are at stake here. I couldn’t just sit back and do nothing.”
Rick Morrell stood up and headed for the door.
“Wait a second!” said Harvath. “That’s it? I thought you were going to help me.”
“I did help you,” said Morrell as he kept walking. “The president said dead or alive. You’re alive.”
Though he was still alive, Harvath realized he’d also been duped into revealing what had happened in Jordan. With two of the detainees dead, there was no way they were going to let him go now.
What he did next was rash, poorly thought out, and just plain stupid, but considering the circumstances he found himself in, it was probably the only move Harvath could make.
CHAPTER 67
Morrell was almost at the door when Harvath slammed his sledgehammer of a fist into the base of the man’s skull.
Morrell’s knees buckled as he lost consciousness and Harvath eased him gently to the floor. He then glanced down at his watch.
Was Morrell telling the truth about the servers’ being offline for fifteen minutes? If he wasn’t, the other Omega Team members would be rushing to the room at this very moment. He counted to five. Nothing happened.
Morrell had at least been telling the truth about the cameras, which meant that Harvath now had less than two minutes to get out of the house unseen.
He grabbed his now ex-friend’s keys, unholstered his TASER, and rapped twice against the door.
Harvath heard the heavy footfalls of the guard on the other side followed by the sliding of the deadbolt as he unlocked the door. He raised the TASER and prepared to fire.
As the door swung open, the guard exposed himself and Harvath squeezed the trigger. The barbed probes embedded themselves in his chest and he was given the electric bull’s ride for five. He fell forward into the room, and after rolling him quickly onto his back, Harvath landed a series of brutal punches to the man’s face and head that rendered him unconscious.
He stripped the guard of his .45 caliber Glock, his keys, a walkie-talkie, and a Benchmade tactical folding knife.
Unlike the TASER Harvath had used in Mexico, this one had a spare cartridge in the grip, and Harvath quickly reloaded the weapon. While these men had been authorized to kill him, they were first and foremost Americans who were doing the job they’d been sent to do. Harvath didn’t want to kill any of them if he didn’t have to.
Harvath stepped cautiously into the hallway. He could hear voices coming from the main part of the cottage, which made his decision to go in the opposite direction even easier.
As he crept closer to the end of the hallway, he could hear a television set. It was accompanied by an irregular whirring sound and an occasional thwack. Harvath had no idea what he was hearing until he neared the room and heard a shout.
Peering around the doorway, his hopes for a clean getaway tanked. Two Omega Team members were playing foosball on one of the rattiest-looking tables Harvath had ever seen. Just pa
st them was a doorway that led to the outside world and beyond it, freedom. The one problem was that Harvath had only a single shot remaining in the TASER.
He had to think of something fast. His time was almost up. Sneaking a quick peek around the corner again, he took in as much of the room as possible and seared the image into his brain.
Both of the men were armed, but Harvath had surprise on his side. He could buttonhook into the room with his Glock drawn and tell them to hit the floor, but there was no guarantee that they would comply. If they called his bluff, he’d be in a very difficult position. He had no desire to shoot them, not even to secure his freedom, but he’d do it if he had to. He could kneecap both of them, but the sound of gunfire would bring the other team members and then he’d really be in trouble. Having shot first, he would undoubtedly be targeted as an active threat that needed to be neutralized. Harvath could very well be signing his own death certificate.
The key was getting out with as little noise and drawing as little attention as possible.
Another shout erupted from the foosball game, and Harvath chanced a third look around the corner. Another goal had been scored, and the man who’d been scored upon was readying to serve the ball. The man opposite him had both his hands upon his metal rods ready for action. It was then that Harvath noticed that most of the handles on the ancient table were missing. The two Omega Team members were gripping bare metal.
Harvath waited for the ball to be served. When the man reached for his other bare rod, Harvath raised the TASER sideways, swung fully into the room and squeezed the trigger.
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
Philippe 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.”
