Brad Thor - The First Commandment

Taking up a position directly opposite the front door, Harvath waited. And waited. The house was almost completely engulfed in flames. Had there only been four men in the assault team and had he killed them all?

It didn’t seem likely, but neither did it seem as if anyone would have remained in the burning house. The heat had to be unbearable. All told, there weren’t that many rooms to search.

Harvath held his position, the Goblin chambered and ready to fire. Minutes passed.

He was about to creep closer to the house to have a look inside when he heard movement behind him. He spun just in time to see two guns shoved into his face.

“It’s you,” said one of the men in perfect English.

As he spoke his gun drew back and Harvath focused beyond its barrel. It was almost like staring into the face of a young Abu Nidal, his eyes dark and full of hate. Harvath recognized Philippe Roussard instantly.

There was an awkward moment of silence on the killer’s part as he tried to figure out what was going on. Harvath could almost hear the gears of his twisted brain grinding against each other.

“Where is the dwarf?” Roussard finally demanded as the other man stripped Harvath of his weapons and stood back. “We know he’s not in the boat. It’s out there doing circles in the bay.”

“Fuck you,” said Harvath, his body seething with rage. The man he’d been hunting was standing right above him and there was nothing he could do. Harvath had never felt so helpless in his life.

“So you know who I am,” Roussard replied with a smile before he struck Harvath across the jaw with the butt of his weapon. “I will ask you again. Where is he?”

Harvath turned his face back up to him and replied, “And I will tell you again, fuck you.”

Once more, the enigmatic smile spread across Roussard’s face and with it came another butt stroke. “Your tolerance of pain is nowhere near as great as my desire and ability to administer it. Now, where is the Troll?”

Harvath’s head felt as if a million red-hot spikes were being pounded into it. “Umm,” he replied, his vision slightly dimmed. “Oh, I remember, fuck you!”

Roussard drew back his weapon for another go and then suddenly thought better of it. Placing the muzzle against Harvath’s forehead he whispered, “I’m only concerned with the Troll. Tell me where he is and I’ll let you live.”

“You’re in no position to negotiate anything.”

“Funny,” said Roussard. “I thought I was the one holding the gun.”

“For all the Marines you killed in Iraq,” replied Harvath, “as well as everything you have done to the people I love and care about, I am going to watch you die.”

The smile returned to Roussard’s face. “Revenge is indeed a noble motive. A pity that it won’t be possible for you.”

Roussard snugged the weapon up against his shoulder and prepared to fire. “You see, the only one of us who’s going to die here today is you.”

Harvath’s eyes darted left and then right looking for a rock, a branch, anything he could use against his captors. There was nothing. On top of that, neither of the two men was standing close enough so that he could sweep their legs out from under them. He had absolutely no options.

Harvath looked Roussard in the face and was about to speak when the killer’s finger tightened around his trigger and Harvath saw a blinding flash of light.

The white phosphorous flare lodged in the chest of Roussard’s accomplice and lit him up like a lighthouse beacon.

When Harvath’s vision returned, he saw the Troll waddling toward him, a spent flare gun dangling in his hand.

The accomplice was dead. His smoking body lay on the ground several feet away. Harvath looked around for Roussard, but couldn’t find him.

The moment he stood up, his legs threatened to give out beneath him. The blows to his head had been worse than he’d thought.

“Slowly, slowly,” cautioned the Troll as he ran up to Harvath to help steady him.

“Where’s Roussard?”

“He took off toward the helipad.”

“Why didn’t you stop him?” Harvath demanded as he reached for the dead man’s submachine gun and his two extra clips.

“ Stop him? I did stop him…from killing you. You ungrateful arsehole.”

Harvath was on the footpath, running for the helipad, before the Troll even finished his sentence. The sounds of the spinning helicopter rotors were growing in intensity. It was already lifting off.

By the time Harvath got to the pad, the chopper had already cleared the trees and was heading out over the water. Harvath tore through the forest to the beach on the other side of the island.

When he got there, he raised the Goblin and opened fire. He saw at least two rounds connect near the tail rotor, but not seriously enough to bring the aircraft down or force it back for a landing. Harvath blew through his other two magazines even though he knew the helicopter was at the very far end of his range, if not already beyond it.

With the Troll’s house fully ablaze, help would be coming soon. They needed to be gone before anyone got there.

Harvath left the beach and threaded his way back through the forest. When he got back to the charred body of Roussard’s henchman, the Troll was gone, as were the rest of his weapons, including Harvath’s Beretta.

He heard a noise near the generator shack and quietly crept forward to investigate.

The Troll was on his hands and knees, the weapons stacked along with Harvath’s dry bag next to him.

“Did you get him?” asked the Troll without turning around.

“No,” replied Harvath as he pointed the empty automatic weapon at him.

“I only had one shot, you know,” continued the Troll. “I shot the man closest to me, and even then I was afraid I was going to miss.”

“I want you to move three steps to your right, away from those weapons.”

“These?” said the Troll as he gestured to the pile and stood up to face Harvath. “I collected them for you. Consider it a thank you for running the hose for the dogs.”

“Just step away.”

The Troll did as he was told.

As Harvath moved in to collect the items, the dwarf grinned and said, “You don’t trust me, do you?”

Harvath half-laughed as he checked to make sure a round was chambered in his Beretta and then placed the other items into his dry bag.

“It’s not my fault the man I shot wasn’t Roussard. All you tall people look alike from behind.”

“All the more reason I’ll be sure never to turn my back on you,” replied Harvath as he picked up the bag and slung it over his shoulder.

“Why did you lie to Roussard?” asked the Troll, changing the subject. “If you’d told him where I was, you might have saved your own life.”

“Roussard was going to kill me either way. I didn’t tell him where you were because I’ve got a thing about not helping bad people get ahead in life.”

“Touché.”

“By the way,” asked Harvath, “why’d you come back? You were supposed to tie off the boat’s steering wheel, send it out into the bay, and wait for me.”

“When I didn’t hear the helicopter take off, I figured you’d been successful in the first part of your plan, but I still had a few reservations about the rest of it.”

“I suppose I should be glad.”

“No,” answered the Troll, “just grateful. If only a little bit.”

Harvath didn’t know how he felt about owing his life to such a man, so to avoid thinking about it he took his turn at changing the subject. “What made you take the flare gun?”

The Troll looked at Harvath and replied, “In life, even the smallest advantage is better than no advantage at all.”