Takedown

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 had 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.