Brad Thor - The First Commandment

Harvath stepped to the table and withdrew a cordless drill from his duffel bag. He fitted it with a thick, Carbide-tipped masonry bit and gave the drill’s trigger a squeeze to make sure the bit rotated properly.

Next, Harvath took a gauze pad he had found in the nurse’s supply and coated it with Betadine antiseptic solution. Knowing that having an area prepped for injection was often more frightening to most people than the actual injection, Harvath bent and took his time in cleaning Najib’s right kneecap.

Harvath didn’t need to take the man’s pulse to know that his heart was racing. He had only to look at his throbbing carotid artery and the sweat forming on his forehead and upper lip to see that he was scared shitless.

But being scared didn’t mean he was going to cooperate. Harvath decided to give him one last chance. “Tell me about the plane. Who was on it with you?”

Najib focused his eyes on an object across the room and began reciting verses from the Koran. Harvath had his answer.

He shoved a gag in the man’s mouth to prevent his screams from being heard outside the apartment and then snugged his chair sideways up against the wall and pinned him there to keep him from flipping over once the pain began.

Harvath wrapped his arm around the inside of Najib’s thigh, placed the masonry bit at the side of his kneecap and squeezed the drill’s trigger.

The operative’s entire body went stiff. Tears welled in his eyes and as the fluted bit tore into his flesh he began to scream from behind his gag.

He writhed against his restraints, but the duct tape and Harvath’s weight pinning him to the wall allowed him little room to move, much less escape from the incredible pain he was experiencing.

Harvath continued, slowly. When he hit bone, the drill bit created a sickening cloud of smoke, which poured forth from the bloody entrance wound. Najib’s body juddered, every fiber in his being straining to escape the madman whose drill bit was laying waste to his knee.

Suddenly, there was a pop as Najib’s kneecap exploded in a mass of shattered bone and the man finally passed out from the pain.

Harvath opened an ammonia inhalant and waved the pad beneath the man’s nose. In a matter of seconds, Najib was coughing and rearing his head.

Harvath held up a syringe and tried to get the operative to focus on it. “This is morphine,” he said. “All you have to do is talk to me and you can have all you want.”

His head spinning, Najib looked down and saw his knee swollen to twice its normal size. Averting his eyes, he then saw that his other knee had recently been swabbed with Betadine. It was too much. His head began to wobble as he once again started to pass out.

“Stay with me,” ordered Harvath as he grabbed Najib’s face and forced another ammonia inhalant pad under his nose.

The man’s head reared backward once more and he shook it back and forth to escape the fumes irritating the membranes of his nose and lungs.

Harvath knew that the fumes also triggered a reflex, causing the muscles that control breathing to work faster, and he waited a moment for the operative to catch his breath.

Holding up the syringe again he said, “It’s up to you.”

With pain etched across his battered, furious face, Najib slowly nodded, yes.

Harvath inserted the needle into the man’s thigh. He depressed the plunger, but stopped before all the drug had been injected. “When you tell me everything I want to know, I’ll give you the rest.”

He reached for the gag and added, “If you stall me or try to call out, I will go to work on your other knee. Then I will do your elbows and then I will move on to the individual vertebrae in your back and your neck. Are we clear?”

Najib nodded and Harvath removed the gag.

He fully expected some sort of tough guy pronouncement-a promise to hunt him and everyone he cared about to the ends of the earth or some such thing, but instead Najib surprised him. He stammered a question, “Is Al-Tal still alive?”

The question was all too human and Harvath didn’t like it, not one single bit. It made things difficult. It made them complicated.

It was much easier when scum like Najib spewed their hatred about America and asserted their unequivocal belief that it was only a matter of time before they would be victorious and all the nonbelievers would see Muslims tap-dancing atop the White House.

Though it helped to dehumanize the enemy, Harvath could still do what he had come here to do. All he needed to do was think about the atrocities Najib had orchestrated in Iraq against American soldiers and Marines to know that there was nothing human about this animal.

And the thought that he might never be able to hold Tracy again and feel her hold him back steeled his heart and filled his soul with rage.

“Al-Tal’s fate is up to you.”

“So he’s alive?” demanded Najib. “Prove it. I want to see him.”

“That’s not part of our deal.”

“You show me Al-Tal or I will tell you nothing.”

So much for our deal, thought Harvath as he left the dining room and walked into the kitchen. He came back a moment later with the bowl filled with lemons, removed his knife from his pocket and sliced one in half.

He walked over to Najib, held the lemon above the entry wound in his knee and squeezed. As the citric acid seared his torn flesh, a howl built up in Najib’s throat. Harvath covered the operative’s mouth with the gag just in time.

Once the pain had somewhat receded and the man had settled back down, Harvath removed his gag and said, “I will not warn you again. Now, tell me about the plane.”

Najib didn’t look as if he had any intention of complying, but when Harvath picked the drill back up, placed it against his left knee, and squeezed the trigger, the man started to talk. “It was a commercial airliner. A 737.”

“Who was on it?” asked Harvath, releasing the trigger.

“Two pilots and a medical crew dressed like flight attendants.”

“Had you ever seen any of them before?”

Najib shook his head, no. “Never.”

“What language did they speak?”

“English mostly.”

“Mostly?” asked Harvath.

“And some Arabic.”

“What was the medical crew for?”

“We were told that our blood had been polluted. Some sort of radioactive material had been introduced into our systems so the United States could track us. Once the planes reached a certain altitude, we received transfusions.”

“Who told you your blood had been tainted?” asked Harvath, his rock-steady hand holding the drill in place.

“The medical personnel.”

“And how did they know?”

“I have no idea,” replied Najib. “They were getting us out. That’s all I cared about.”

“And you just went along with it? What if it was a trick?”

“We thought of that. They had two devices that looked like radiation detectors. When they passed them over our bodies, the devices registered the presence of radiation. When passed over the bodies of the crew, there was no indication. We all had been feeling nauseated for a day or two leading up to leaving Guantanamo. We thought it was food poisoning, but the medical crew said it was a side effect of the radiation that had been introduced into our bodies.”

Harvath watched for any cues that Najib was lying to him, but he didn’t see any. “Who arranged for your release?”

“Al-Tal.”

“Someone came to Al-Tal,” clarified Harvath, “and offered to help arrange your release. Who was that person?”

“I never knew. Neither did Al-Tal.”

“Why would someone have wanted to help get you released?”