The First Commandment: A Thriller

by Brad Thor

  Harvath was about to tell him he had no choice, when all the lights in the house went out. He knew that whoever had started the job with that helicopter was about to storm the house to make sure it was finished.

  CHAPTER 91

  Hoping the sound of the idling helicopter would cover their entry into the water, Harvath wrapped his arm around the dwarf’s waist and jumped.

  They swam for as long as Harvath could beneath the water before coming up for air. The Troll was terrified and sucked in rapid gasps of air when they broke the surface. Harvath spun him onto his back to help keep his head above water and dragged him in a swimmer’s carry through the bay.

  They swam parallel to the shore as the Troll kept an iron two-handed grip on his waterproof laptop. He was incredibly strong for his size. Had he put up any more of a struggle, Harvath very likely would have had to head butt the man to keep him from drowning them both.

  Once they were a safe distance from the house, Harvath changed direction and brought them in to shore. As his feet touched the beach the Troll fell over onto his hands and knees and began retching up the cups of seawater he had swallowed during their short swim.

  Harvath ignored him. Removing his dry bag, he pulled out his night vision goggles and powered them up.

  As he finished heaving, the Troll wiped his mouth on his soaked shirtsleeve and said, “Where are you going?”

  Harvath double-checked his pistol and said, “Back to the house.”

  “But I’ve got a speedboat at the dock on the end of the island.”

  “And they’ve got a helicopter. Helicopter beats boat every time.”

  The Troll knew he was right. “So what do we do?” he asked.

  Ever since they had escaped from the house, Harvath’s mind had been preoccupied with who was behind the attack. Were they here for him or had they come for the Troll?

  It seemed highly unlikely that Morrell and his Omega Team had tracked him all the way to Brazil. But even if they had, this kind of assault was complete overkill, even by Morrell’s standards.

  The more Harvath thought about it, the more he realized that whoever these people were, they had most likely come for the Troll. The little man’s list of enemies was long and distinguished. There were any number of governments that would have gladly seen him killed, including America’s. And on top of that, the dwarf had worked both for and against some the world’s most powerful people and organizations.

  The only thing Harvath could count on was that underestimating the attacker would be done at his own peril. “We need to split them up so we can thin them out,” he said.

  “Split them up how?” asked the Troll.

  “Where are the keys to the boat?”

  “In a cup holder next to the front passenger seat.”

  Harvath quickly explained what he wanted him to do. When the Troll nodded, Harvath turned and headed back toward the house.

  As he moved, he prayed to God his plan would work.

  CHAPTER 92

  Harvath ran up the beach to the point where the Troll’s house jutted out over the water. It was much closer than Harvath wanted to come, but he had very little choice.

  Sliding into the water, he glanced at his Kobold and made a note of how much time he had left.

  Pulling the cups of his night vision goggles over his eyes, Harvath swam until he was right beneath the glass floor of the living room. He could hear a chorus of orders being shouted by men’s voices up above, but none of them were in English. Every word was in Arabic.

  Whoever these men were, they were not here for Harvath. They were here for the Troll. Unfortunately for them, today was going to prove to be a very unlucky day.

  Positioning himself with a clear line of fire through several of the broken panes of glass above, Harvath raised his Beretta and waited. When one of the men came into view, it took all of his training not to pull the trigger. Once a second man joined his comrade, Harvath squeezed off two rounds in rapid succession and dropped them both.

  He didn’t wait to see what the reaction would be. Diving beneath the water’s surface, Harvath swam twice as far as he had with the Troll and didn’t come up for air until his lungs were seared by a burning thirst for oxygen.

  Slowly bringing his head above the waterline, Harvath reappeared a safe distance away and took in deep breaths of air. He watched as the burning house was illuminated by even brighter flashes of gunfire delivered by the two dead men’s colleagues through the glass floor at an opponent who had already fled.

  Harvath swam for the beach on the far side of the house. Hitting the sand, he wrung the water out of his clothes and made his way toward the main building. The Blackhawk Warrior Wear boots he was wearing had been designed by a former Navy SEAL and were almost completely dry within the first several yards. It was a good thing, as he was going to have to move quickly and the last thing he needed was to be dragging two water-logged cinder blocks around his feet.

  Traversing the beach, Harvath made it to the narrow strip of vegetation near the entryway to the house. Lying on his stomach, he used his elbows to pull himself forward. The first thing he noticed when he got within range of the house were the dogs.

  They had taken shelter in a culvert beneath a nearby raised outbuilding. Judging from the signs of forced entry, the interior most likely contained the generator used to power the main house.

  As Harvath crept forward, he heard the dogs begin to growl. He knew they were in no shape to attack, but the sound was enough to raise the hairs on the back of his neck.

  He judged the distance from the main house, which was going to burn the rest of the way to the ground in less than an hour, and decided the dogs would be safe. A large water storage tank with a hose stood nearby.

  Leaving the cover of the vegetation, Harvath shot out and quickly unwound the hose. He turned the spigot ever so slightly and then placed the hose near the dogs so they could have access to additional fresh water.

