Brad Thor - The First Commandment

“Fuck you,” the man spat as he fought to fully regain his breath.

Harvath placed the Taser on the other side of his neck and said, “We can do this all night. I brought lots of extra batteries.”

Palmera began to spit in his face, so Harvath let him ride the buffalo again.

Harvath placed the man back in his chair and waited until his breathing had stabilized. “If this isn’t getting your attention, we can prepare a footbath for you and get the battery out of your truck. It’s up to you.”

Instead of English, this time Palmera cursed at him in Spanish. It was a subtle indication that they were beginning to wear him down.

Palmera’s broken nose was bleeding, so Harvath signaled for Finney to bring them a towel from the kitchen.

When Finney returned and handed him the towel, Harvath wrapped his hand with it, grabbed Palmera’s nose as hard as he could, and pulled the man toward him.

The assassin roared in pain. Harvath made sure he spoke loud enough to be heard. “What were you doing in D. C.? How’d you find my house? How’d you find my mother’s house?”

Palmera didn’t answer. He was on the verge of passing out from the pain. “Why are you targeting the people around me?” demanded Harvath. “Are you working alone or did someone send you? Answer me!”

Harvath was ready to give the scumbag another ride for five with the Taser when Finney put a hand on his shoulder. He didn’t need to say anything. The gesture was enough. They had all night if they needed to work on him. Beating him unconscious would only serve to hinder what they had come to do. They were here to get information, and if Harvath didn’t get control of his emotions, he was going to blow it.

He let go of Palmera’s broken nose and tried to push the images of what had happened to Tracy and his mother from his mind. There’d be plenty of time to take out his full anger on Palmera, but not yet.

Harvath stepped away from his prisoner and watched as the man’s chin slumped against his chest. It was a good thing Finney had stopped him when he had. Palmera’s eyes were unfocused and half-closed.

Just as Harvath was about to slap him around a bit to bring him to, Palmera began mumbling. It was faint and neither Harvath, Finney, nor Parker could understand what he was saying. He was probably just reciting verses from the Koran. They all did that when they were scared. No matter how tough Palmera thought he was, he was no match for Harvath. It was very likely that the man saw in Harvath what Harvath had seen in him-the ability and the willingness to kill.

Until Harvath knew exactly what Palmera was saying, he knew he needed to treat every utterance as potentially important. Placing the Taser up against the man’s groin, Harvath sent the unmistakable message that Palmera could keep playing the tough guy, but that it would be at his own peril.

As Harvath leaned forward to try to decipher what the man was saying, there was what sounded like an enormous oak tree being split down the center by a white-hot bolt of lightning. Harvath’s vision dimmed and he stumbled backward.

Bumping into the coffee table, he lost his balance. From somewhere behind where Palmera had been sitting, Harvath heard the sound of breaking glass and Finney and Parker desperately shouting at each other.

Seconds later there came the sound of squealing tires from outside on the street. It was followed by a sickening thud, and even in his haze Harvath knew that a car had hit someone. He prayed it wasn’t Palmera.

Shaking off the stars that were clouding his vision, along with his self-contempt for being suckered into such a powerful headbutt, Harvath forced himself to his feet and struggled out the door and into the street.

Finney looked up from where Ronaldo Palmera’s mangled body lay beneath the bumper of a dented green taxi cab and shook his head.

Harvath moved toward the corpse and Ron Parker grabbed his arm. “He’s dead,” said Parker. “Let’s get out of here.”

“Not yet,” replied Harvath, as he slipped out of his friend’s grasp and walked over to Palmera.

A crowd was beginning to form, but Harvath ignored them. Bending down, he slid the digital camera from his pocket, snapped a picture, and removed the man’s disgusting boots.

Joining Finney and Parker back on the sidewalk, Harvath said, “Now we can go.”

CHARLESTON, SOUTH CAROLINA

Mark Sheppard’s police contacts warned him to mind his Ps and Qs in Charleston. Since 1995 it had been consistently recognized as the “best-mannered” city in America and they didn’t take well to rude or boorish behavior. Sheppard didn’t know whether to say thank you or be insulted. Either way, he didn’t plan on being in town long enough to make an impression.

Police shootings were very rare in Charleston, and Sheppard had no problem finding what he was looking for. According to the newspaper articles he’d read, the main tactical response group on site for the John Doe police “shootout” was the Charleston County Sheriff’s Office SWAT team. The SWAT community was a relatively small one, and Sheppard was able to parlay his influence with a high-ranking Baltimore SWAT member into an introduction with SWAT chief Mac Mangan in Charleston.

Though normally a smooth operator with the media, Mangan had never cared much for reporters. As far as he was concerned, they had one goal and one goal only-to make him and other law enforcement officers look bad.

Dealing with those from his own backyard was bad enough, but having to indulge a Yankee journalist who was undoubtedly on his way down here to second-guess his team and paint them as a bunch of trigger-happy hicks did not sit well with him. If he and his wife hadn’t been such good friends with Richard and Cindy Moss up in Maryland, he never would have agreed to this meeting.

Sheppard met Mangan-a big bull of a man in his late forties-at the Wild Wing café on Market Street, where they ordered lunch.

By the time their food arrived, Sheppard felt confident that he had exchanged enough cop talk to put his subject at ease and transitioned into what he really wanted to discuss. “I assume Dick Moss told you why I’m here?”

Mangan nodded and took a bite out of his sandwich.

“What can you tell me about what happened?”

The SWAT team leader thoughtfully chewed his food and then dabbed his mouth with his napkin. “Bad guy barricades himself inside house. SWAT team goes in. Bang. Bang. No more bad guy.”

Sheppard smiled. “I get it. Charleston County is not a place that takes kindly to bad guys.”

Mangan raised his thumb and forefinger in a pantomimed pistol and shot Sheppard a wink as he dropped the hammer.

The reporter laughed good-naturedly. “The Post and Courier article went into a little more detail, but it sounds to me like they got it pretty much right.”

The SWAT team leader opened his mouth and took another large bite of his sandwich.

“I’m beginning to think that maybe I should have started asking my questions before we got our lunch.”

Once again, Mangan raised his pretend pistol and pulled the trigger as he shot Sheppard another wink.

The reporter was getting pissed off. “You know, Dick told me to be prepared for the aw shucks dipshit redneck routine, I just didn’t expect it to start so quickly.”

Mangan stopped chewing.

“Don’t let me interrupt your lunch,” Sheppard continued. “As long as I’m paying for your hillbilly happy meal, I want to make sure you enjoy every bite. By the way, what kind of kiddy toy comes with barbeque and a draft? A pack of Marlboros?”

The SWAT team leader wiped his mouth with his napkin and dropped it on his plate.