The First Commandment

Harvath rolled up his sleeves and kept his eyes open as gusts of spray frothed up from the sides of the boat. He’d hidden the pickup in the house garage before climbing aboard the Corsair, but there was no telling how close his pursuers were.

The only thing he knew for certain was that even with Rick Morrell at their helm, the Omega Team would stop at nothing, not even killing him, to remove him from the picture.

At the Washington Sailing Marina, Harvath limped in feigning engine trouble and docked the Corsair. The staff left him alone to call his supposed Chris Craft dealer in Maryland, but instead, Harvath dialed a local cab company, and ten minutes later he was being driven the short distance to Reagan National’s extended parking lot.

Because the trip to Jordan had been not only personal, but also highly sensitive, he had left his DHS credentials, his government-issued BlackBerry, and his weapon with Ron Parker back at Elk Mountain.

While the taxi waited, Harvath located his black Chevy Trail-blazer. From the hitch vault under the rear bumper he retrieved a spare set of keys, a rubber-band-wrapped wad of tens and twenties, a preloaded debit card, and a duplicate driver’s license to replace the personal effects Rick Morrell had taken from him when they off-loaded him from Tim Finney’s plane.

After exiting the extended parking lot, he paid the cab driver and headed toward D. C. As he drove, he removed one of the throwaway cell phones he kept in his bugout bag and dialed his boss, Gary Lawlor.

“I’ve been trying to reach you for the last two days,” said Lawlor when he answered. “Where the hell are you?”

“Never mind where I am,” said Harvath. “I need you to listen.”

Lawlor was quiet as Harvath spent the next several minutes filling him in on everything that had happened and everything he had learned since they last spoke.

When he was finished, Lawlor said, “Jesus, Scot, if what you’re telling me is true, you’ve been killing the people the president promised to protect! You’re undermining our word and making the president look like a liar. It’s only a matter of time before these people decide we’ve screwed them and they keep their promise about going after more kids.”

This was not exactly the kind of support Harvath had been hoping for when he brought his boss up to speed. “Look,” he replied, “one of those men released from Gitmo is killing innocent Americans. The president promised to leave them alone based on their past actions, not current ones. But did anyone stop to think that this may be precisely why the terrorists negotiated the deal in the first place? So they could have blanket immunity while they carried out new acts of terror?

“Sorry, Gary, it was a bad bargain. I didn’t make this mess, but I guess I’m going to be the one to clean it up.”

“Good,” stated Lawlor. “I want you to nail the son of a bitch.”

Harvath could tell by the tone of his voice that he had misread him. Something else had happened. “What’s going on?”

“It’s Emily.”

Harvath didn’t need to be given a last name to know who Gary was talking about. Emily Hawkins had been Gary ’s assistant and right arm while he’d been at the FBI. She’d been like a second mother to Harvath since he’d moved to D. C., and he had left the puppy with her after Tracy had been shot.

“What happened?”

“He got to her. Her and the dog.”

Lawlor was not an overly emotional man, and Harvath could tell it was taking everything he had to keep it together. He was completely choked up. “Tell me what happened.”

“He was hiding in her barn out near Haymarket. He beat both her and the puppy severely. They’ve each got multiple broken bones and contusions. He did a real number on them, but that was just for starters. This sick bastard had brought along two body bags, one for an adult and one for a child. He placed her in one and the dog in the other, but before he zipped them up, he tossed in something to keep them company.”

Harvath’s stomach started to churn. He knew that body bags were nonporous. It was a horrible way to die. Harvath was definitely going to kill this guy. He pulled over to the side of the road and asked, “What did he throw in there?”

“He filled Emily’s bag with horseflies. She was bitten over two hundred times.”

Horseflies? That didn’t make sense. The next plague was supposed to be boils. “ Gary, you’re sure that’s all there was? Just flies?”

“The EMTs that showed up said he put over a thousand fleas in with the puppy.”

“So fleas and flies? That’s all?”

“No, that’s not all. He strung them both upside down from one of the rafters. If Emily’s neighbor hadn’t shown up when he did, they’d be dead.

“Wait a second,” said Harvath. “They’re alive? Emily and the dog?”

“Yes, but only barely. I’m on my way to the hospital in Manassas now.”