  He thought briefly about restarting the generator as a distraction, but all that would have done was call attention to his position. Any psychological advantage would have been very short-lived, and there was not much time left.

  Harvath swung around, flanking the house, and got himself into position halfway to the helipad.

  He looked down at his watch and observed the final seconds tick away.

  Once they did, there was a roar from the other end of the island as the Troll fired up the speedboat and cast away from the dock

  Immediately, Harvath saw two men race out of the burning house. They pounded down the footpath, and when they hit the blind curve two meters from his position, he took a breath and pulled the trigger of his weapon twice in rapid succession.

  Two cracks erupted from his Beretta and the men were felled, each by a perfect head shot.

  Harvath scrambled from his hiding spot and pulled their bodies off the trail into the underbrush. They were carrying 9mm silenced Ukrainian Goblin submachine guns.

  Harvath pulled a Goblin from one of the dead men, along with two spare magazines, and rushed toward the house. He had no idea whether the others could have heard his shots over the roar of the fire, but when the helicopter failed to lift off, the remaining men on the ground were going to get suspicious.

  Taking up a position directly opposite the front door, Harvath waited. And waited. The house was almost completely engulfed in flames. Had there only been four men in the assault team and had he killed them all?

  It didn’t seem likely, but neither did it seem as if anyone would have remained in the burning house. The heat had to be unbearable. All told, there weren’t that many rooms to search.

  Harvath held his position, the Goblin chambered and ready to fire. Minutes passed.

  He was about to creep closer to the house to have a look inside when he heard movement behind him. He spun just in time to see two guns shoved into his face.

  CHAPTER 93

  It’s you,” said one of the men in perfect English.
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br />   As he spoke his gun drew back and Harvath focused beyond its barrel. It was almost like staring into the face of a young Abu Nidal, his eyes dark and full of hate. Harvath recognized Philippe Roussard instantly.

  There was an awkward moment of silence on the killer’s part as he tried to figure out what was going on. Harvath could almost hear the gears of his twisted brain grinding against each other.

  “Where is the dwarf?” Roussard finally demanded as the other man stripped Harvath of his weapons and stood back. “We know he’s not in the boat. It’s out there doing circles in the bay.”

  “Fuck you,” said Harvath, his body seething with rage. The man he’d been hunting was standing right above him and there was nothing he could do. Harvath had never felt so helpless in his life.

  “So you know who I am,” Roussard replied with a smile before he struck Harvath across the jaw with the butt of his weapon. “I will ask you again. Where is he?”

  Harvath turned his face back up to him and replied, “And I will tell you again, fuck you.”

  Once more, the enigmatic smile spread across Roussard’s face and with it came another butt stroke. “Your tolerance of pain is nowhere near as great as my desire and ability to administer it. Now, where is the Troll?”

  Harvath’s head felt as if a million red-hot spikes were being pounded into it. “Umm,” he replied, his vision slightly dimmed. “Oh, I remember, fuck you!”

  Roussard drew back his weapon for another go and then suddenly thought better of it. Placing the muzzle against Harvath’s forehead he whispered, “I’m only concerned with the Troll. Tell me where he is and I’ll let you live.”

  “You’re in no position to negotiate anything.”

  “Funny,” said Roussard. “I thought I was the one holding the gun.”

  “For all the Marines you killed in Iraq,” replied Harvath, “as well as everything you have done to the people I love and care about, I am going to watch you die.”

  The smile returned to Roussard’s face. “Revenge is indeed a noble motive. A pity that it won’t be possible for you.”

  Roussard snugged the weapon up against his shoulder and prepared to fire. “You see, the only one of us who’s going to die here today is you.”

  Harvath’s eyes darted left and then right looking for a rock, a branch, anything he could use against his captors. There was nothing. On top of that, neither of the two men was standing close enough so that he could sweep their legs out from under them. He had absolutely no options.

  Harvath looked Roussard in the face and was about to speak when the killer’s finger tightened around his trigger and Harvath saw a blinding flash of light.

  CHAPTER 94

  The white phosphorous flare lodged in the chest of Roussard’s accomplice and lit him up like a lighthouse beacon.

  When Harvath’s vision returned, he saw the Troll waddling toward him, a spent flare gun dangling in his hand.

  The accomplice was dead. His smoking body lay on the ground several feet away. Harvath looked around for Roussard, but couldn’t find him.

  The moment he stood up, his legs threatened to give out beneath him. The blows to his head had been worse than he’d thought.

  “Slowly, slowly,” cautioned the Troll as he ran up to Harvath to help steady him.

  “Where’s Roussard?”

  “He took off toward the helipad.”

  “Why didn’t you stop him?” Harvath demanded as he reached for the dead man’s submachine gun and his two extra clips.

  “Stop him? I did stop him … from killing you. You ungrateful arsehole.”

  Harvath was on the footpath, running for the helipad, before the Troll even finished his sentence. The sounds of the spinning helicopter rotors were growing in intensity. It was already lifting off.

  By the time Harvath got to the pad, the chopper had already cleared the trees and was heading out over the water. Harvath tore through the forest to the beach on the other side of the island.

