apartment were kicked in at exactly the same time.
CHAPTER 3
The distractions Harvath had set up took both of the breaching teams by surprise.
The two men who charged through the kitchen hit the slick floor and fell down in a tangled knot. Stepping into the kitchen, Harvath shot the first man in the head and the second in the back.
He was on his way out, when the man he’d shot in the back raised his pistol and tried to fire. Harvath re- engaged with two rounds to the side of the head, and the man’s body fell limp.
Quickly, Harvath approached, pulled aside the man’s jacket, and placed his hand against his torso.
From the direction of the entry hall, Harvath heard the cough of a muffled shot as someone must have put an additional round into Riley Turner to make sure she was dead.
He knew there was absolutely nothing he could have done for her. Even if she had still been alive, the only first aid you provide in a firefight is to put rounds on your attackers. If you stop to tend to someone else, you’re both going to end up being killed. Riley had been trained the same way and would have done the same thing.
She also would have kept her cool and would have focused on getting out, even if her colleague had just been killed. It was the professional, responsible thing to do, and Harvath knew it was exactly what he should do, but anger had gotten the better of him. He was now committed to a more dangerous and violent strategy, and he wasn’t leaving until every single one of the attackers was dead.
With the element of surprise still on his side, he swept through the living room toward the hallway. The shooters knew he was in the apartment but had no idea where. He knew where they were, though, and he began putting rounds through the wall.
On the fourth shot, he heard a man in the hallway grunt and fall to the floor. His partner had figured out what was going on and began returning fire through the wall. Harvath, though, had already inserted a fresh magazine into his Glock and moved to a new position.
As the man continued firing through the wall, Harvath appeared like a wraith at the end of the hallway. The OC gas began to burn his eyes and before it could take full effect, he lined up his sights and fired.
The shot caught the man in the head and he dropped instantly. Harvath then locked in on the other man, who had been shot through the wall and was lying in a heap on the floor but still alive. The man was bringing his pistol up to fire when Harvath depressed his trigger and fired a round into him just inches above his body armor, right into his throat.
The attacker’s weapon clattered to the floor as blood gushed from his wound. Harvath closed in and finished him with a shot aimed right at the bridge of his nose. He fired another round into the man’s accomplice just in case.
With his lungs burning and his eyes and nose watering, he retreated from the hall and rushed into the living room. He wanted to throw open one of the windows and suck in a deep breath of cold, clean air, but he knew he couldn’t. The shooters might have had more men positioned outside, possibly even a sniper, so he stayed away from the windows and moved around the darkened apartment as quickly as possible. Outside in the distance, he could hear the wail of approaching Parisian police cars.
He located a black Camelbak backpack that contained Riley’s wallet, passport, and multiple personal effects. He stuffed the remaining items from the capabilities kit inside and zipped it up.
One of the safe house closets contained an array of spare clothing in different sizes. He hurriedly switched into a larger jacket to help downplay his muscular, five-foot-ten frame and grabbed a dark baseball cap to cover his brown hair. It wasn’t the best of disguises, but it was better than nothing.
Shouldering Riley’s pack, he returned to the apartment’s entry hall only long enough to snap photographs of her, as well as the two dead shooters, both of whom looked to be in their early twenties.
He turned their pockets inside out, but there wasn’t a scrap of paper to be found on them. Besides their weapons and extra magazines, they were completely clean. For communications, they carried cheap walkie-talkies and headsets—all likely sourced at a local outdoors or electronics store.
With no time to say a proper good-bye to Turner, Harvath made for the kitchen where he conducted a similar quick search of the men lying on the floor. Both of the men looked to be in their mid-twenties and were clean of any pocket litter as well.
Normally hitters were older, more seasoned. Besides their youth, everything else suggested a thoroughly professional job.
After grabbing a kitchen towel and a container of milk from the fridge, Harvath photographed the men and tossed another fogger down the back stairs. He listened for sounds of movement down below and when he didn’t hear any, he stepped into the service stairwell and cautiously made his descent.
When he reached the ground floor, he moved away from the fogger and soaked the kitchen towel in milk. After wiping his face and hair as well as he could to mitigate the effects of the OC, he tossed the towel and put the baseball cap on.
He then removed the battery, as well as the memory and SIM cards from his phone, and slid them into one of his coat pockets. He did the same with the suppressor, after unscrewing it from his weapon. He tucked the Glock into one of the jacket’s larger pockets on his right side, where he could hold it in his hand and shoot through the fabric if necessary. That done, it was time to step outside.
The apartment building chosen for the group’s safe house was part of a cluster of buildings that formed a rough oval and shared a communal courtyard. Exiting his building and walking across the courtyard, Harvath gained access to the service corridor of another building facing an entirely different street. There was only one way of knowing if the hit team had every exit covered.
Using his left hand, he turned up the collar of his coat and stepped out.
He quickly scanned up and down the street. The kind of men he was looking for wouldn’t be hard to spot— they had a certain build, a certain bearing. There were a handful of people about, but none of them even noticed him. Turning north, he began walking.
He needed to get out of Paris fast. He needed to get someplace safe where he could let Reed Carlton, the head of the Carlton Group and his boss, know that Riley had been killed and that their safe house had been “burned.”
The sounds of police cars were now practically right on top of him and seemed to be coming from every direction. Soon the neighborhood would be locked down and cordoned off. Harvath picked up his pace.
He knew they would eventually get around to checking security camera footage. Paris, like London and Chicago, was a very dangerous city to operate in. It contained innumerable security cameras, which the authorities had networked and which recorded everyone and everything that happened. Keeping his head down and his chin tucked in, he tried to avoid being photographed.
He ran options through his mind as he moved. He could steal a car, but that would only increase the odds of getting caught. His only course of action was to get out of Paris, and then France, as quickly as possible without being noticed. The best way for that to happen was by train.
There were seven major stations in Paris that served a combination of domestic and international destinations. All Harvath had to do was decide where he was going.
He knew he needed to remain inside the EU for the time being. Though he carried a fake Italian passport, crossing into a non-EU country would subject him to a potential customs inspection. Considering what he was carrying in Riley Turner’s backpack, that wasn’t something he wanted to risk.
He needed to pick a destination where he had someone who could help him. And until he knew what was going on, whomever he turned to for help should be as far removed from his professional life as possible. The greater the degree of separation, the more difficult it would be for someone to make any connection and track him down.
He raced through a list of people he believed he could trust as he skirted the Montparnasse cemetery. The Gare Montparnasse was the closest train station to him, and it served western and southwestern France. From there, he could make his way into Spain and the Basque country, where he knew someone who could help.
