The First Commandment

Harvath took a dish towel and wiped the brochure clean. Rental homes the world over were filled with local magazines, as well as brochures on sights and things to do. It was no surprise that the owners of this house would have done the same for their renters. But what was it about this brochure that warranted Roussard’s throwing it out?

Harvath rapidly flipped through the pages, trying to discern its significance. It wasn’t until he neared the end that he noticed a dog-eared page, and his heart stopped cold in his chest.

The text at the top read “The Grand Yacht Polaris was built in 1898 for Otto Young, one of the first millionaires on Geneva Lake. Experience the luxurious lifestyle of this time period while surrounded by the original mahogany and brass aboard the Polaris. Her deck is open to the lake breeze and the cabin area contains a beautiful brass-top bar. Perfect for private tours, or treat your guests to a one-of-a-kind cocktail party.”

Harvath had been wrong. Roussard’s target wasn’t Meg’s wedding, it was her rehearsal dinner.

As he dropped the brochure on the table he heard the distinct sound of a hammer being cocked behind him. It was followed by Rick Morrell’s voice from the other side of the kitchen saying, “Don’t move, Scot. Don’t even breathe.”

Chapter 116

A million and one things sped through Harvath’s mind, chief among them being, How the hell had they found him?

Harvath knew that any attempt to negotiate with Morrell would be futile. He didn’t care how close he was to nailing Roussard and he wouldn’t care that Roussard was at this very moment about to carry out another attack. Morrell’s sole purpose was to put a hood over Harvath’s head and throw him into a dark hole for a long time.

If there was one thing that Harvath knew about life, it was that it was all about timing, and Morrell’s just plain sucked.

Without warning, Harvath dropped to the floor and out of sight of Rick Morrell and his men. As he scrambled on his hands and knees into the living room, the dining area erupted in a hail of silenced weapons fire. Morrell’s marching orders were clear-Harvath was to be taken dead or alive.

The front door exploded inward and Harvath fired a volley of booming rounds into the frame, which scattered an additional contingent of Morrell’s men and sent them scurrying for cover outside.

Firing several more rounds as he ran, Harvath made it to the grand staircase and charged up the steps. Reaching the master bedroom, he could hear men pounding up the stairs behind him.

There was no time to slow them down by barricading the door. Harvath needed to maintain his lead.

Racing through the bedroom, he shut the doors to the walk-in closet and the bathroom and let himself out the French doors onto the small balcony.

Checking first for any signs of Morrell’s men on the ground below, Harvath hopped up onto the stone balustrade and pulled himself onto the steeply sloped roof.

The slate tiles were almost impossible to get traction on. Harvath’s feet kept slipping as he moved his way down the roofline. His goal was to drop onto the garage and from there to the ground where he could make his way back into the woods. However, it didn’t turn out exactly the way he had planned.

Ten feet away from the garage, Harvath’s foot caught a loose tile and he lost his balance-this time for good.

He went down hard, hitting the edge of the roof before being launched into the open air. Harvath tried to right himself, but he was traveling at too great a rate of speed.

He landed hard on his left side, the force of the impact crushing the air from his lungs. Despite the thick bed of landscaping mulch, had he landed on his head, his neck would have snapped like a matchstick. Though Harvath didn’t feel very lucky at the moment he was, extremely.

Even though his brain was scrambled from the fall and he couldn’t breathe, he knew on a primal level that he needed to get moving or he was going to be dead.

He sucked in huge gulps of air, trying to saturate his lungs with oxygen. As his chest heaved, he caught sight of his pistol lying in the dirt several feet away.

He scrambled toward it, and as his fingers closed around the slide, he felt the air returning to his lungs.

Getting to his feet, Harvath made sure to remain below the window line as he ran toward the garage. When he got there, he pulled up short, flattening his back against the cool stone wall.

Raising his H amp;K to chest height, he risked a quick peek around the corner.

Two of Morrell’s men were already on the ground looking for him, and one was headed his way. In a word, Harvath was fucked.

Chapter 117

The only chance Harvath had of escape was to draw Morrell and his men off his trail, and to do that, he was going to need to take one of them out of commission.