“The AG’s people will likely issue a subpoena for the rental agreement. In the meantime, if you can provide a photo of Harvath, as well as his Social Security number, a copy of his driver’s license, as well as any credit card and banking information, you’d be giving the investigation a huge leg up.”
McGee’s mind, partially cleared, was already two steps ahead. “By law, I can’t give you anything from his file, not without a subpoena. But as a private citizen, concerned over his whereabouts, I might be able to get you a photograph.”
“That’d be very helpful.”
“In the meantime, how thoroughly have you searched the area?”
Tullis pointed to the K9 SUV parked halfway down the drive. “We secured a piece of his clothing from the hotel. So far, our canine unit hasn’t had any luck.”
McGee knew that detecting viable scent differed from dog to dog. It normally depended on the handler and how the animal had been trained. The longer the scent was in the wild, though, the harder it was for most dogs to pick up, much less track.
“Any blood or sign of a struggle outside?” he asked.
“None,” answered Tullis.
“Have you checked the shoreline?”
“I have two Marine Patrols working the water. So far, nothing there either.”
McGee wasn’t quite sure how to process that information. On one hand, it sounded as if Harvath hadn’t crawled off somewhere and was lying in the woods dying. On the other hand, how the hell had he been able to walk out of a situation like this? Either he was in pursuit of the killer, or he himself was the killer, which was absolutely a nonstarter.
There was, though, a third possibility: that everyone inside the cottage had been killed as part of an operation to snatch Harvath.
But why kill them? Why be so heavy-handed, so excessive? As the question entered McGee’s mind, he was reminded of the North Korean dictator having his half-brother assassinated in plain sight, in the middle of the Kuala Lumpur International Airport. Then there were Russia’s high-profile assassinations of former spies living in the UK. The Saudis had been arrogant enough to send a fifteen-man hit team, complete with their own forensic pathologist and a bone saw, through Turkish customs to murder a dissident journalist at their embassy in Istanbul.
None of the perpetrators had been afraid to operate on foreign soil, and none had chosen to be understated with their methods. Subtlety and the dark arts no longer seemed to go hand in glove. The world was indeed a dangerous place—and getting more so all the time.
McGee was confident that he had heard and seen enough. He was ready to leave. The sooner he was on the jet, the sooner he could begin relaying instructions back to Langley. Wherever Harvath was, he was going to find him. He only hoped that when he did, Harvath was still alive.
Looking over to where the FBI Director had been chatting with one of the detectives, he saw both men approaching.
“Good news,” the detective said. “We finally made contact with the owners of the home across the street. They have a hide-a-key in back and have given us permission to enter and review their security footage.”
“That is good news,” Tullis replied. “Maybe we just caught a break.”
CHAPTER 8
* * *
* * *
MURMANSK OBLAST
“Hands!” the Spetsnaz soldier shouted in Russian.
Harvath was cradling the moving blanket, and underneath it, out of view, his pistol. Instead of dropping the blanket, he dropped to the floor, repeatedly pressing the trigger as he did.
The rounds struck the Russian in the stomach and in the chest. And as he fell, he fired back.
Harvath rolled as the bullets tore up the fuselage around him. They came dangerously close, but fortunately none found their target.
When the shooting stopped, Harvath stood up and, keeping his pistol pointed at the soldier, approached.
The man was in rough shape. Bleeding badly, he had dropped his rifle when he’d hit the ground. Harvath now kicked it away.
This soldier was the worst of the muscle from New Hampshire. He was the one who had forced everyone, except the Old Man, who was bedridden, onto their knees, in advance of being executed.
When Lara had reached out to Harvath, this Spetsnaz operative had punched her in the gut. Helpless, his hands cuffed behind his back, Harvath had watched in agony as she doubled over in pain.
The Russian then grabbed her by the throat and yanked her to her feet, only to body-slam her to the ground. When she tried to get up, he viciously kicked her in the ribs.
Next to Josef, this was the man Harvath had most wanted to get his hands on—and not in a gentle way.
He could have just put a bullet in his head, ended it, and walked away. But he didn’t. Harvath wanted revenge.
Drawing his boot back, he kicked the man in the side harder than he had ever kicked anyone in his life. Then he did it again, and again, and again, knocking the wind out of him and shattering his rib cage. It was only the beginning.
Kneeling down as the man gasped for air, Harvath wrapped his left hand around the Russian’s throat and began to squeeze, slowly cutting off his oxygen supply.
A bloody froth appeared at the corners of the soldier’s mouth as he fought to suck in air. Harvath kept applying pressure.
He dialed it up until the man’s eyes began to bulge and his skin started to turn blue. Once that had happened, he pushed down as hard as he could, crushing the man’s windpipe. But his bloodlust wasn’t satisfied. Not yet.
Grabbing the man by the hair, he gave in to his rage and pistol-whipped him with the Grach.
Back and forth he swung the weapon, harder and harder with each blow. He struck him for Lara. He struck him for Lydia. He struck him for Reed Carlton. Even the Navy Corpsman.
Totally out of control, he went from pistol-whipping to bludgeoning.
He didn’t stop swinging until he couldn’t lift the pistol anymore. By then, he had beaten the soldier to death.
With his body trembling, his lungs heaving for air, and every ounce of his strength gone, he collapsed against the wall.
Rivulets of sweat ran down his face. Part of him wanted to throw up. Another part of him wanted to revive the Russian, just so he could beat him some more.
Revenge was a bitter medicine. It didn’t cure suffering. It didn’t provide closure. It only hollowed you out further.
Harvath didn’t care. In his world, you didn’t let wrongs go unanswered—not wrongs like this, and especially not when you had the ability to do something.
Vengeance was a necessary function of a civilized world, particularly at its margins, in its most remote and wild regions. Evildoers, unwilling to submit to the rule of law, needed to lie awake in their beds at night worried about when justice would eventually come for them. If laws and standards were not worth enforcing, then they certainly couldn’t be worth following.
The Russians wanted to enjoy the peace and prosperity of a civilized world, without the encumbrances of following any of its laws. They wanted their sovereign territory respected, their system of government respected, their ability for self-determination respected, and on and on.
What they didn’t want was to be forced to play by the same rules as everyone else. They fomented revolutions, invaded and annexed other sovereign nations, violated international agreements, murdered journalists, murdered dissidents, and strove to subvert democratic elections and other democratic processes throughout the Western world.