Brad Thor - Path Of The Assassin

Abruptly, Harvath’s captors steered him toward a discolored section of the canyon wall. The pockmarks in the rocks told him all he needed to know. If he had any doubt about what lay in store for him, when one of the guards offered him a cigarette, the picture was perfectly clear.

Two of the guards fired rounds at Harvath’s feet to see if he would jump. He didn’t. Not even a flinch. If they were going to kill him, he didn’t intend to add to their pleasure by going soft.

The captain of the guard stepped away from his men and walked up to Harvath. He was carrying a Russian Makarov. He raised his robed arm and placed the pistol against Harvath’s forehead. As he did, Harvath could see that he was wearing his missing Rolex. The man smiled with a mouth full of yellowed teeth and then pulled the trigger.

Harvath harbored a strange feeling that he had not been brought all this way to be killed. These men were nothing but low-level peons amusing themselves at his expense until their boss called. Well, now it was Harvath’s turn.

His reaction undoubtedly surprised the captain and his men. Instead of blubbering for his life or pissing his pants, as many poor souls before him had probably done, Harvath just smiled. He smiled big and wide, then kneed the captain right in the pistachios.

“Now the camels in the village will be safe for the rest of the day,” said Harvath in Arabic.

A couple of the captain’s men could not help but chuckle. The captain, though, was enraged and, as soon as he caught his breath, dove for Harvath.

Shackling Harath’s hands in front had been a dumb idea. It didn’t take long for Scot to overpower the captain and lock him in a choke hold with the restraints. The man kicked like a mule as Harvath began to squeeze the life out of him. His men looked on stupidly, not knowing what to do. One of the captain’s kicks eventually connected with Harvath’s left thigh, and the two men fell to the ground and continued to wrestle.

Finally, a hail of bullets tore up the sand only millimeters from the men’s heads. Whoever was firing at them was either extremely lucky or extremely accurate. Harvath was tempted to crush the captain’s windpipe, but let up on the pressure and looked up to see who had fired the shots. Astride a beautiful black Arabian was a perfect match for the man Meg Cassidy had described as Hashim Nidal. With his kaffiyeh, flowing white robes, and the elaborate tassels on his mount, he looked more like someone out of Lawrence of Arabia than a cold-blooded terrorist.

“Enough!” shouted the man from atop his horse.

Harvath was loath to surrender his advantage. The man pointed his weapon down at him, and Harvath knew he had little choice in the matter. He let the captain free, and as the man rolled out of his prisoner’s grasp, he delivered a hard elbow to Harvath’s ribs.

“We’re not finished yet,” groaned Harvath.

Two other guards yanked him to his feet and pushed him painfully toward the stone façade at the rear of the canyon.

As Harvath was shoved along, he kept his eyes open and tried to take in everything that was going on around him. If he ever got out of this situation, he wanted to be able to report in the greatest detail possible what he had seen.

The guards led him up a massive series of stone steps and through the main entrance of the enormous edifice. The interior was amazing. At least a hundred columns soared over six stories to the perfectly domed ceiling, which contained a grand oculus exposing the sky high above. Intricate mosaics adorned the walls, and the floors were covered in marble tiles so highly polished they shone like mirrors. The acoustics were perfect. Even the slightest whisper from across the immense rotunda reverberated back with absolute clarity. All throughout the structure, natural light radiated from a series of mirrors and additional holes carved in the roof of the building.

Harvath was marched through a narrow apse to a low doorway along another colonnade. One of the guards knocked twice upon a heavy wooden door and waited until he was directed to enter. When the direction came, the guard pushed the door open and motioned Harvath inside.

This room was much darker than the series of hallways they had been navigating, and it took a moment for Harvath’s eyes to become adjusted to the low level of light. The wooden floors, paneled walls, and bookcases were all a deep mahogany. Thick, splintered beams of the same color ran at intervals along the ceiling. Several chairs sat in front of a large wooden desk, and in the corner stood an actual fireplace. The room looked like something out of a medieval British abbey. The walls were covered with photographs, many of which, from what Harvath could make out from where he was standing, were not of Arabs, but of Anglos. One in particular caught his attention. He was trying to figure out why the photo had captured his interest when a small door opened at the back of the room and several figures appeared. The first, much to Harvath’s relief, was Meg Cassidy. She was also incredibly relieved to see Scot and ran right to him.

Though his guard tried to stop him, Harvath reached out for her. “Are you all right?” he asked as he looked her over. There were no apparent signs that she had been harmed.

“I’m okay. But this is all my fault. I’m so sorry,” she replied as she laid her head on his chest, wishing the entire nightmare would just disappear.

“This isn’t your fault, so don’t worry about it. They haven’t done anything to you, have they?”

“Mr. Harvath, contrary to what you might think, we are not barbarians,” said a man standing in the doorway that Meg had just come through. Harvath recognized him immediately. It was the man who had broken up his fight with the captain of the guard outside. Meg squeezed Harvath’s arm, and it was the only signal he needed.

“There are millions of people around the world who would disagree with you,” said Harvath, letting go of Meg so he could face the man and the other figure who had joined him. The other person’s face was covered in the traditional Arab kaffiyeh, but there was something familiar about him. “How do you know my name?” he asked, though he was sure that Meg had told them. It would have made sense to question her first. She was the weakest of the pair and could be broken much easier.

“I know more than just your name,” said the man as he took a seat behind the large desk. “Your government should not have sent a woman, a civilian no less, to do a soldier’s job.” The man’s English had a thick Middle Eastern accent.

“Considering that she foiled your hijacking, you hardly seem qualified to comment on the abilities of women,” said Harvath with a smile.

The man signaled his guard, who brought the butt of his rifle hard into Harvath’s stomach. Scot doubled over in pain as Meg screamed. She tried to intervene, but another guard grabbed her arm and pulled her away to the other side of the room.

“I believe that is what the British call witty repartee, no? I can assure you I do not find it amusing at all. Do not forget, Mr. Harvath, who is in control here,” said the bearded man as he removed his kaffiyeh and set it on the desk in front of him.

“And who would that would be?” asked Harvath as he struggled to his feet.

The man gave another command with his hand, and the guard struck Harvath once more; this time on his shoulder as he was trying to regain his balance. Harvath fell to his knees and, though he tried to stifle it, a deep groan of pain escaped his lips. Meg screamed for them to stop.

“We can do this as long as you wish, but I am not a very patient man, Mr. Harvath. You have information I want, and we will get it out of you sooner, rather than later.”

Harvath looked up from where he knelt on the floor and said, “The only thing you have even the slightest chance of getting out of me is a very serious beating. I’m not telling you anything.”