wearing body armor. He was young, maybe mid- to late twenties, just like the men in Paris. And just like the men in Paris, there wasn’t a scrap of paper anywhere on him that might identify who he was, where he had come from, or who had sent him. All he had was a small walkie-talkie clipped to his belt, along with a headset, which Harvath removed.
Standing up, he strained his ears through the fog for the sound of anyone who might be approaching. It was all quiet.
After putting on the headset and clipping the walkie-talkie inside his coat, he went looking for the other shooter.
He found the man almost exactly where he had last seen him, though now he was slumped over dead. He was also somewhere in his twenties. His upper left leg, as well as a portion of his stomach below his body armor, had been blown away with what looked like a close-range shotgun blast. Harvath gave him a quick pat-down, but like his partner, it didn’t turn up anything at all.
Stepping away from the body, he crept back around the house to the side door, which was still ajar. He stepped inside and stood still for several seconds listening. There was barely enough light to see by.
Finally, he started moving, slowly. From the small mudroom where he had entered, he slipped through the pantry area and into the kitchen. All of his senses were on high alert. The only noise he heard was from an old wooden clock ticking in the living room farther ahead.
He moved from the kitchen into the dining area and stopped. The hair on the back of his neck suddenly stood up. In the living room, he could see an overturned side table and what looked like a pool of blood on the floor. It was too dark to tell any more from this distance and Harvath wasn’t about to use his flashlight.
Walking over, he saw Tello’s enormous frame sprawled facedown on the floor near the couch. After scanning the room, he made his way to him and carefully rolled the body over.
The man had taken a round to the forehead and one just beneath the nose. His eyes were open but lifeless and unfocused. The ETA commander was dead.
The thought only just materialized in Harvath’s mind when he had his answer. “Don’t fucking move,” said a man’s voice from somewhere behind him. It spoke in English and sounded American. There was a cocky, urban edge to it. “Drop your weapon right there, asshole.”
The room was so dark that even if Harvath had spun and tried to shoot, the man behind him would probably have ended up shooting him first. He had no choice but to comply and placed his weapon on the floor alongside Tello’s body.
“On your knees,” the man ordered. “Do it now.”
Harvath followed the instructions.
“Hands behind your head. Interlock your fingers.”
“Who are you?” Harvath demanded. “What are you doing here?”
“Shut up,” said the man. “Hands behind your head. Now!”
“Not until you tell me who you are and what’s going on.”
The man pumped two suppressed rounds into the couch right next to where Harvath was kneeling.
Harvath raised his arms and locked his fingers behind his head. “You’re fucking with the wrong guy, my friend.”
“Shut up,” the man repeated as he got on his radio. “Red Two to Red One. Target in custody. Building B. Over.”
Harvath still had the headset on and could hear the radio traffic. “Roger that, Red Two,” a voice replied. “Building B. Over.”
“Red Two to Red Three. Give me a SITREP. Over,” the man behind Harvath said. SITREP was shorthand for situation report.
There was no reply.
“Red Two to Red Three. Do you copy? Over.”
Several seconds passed. There was still no reply. If there were only two other guys, they were both dead and Harvath had killed them. “You should have brought more men,” he said.
The man ignored him. “Red Two to Red Four. Over.” He waited and then tried hailing Red Four again. Finally he gave up and hailed Red One.
“Go ahead, Red Two. Over.”
“Is the property secure? Over.”
“Roger that. Over.”
“I want you to begin looking for Red Three and Red Four. Start near Building B and work your way out. Over.”
“Roger that. Red One out.”
The man then turned his attention and his full anger on his prisoner. “My orders only say you have to die. They don’t say how fast.”
“Orders from who?” Harvath replied.
“None of your fucking business, traitor.”
“No, I’ve got the right guy, you treasonous motherfucker.”
It was like getting punched in the face.
“I don’t make the judgment. I simply carry out my orders,” said the man.
“Who gives you those orders?”
“None of your business.”
“I’m a traitor and you’re here to kill me, but who sent you is none of my business?”
“You talk too much,” the man snapped.
“And you don’t talk enough. You’re making a big, big mistake. I’m telling you, you’ve got the wrong guy.”
“Shut up.”
Harvath could sense he was running out of time. “You’re military, right? Or at least you were military at some point. What branch?”
The man ignored him.
“I was a SEAL before joining the Secret Service.”
“I’ve seen your file,” the man replied.
“Then you know what I’ve done for my country. You owe me an explanation.”
“I don’t owe you shit,” he stated, as he turned his attention back to his radio. “Red Two to Red One. What’s your status? Over.”
“Haven’t found anything yet, Red Two. Over.”
“Hurry up. Red Two out.”
There was something about this guy that didn’t make sense, something Harvath couldn’t put his finger on. He acted military, but at the same time there was a street thug vibe about him. “Listen,” Harvath stated. “You can’t kill an American citizen without benefit of a trial.”
“I can if you’re on the list, traitor.”
“
The man was distracted by something and didn’t reply. When Harvath tried to get him to answer his question, he dropped his voice and whispered sternly, “Shut the fuck up.”
There was the barely perceptible creak of a floorboard as the man began to shift his weight, turning to his right.
It was followed by a thunderous blast that set Harvath’s ears ringing. Reaching for his pistol, he spun and brought it up just in time to see the man fall forward and land flat on his face, dead. A shotgun blast had ripped through his neck all the way up and through the base of his skull.