  When he got there, he raised the Goblin and opened fire. He saw at least two rounds connect near the tail rotor, but not seriously enough to bring the aircraft down or force it back for a landing. Harvath blew through his other two magazines even though he knew the helicopter was at the very far end of his range, if not already beyond it.

  With the Troll’s house fully ablaze, help would be coming soon. They needed to be gone before anyone got there.

  Harvath left the beach and threaded his way back through the forest. When he got back to the charred body of Roussard’s henchman, the Troll was gone, as were the rest of his weapons, including Harvath’s Beretta.

  He heard a noise near the generator shack and quietly crept forward to investigate.

  The Troll was on his hands and knees, the weapons stacked along with Harvath’s dry bag next to him.

  “Did you get him?” asked the Troll without turning around.

  “No,” replied Harvath as he pointed the empty automatic weapon at him.

  “I only had one shot, you know,” continued the Troll. “I shot the man closest to me, and even then I was afraid I was going to miss.”

  “I want you to move three steps to your right, away from those weapons.”

  “These?” said the Troll as he gestured to the pile and stood up to face Harvath. “I collected them for you. Consider it a thank-you for running the hose for the dogs.”

  “Just step away.”

  The Troll did as he was told.

  As Harvath moved in to collect the items, the dwarf grinned and said, “You don’t trust me, do you?”

  Harvath half-laughed as he checked to make sure a round was chambered in his Beretta and then placed the other items into his dry bag.

  “It’s not my fault the man I shot wasn’t Roussard. All you tall people look alike from behind.”

  “All the more reason I’ll be sure never to turn my back on you,” replied Harvath as he picked up the bag and slung it over his shoulder.

  “Why did you lie to Roussard?” asked the Troll, changing the subject. “If you’d told him where I was, you might have saved your own life.”

  “Roussard was going to kill me either way. I didn’t tell him where you were because I’ve got a thing about not helping bad people get ahead in life.”

  “Touché.”

  “By the way,” asked Harvath, “why’d you come back? You were supposed to tie off the boat’s steering wheel, send it out into the bay, and wait for me.”

  “When I didn’t hear the helicopter take off, I figured you’d been successful in the first part of your plan, but I still had a few reservations about the rest of it.”

  “I suppose I should be glad.”

  “No,” answered the Troll, “just grateful. If only a little bit.”

  Harvath didn’t know how he felt about owing his life to such a man, so to avoid thinking about it he took his turn at changing the subject. “What made you take the flare gun?”

  The Troll looked at Harvath and replied, “In life, even the smallest advantage is better than no advantage at all.”

  CHAPTER 95

  Instead of going north toward Rio, they headed south along the coast to Paraty, a small eighteenth-century Portuguese fishing village. Set against the forested slopes of the Serra do Mar, Paraty looked out over a bay of hundreds of uninhabited islands. It was similar to Angra dos Reis, but more low-key.

  Residents and visitors alike were more discreet here, preferring to own or rent a refurbished fisherman’s cottage or one of the town’s diminutive terracotta-roofed villas. It was completely different from the jet-set style of Angra, and that suited Harvath just fine.

  He swam back out to his boat and returned to the island to pick up the Troll as well as his two dogs, Argos and Draco. It was a colossal pain in the ass, but the Troll had refused to leave without them.

  They beached the boat a mile outside town, and Harvath hiked back to secure transportation for them. There were plenty of cars to choose from—most of their own
ers having left them in one of two public parking areas specifically set aside for island dwellers who had no need of their vehicles until they drove back home to Rio.

  Harvath chose the first one he saw, a white Toyota Sequoia SUV with tinted windows.

  When they arrived in Paraty, it was still dark. They purchased more water for the dogs and some food for themselves at an all-night gas station and then parked along a quiet agricultural road to eat and rest. But first, Harvath had a question. “Why would Roussard want to kill you?”

  “I’ve been wondering about that too,” said the Troll as he sank his spoon into a Styrofoam cup of thick bean and sausage stew known as feijoada. “For some reason, he’s been keeping tabs on me. He used me to find you and now that he knows I’m helping you try to stop him, he wants me dead. It’s the only thing that makes sense.”

  The man was right. It was the only explanation that made sense. The Troll was good at covering his trail, but he wasn’t exactly perfect. If he had been, Tom Morgan and his people at Sargasso never would have been able to track him down.

  “My friends call me Nicholas,” said the Troll after a long silence.

  Harvath was in no mood to cozy up with him and ignored the remark as he unwrapped his sandwich.

  The Troll was undeterred. “It’s a nickname of sorts. I’ve always been fond of children, and Saint Nicholas is their patron saint.”

  “As well as the patron saint of prostitutes, robbers, and thieves.”

  The Troll smiled. “Strangely appropriate for a boy who grew up in a brothel, wouldn’t you say?”

  This guy is a real chatterbox, thought Harvath as he went to work on his food.

  “How about you?” asked the Troll. “How is it you only spell Scot with one T?”

  Harvath took a swig of his water. He knew he was going to have to say something. “My mother chose the spelling,” he said, setting the water down. “My middle name is Thomas and she didn’t like the way it looked to have three Ts all run together when my name was written out. So, she lopped off one of the Ts.”