ten minutes into his search, he did.
From the day people become old enough to drive, till the day they die, a car represented freedom and independence. Which was one of the reasons many aging drivers found it so difficult to give up their cars. Many, out of sentimentality or the refusal to admit they had grown too old, held on to their vehicles long after they stopped driving. As long as he chose correctly, it could be months, if ever, before the car’s owner noticed it was missing and alerted authorities.
Making his way down the rows of vehicles in the open carport behind the facility, he spotted an aging Cadillac with slightly tinted windows. Based on the dust alone, he could tell it hadn’t been driven in some time. He gave it a quick once-over. Not only was the tire pressure passable, the license plates were still valid. The only concern that remained was whether the battery still carried a charge.
He slid the slim jim inside the rubber seal of the driver’s door and popped up the lock. As he opened the door, he was greeted by the dome light coming on, which meant the battery did in fact have juice. Climbing inside, he turned the light off, closed the door, and removed a small penlight from his pocket. He looked through the car to see if its owner had left a spare key, but there was none to be found.
Placing the penlight in his mouth and slipping the flathead screwdriver into the ignition, Carlton gave it a strong tap with the hammer and attempted to turn it like a key. While it would ruin the ignition cylinder, it was often all that was necessary to get many older cars started. In this case, though, it didn’t work, so he pulled the flathead out and went to plan B.
Using the Phillips head, he removed the screws that attached the plastic panels together around the steering column and pried them away to expose the ignition cylinder and the wires running into it.
Ducking down, he identified the set of wires running to the battery, as well as those going to the starter. Slipping on the rubber dishwashing gloves, he picked up the wire cutters and clipped the power wires running to the cylinder.
He stripped the ends and twisted them together to begin the flow of power. Next he cut the starter wires, stripped the ends, and made sure not to touch them with his hands, lest he get a healthy shock.
Holding an exposed starter wire in each hand, he took a breath and brought them together. The Cadillac groaned, but seconds later, its large engine roared to life.
Carlton separated the starter wires from each other, tore off two pieces of electrical tape, and wrapped each exposed end.
After quickly replacing the panels around the steering column, he stashed his tools in the glove compartment, put the car in drive, and quietly drove out of the retirement community.
Back at the forest preserve, he transferred his gear from the Cherokee into the trunk of the Cadillac and then drove the Jeep down a long fire road.
In the bouncing beam of his headlights, he spotted a narrow break in the trees and took it. He drove as far as he could and then turned off the ignition. In case anyone should stumble across it, he left a quickly scrawled note:
He walked back out through the trees and up the fire road to the Cadillac. As he pulled out of the forest, his mind returned to the image of the Hydra, and he began to plan what he needed to do next.
CHAPTER 42
TEXAS
After checking the two figures outside and seeing that they were both dead, Harvath slipped inside the guesthouse. From the direction of the master bedroom, he could hear a man’s agonized cries. Thankfully, the voice was much too deep to belong to Nicholas.
Creeping forward and using the thermal scope, his weapon up and at the ready, Harvath made it about half the distance before Draco charged into the hallway and started barking. The dog’s muzzle looked to be dripping with blood and its eyes were wild, as if it had gone feral. He gave no indication that he recognized Harvath. In fact, he looked primed to attack.
“Easy, boy,” he said softly, but the dog continued barking and moving forward. He didn’t want to hurt the animal, but he also didn’t want to give himself away if he didn’t have to by calling out.
The standoff was quickly broken by Nicholas’s voice from inside the room. “Who’s there?” he called out.
“Rubber Duckie,” Harvath replied, knowing you never answered “me” to a who-goes-there question.
The little man shouted a command in Russian, and the dog ceased barking and returned to the bedroom. Harvath kept his pistol up and pulled it into his chest as he followed.
He stopped at the edge of the doorframe and lowered the scope. A faint glow spilled out the door into the hall, and again he heard a man’s cries. “Are you okay?”
“Yes,” Nicholas responded. “You can come in.”
Harvath did a snap peek around the corner before stepping fully into the doorway. A man in his mid-twenties lay on the floor, covered in blood. Argos, whose snout was also covered in blood, stood nearby. Much of Nicholas’s computer equipment had been shot to pieces. A badly damaged laptop still gave off enough light to see by.
Draco stood alongside Nicholas, who was covering the wounded attacker with his little M3. There was no sign of Nina. Harvath was about to ask what had happened to her when he heard the sound of vomiting from the bathroom.
He stepped into the room and trained his pistol on the young man bleeding all over the floor. The dogs had torn him to shreds. From where he stood, Harvath doubted he’d make it.
“Are you all okay?” he repeated to Nicholas.
“Nina’s shook up, but we’re okay.”
Harvath removed the tiny .45-caliber pistol from his pocket and tossed it to him. “Here,” he said. “Cover him with this.”
Nicholas transitioned to the more powerful pistol and did as Harvath instructed.
As he approached the kid on the floor, he motioned for Nicholas to call off Argos.
“No,” Nicholas argued. “He came to kill us. Let the dogs finish the bastard.”
Harvath glared at him. “Keep those dogs back. That’s an order.”
Nicholas relented, issuing a command in Russian, and the dog retreated to his side.
Harvath looked down at the attacker and decided he wouldn’t need his pistol. Tucking it into his jeans at the small of his back, he bent over and lifted the kid into a sitting position against the side of the bed.
It was a messy operation. When Harvath finally got him into place and drew back his hands, they were slick with blood.
The extent of the kid’s injuries was very grave. His face had been savaged, and the dogs had done incredible damage to his limbs, as well as his groin area, and his throat looked like raw hamburger. Harvath was amazed he could make any sound at all. There was a wet whooshing noise that could be heard beneath the moaning as the man labored to take in oxygen. The fact that he hadn’t slipped totally into shock was incredible.
“You’re in bad shape,” Harvath said gently. “I’ve got a trauma kit and will do what I can, but before I can help you, I need you to answer some questions. Who are you? Who sent you here?”
The kid’s eyes were glassy and unfocused. His breathing was coming in gasps. There was a gurgle as he coughed up a mouthful of blood.
“He’s not going to answer you,” Nicholas replied. “Let me put the dogs on him.”
Argos and Draco began growling again.
“I’m not telling you again,” Harvath snapped. “Keep those dogs under control.” Turning his attention back to their prisoner, he said, “It’s up to you. I’ve got pain meds as well. We can stabilize you and get you to a hospital. It’s your call. Just tell me who you are and who sent you.”
The kid was dressed like his dead comrades outside. He wore 511 trousers, tactical boots, and an ill-fitting sweatshirt likely taken off one of the men he and his team had murdered at the water trough. On his wrist was a military-version Suunto watch, popular with SOF guys. He had short, dark hair and a fit build. Under different circumstances, he could have been some young SEAL or Green Beret Harvath had trained or operated alongside at some point in his career.
