Brad Thor - The First Commandment

Sheppard watched him, not caring at all if the man was pissed off. He hadn’t come all the way down to South Carolina to get jerked around by Stonewall Jackson here.

Slowly, a smile began to spread across Mangan’s face. “Dick said you could be a bit touchy.”

“He did, did he?” replied Sheppard.

Mangan nodded.

“What else did he say?”

“He said that after I got done fucking around I should try to answer your questions.”

Sheppard noticed that his left hand had curled into a death grip around his Coke. With a laugh, he allowed himself to relax. “So does that mean you’re done fucking around?”

“That depends,” answered Mangan. “Are you done being sensitive?”

Typical cop ball-busting. Sheppard should have seen it coming. Cops were no different in Charleston than they were back in Baltimore. In response to the man’s question, the reporter nodded.

Mangan smiled. “Good. Now what do you want to know about the shooting?”

“Everything.”

Mangan shook his head back and forth. “Let’s just cut through all the crap.”

“Okay,” said Sheppard, playing along, “Dick said you were the first guy in the house. What did you see?”

“That’s the first thing we need to get straight,” he replied. “I wasn’t the first guy in.”

“What do you mean?”

Mangan signaled for Sheppard to turn off his mini tape recorder. When he did, the SWAT man looked over his shoulder and then, turned back to the reporter and said, “The only way I’m going to tell you anything is if you agree that it’s all off the record.”

UTAH OLYMPIC PARK

PARK CITY, UTAH

Philippe Roussard was fit and athletic, but he had never considered himself much of a sportsman. How an entire culture could be so obsessed with such a wide array of sports was beyond him. Surely, it was a luxury only a Western nation like America could afford.

Roussard sat and watched the young aerialists of the U. S. Freestyle Ski Team practice. It was a bright, cloudless day. The temperature was perfect-upper seventies and not much wind, excellent conditions in which to train.

The setting reminded him of the many villages where his family would rent chalets for their holidays. Of course, they were much more remote than this. The need for security in his family was such that the few times a year they did get together, it was always somewhere where they ran little risk of being seen, or worse, targeted.

The 389-acre Utah Olympic Park had been the site of the 2002 Olympic bobsled, luge, and ski-jumping events and was also a year-round training site for members of the U. S. Ski Team.

From his surveillance, he had learned that the aerialists were required to “water qualify” all new jumps before they’d be allowed to actually try them on the snow once the winter season arrived. Three plastic-covered ramps, or “kickers,” as they were called, mimicked the actual ramps the skiers performed their aerial acrobatics off during the regular season. The difference here was that instead of landing at the bottom of a snow-covered hill, they landed in a pool of water.

Roussard had been anxious to see how it was done, and on his first visit to the park he had been greeted with some exceptional stunts. The aerialists, in their neoprene “shorty” wetsuits, ski boots, and helmets, would clomp up a set of stairs to the top of whatever ramp they were going to use, unsling their skis from over their shoulders, and then click into the bindings. The plastic ramps were continually sprayed down with water and the athletes skied down them exactly as they would on snow.

Racing straight down the plastic-covered hill, the skiers hit the ramp at the end and were launched into the air where their bodies conducted twists, flips, and contortions that defied gravity and sheer belief.

The surface of the splash pool was broken with roiling bubbles put in via a series of jets to help soften the skiers’ landings. Coupled with the bungee cord harnesses and trampoline jump simulators there was quite a bit of science at work here. It was a fascinating series of images that Roussard would carry with him for the rest of his life. He was thankful that he would be long gone before his plan took effect.

Sitting on the hill that overlooked the pool, the green valley below, and the snow-capped mountains beyond, Roussard closed his eyes and allowed himself to feel the sun against his face. Every day during his captivity, he’d wondered if he would ever breathe free air again. He had traveled the world and had visited few places as peaceful and serene as Park City, Utah. But that peace and serenity was about to change.

When his handler had contacted him on the disposable cell phone he’d purchased in Mexico there’d been an argument. Roussard wanted to finish his assignment. Maneuvering through this intricate list of persons in Scot Harvath’s life was not only dangerous, it was superfluous. Not that Roussard was worried about getting caught; he knew he had the advantage over everyone in this assignment as none of them knew where or whom he would strike next.

Even so, he was smart enough to realize that with every attack he carried out, the odds of his being captured or killed were increasing.

Roussard wanted to skip to the end of the list, but his handler wouldn’t hear of it. Their relationship was growing strained. Their last conversation in Mexico had ended with the normally calm and collected Roussard shouting and hanging up.

When they spoke a couple of hours later, Roussard’s temper had cooled but he was still angry. He wanted Harvath to pay for what he had done, but there were other ways to do it. Vengeance should be bigger and more extreme. No survivors should be left behind. The people close to Harvath should die, and he should feel and see their blood upon his hands for the rest of his life.

Finally, his handler had relented.

Roussard watched as the last aerialists of the day climbed the stairs for their final jumps. It was time.

Carefully, he slung his backpack over his shoulder and walked down to the edge of the pool. The lack of security at the park amazed him. Spectators and staff smiled and said hello to him as he passed, none of them suspecting at all the horror he would shortly unleash.

The first device was packed inside a long sandwich roll and then wrapped in a Subway foods wrapper. It went into a trash receptacle near the main gate to the pool.

From there, Roussard calmly let himself in through the unlocked gate and headed toward the locker room. He was a chameleon, and 99 percent of his disguise came from his attitude. He had nailed the mountain casual, resort-town look perfectly. The ubiquitous iPod, T-shirt, jeans, and Keens-they all came together with his air of purpose in such a way that anyone who looked at him assumed that he either was a skier or worked for the park. In short, no one bothered Philippe Roussard because he looked like he belonged there.

In the locker room, Roussard quickly and carefully placed the rest of the devices. When he was done, he let himself out an unalarmed emergency exit and headed for the parking lot.

He placed the buds of the iPod into his ears, donned his silver helmet, and left the glass bottle with his calling card note where investigators should find it.

Firing up the 2005 Yamaha Yzf R6 sportbike he had stolen across the border in Wyoming, Roussard pulled out of the parking lot and slowly wound his way down the mountain.

Nearing the bottom, he pulled over and waited.

When the first of his explosions detonated, Roussard scrolled through his iPod, selected the music he wanted, revved his engine, and headed for the highway.

SOMEWHERE OVER THE SOUTHWEST