Brad Thor - The First Commandment

That said, when it came time to do the deed, Harvath didn’t often need a lot of convincing. He could tell just by looking at most people what kind of men or women they were. Maybe it was his Secret Service training. Maybe it was the years he’d spent in dangerous professions, but the bottom line was that having killed on numerous occasions, he recognized that ability in others instantly-the hard, implacable face, the ever-watchful eyes, it was always there. A person familiar with killing wore it like a hundred-dollar haircut-it was unmistakable.

Harvath had no doubt that Palmera and his companions were going to be trouble. The trick was to take them down before any of them could react. Harvath, Finney, and Parker had the element of surprise on their side. The only question was, with this sudden addition of two new players, could they still use it to their advantage? They didn’t have much choice. They had to.

Harvath indicated to Finney and Parker what he wanted them to do, and the men took their places.

With his hand wrapped around the Taser, he prayed his plan would work.

From his vantage point at the windows, Finney watched as the men walked up the sidewalk. Suddenly, he exclaimed, “Oh, shit!”

Harvath raced from his hiding place just in time to see Palmera and his accomplices turn down the gangway and head toward the rear of the building.

The entire plan had been predicated on their coming through the front door. Now they were going to come in through the back, and to do that, they were going to have to come through the garden. The moment the dogs didn’t respond to their entry, Palmera would know something was up.

The only thing Harvath hated more than coming up with a hastily formed plan was coming up with a second hastily formed plan because the first one tanked. Each time they changed their tack the odds were more heavily stacked against them.

Even so, Harvath had been trained to adapt and overcome-to think quickly on his feet and to succeed no matter what the odds. The plan that now sprang to his mind was pure military instinct born from years of practice.

Since Parker was the best shooter in their group, he got the hardest job. Leaving him at the front door, Harvath and Finney raced toward the back of the house.

The back door with its multiple deadbolts was still open, and they raced through it and into the garden. They took their places just as Palmera slid his key into the heavy iron lock of the garden door.

The key began to turn and then stopped. Harvath knew why. Palmera had expected to hear something. Undoubtedly, the dogs normally went nuts when they heard Palmera’s key in the lock.

Harvath shot Finney a look. They might be able to take Palmera and his pals in the gangway, but with the element of surprise no longer on their side, something very bad could easily happen.

Finney got the message. Reaching over to the lean-to doghouse he rattled the sheets of corrugated metal.

The two men stared at the door, their ears straining for any sound from the lock that would signal Palmera’s intent. Nothing happened. Obviously, the sound they had created was not what Palmera was looking for. Harvath changed his focus from the door to the top of the wall, certain that at any moment Palmera or one of his cronies was going to pop his head over to see what was going on.

The moment never came. Instead, Palmera provocatively rattled his key in the lock. He was toying with the dogs-trying to get them worked up. Perhaps they were even better trained than Harvath had imagined. After all, they hadn’t sprung until he was already over the fence and in the garden. This could have been a game Palmera played with them, getting them all worked up before he revealed himself as being the “perceived danger” on the other side of the door. Harvath knew plenty of people who liked to tease their dogs good-naturedly from time to time. Maybe his plan would work.

As the key turned and the heavy lock thunked open, a small smile crept across Harvath’s face. It was definitely going to work.

Palmera’s face was the first thing he saw. It was pockmarked from years of horrible acne and barely covered by a lousy excuse for a beard he had grown in reverence to his Muslim faith. His black hair was unkempt and his dark, narrow eyes told Harvath everything he needed to know about him. After Harvath was finished with Palmera, he would kill him. But first, they had a little talking to do.

When the Mexican terrorist had stepped all the way into the garden, Harvath sprang from his hiding place and let the barbed probes of his Taser rip. They tore through Palmera’s thin cotton shirt and lodged in his chest. Instantly, the electricity began flowing, and the assassin was treated to something American law enforcement officers referred to as “riding the buffalo.”

As his muscles locked up and his six-foot frame raced face first toward the ground, Tim Finney put all of his weight behind the garden door. It slammed shut with a deafening crack that sounded like a rifle shot and sent both of Palmera’s cohorts tumbling into the gangway-leaving one of them unconscious.

Before the other man realized what had happened, Finney had reopened the door and was on top of him. With one well-placed blow to the head, the man had joined his friend in the realm of the unconscious.

Parker had been charged with kneecapping the Arabs if things had turned sour, but now that they’d been both knocked cold, he jogged down the gangway and helped Finney drag their bodies into the garden.

With Palmera’s hands Flexicuffed behind his back and a piece of duct tape across his mouth, Harvath relieved him of a semiautomatic pistol, two knives, a can of pepper spray, and a Keating Stinger. This guy was a real sweetheart, and Harvath couldn’t wait to go to work on him. If he was lucky, Palmera would be difficult and require a very lengthy interrogation.

Harvath kept his knee pressed into the back of the man’s skull as Parker and Finney duct-taped and hogtied his amigos with Flexicuffs and pitched them into the corrugated lean-to to sleep it off on top of the dead dogs.

Once they were done, Harvath stood up and yanked the just-reviving Palmera to his feet. With the cold tube of his silencer pressed against the killer’s ribs, Harvath didn’t need to articulate what would happen if he did anything stupid. Palmera was a smart man and knew all too well what was in store for him.

Ron Parker drew the living-room curtains as Harvath tore the piece of duct tape from Palmera’s mouth and shoved him into a chair.

When the man opened his yapper to curse the three of them, Harvath kicked him in the maracas so hard it knocked the wind out of his lungs.

As Palmera lay on the floor gasping for air, Harvath yanked him up by his shirt and placed him back in his chair. “I ask questions and you answer them. That’s how this works. Any deviation from that program and I am going to get nasty. Do we understand each other?”

Palmera didn’t respond. He simply glowered at Harvath.

Removing the Taser from the holster at the small of his back, Harvath pressed the device against Palmera’s neck and pulled the trigger. Even without an additional cartridge that could be fired from a distance, up close the Taser could still be used as an effective touch-stun weapon.

Instantly, Palmera’s body locked up, and he fell forward out of the chair. When he hit the floor, his nose bore the brunt of the impact and shattered.

As Harvath helped him back into his seat, he leaned in toward his ear and said, “You know every one of those cases of people dying in America via a Taser are bullshit. Ninety-nine percent of the time they have an underlying heart condition. How’s your heart, Ronaldo?”