Brad Thor - The First Commandment

Roussard had spoken with his handler again, and again the conversation had ended badly. They had argued about the botched attack on the bar in Virginia Beach. His handler blamed him for its failure, because he was the one who had changed the plan at the very last minute. The RV was overkill, as was the amount of diesel fuel and fertilizer. Roussard should have stuck with the pickup truck with a lesser amount contained within its enclosed bed. Had he proceeded as instructed, everything would have been successful.

The pair was also still at odds over how the last plague attack would be carried out, as well as how Scot Harvath should be killed afterward.

Roussard was tired of arguing. He was in the field and he would make the decisions as he saw fit. He had a means to get out of the country once his work was done and he also had enough money at this point to finish the job. The incessant bickering was counterproductive.

The simple truth was that they were strangers to each other. Too much time had passed, and blood alone was not enough to bridge the gap between them.

Roussard opened his eyes and lit another cigarette. He knew he was going to do exactly what he wanted. The last attack would be dramatic. It would be chilling in its audacity and a fitting finale to all that had preceded it.

He took a long drag and thought about where he would go when it was all over. In his day-to-day existence in Iraq and then during his absolutely hopeless incarceration at Guantanamo, he had never thought much beyond the next hour, much less the next day, week, month, or even year, but that was beginning to change inside him. He could see a value in preparing for the future, in setting goals for oneself.

He had tasted real field work and he liked it. He did not fear capture, although he was smart enough to realize that his days in America were numbered. He needed to be leaving soon, but not before his crowning achievement.

Raising the night vision binoculars to his eyes, he took one final look at his target and then walked up the dock and retired to his rented cottage. It was time to get some sleep. Tomorrow would be a very busy day.

Though asking Gary Lawlor to arrange for a special security detail for Meg had been the right thing to do, it only made Harvath’s job harder.

He needed to talk to Meg face-to-face, and meeting her in broad daylight was out of the question. She’d have too hard a time shaking the detail.

Losing them at night, after they already thought she’d turned in, was something Meg could pull off.

Harvath sat in the back of Gordy’s Boathouse, one of Fontana’s most popular waterfront bars, and looked at his watch for a fifth time. He tried to compute how long it should have taken for Jean Stevens to get his note to Meg and then for Meg to get out of her house and walk the old Indian footpath along the lakeshore to Gordy’s.

The bar was crowded with the young, the wealthy, and the good-looking who made Lake Geneva their summer playground. A DJ spun records while bright strobes of colored light knifed across the dance floor.

As Harvath watched, he remembered the good times he and Meg had had here. He was still watching the crowds of people dancing when he felt a hand, a man’s hand, fall upon his shoulder.

He’d been looking for Meg, and while he’d noticed the man’s approach in his peripheral vision, he hadn’t paid him much attention. To be honest, he wasn’t that remarkable. It wasn’t until Meg’s fiancé, Todd Kirkland, actually touched him that Harvath realized who he was.

“We need to talk,” said Kirkland.

“About what?” asked Harvath, though he knew why the man was there.

Meg’s fiancé held up the note Harvath had given to Jean Stevens and said, “This.”

They moved away from the dance floor to the front of the bar where they found a freshly vacated table and sat down.

“You want to tell me what this is all about?” asked Kirkland, waving the note in Harvath’s face.

Harvath ignored him as a waitress approached. Picking up the table’s empty wineglasses and handing them to her, he asked the waitress to please bring them two beers.

The minute she walked away, Kirkland was back at it. “Who the hell do you think you are? You think you can just…”

As much as Harvath had tried to take the high road with Jean Stevens, she’d been right. Kirkland was a jackass. He was arrogant and rude, which no doubt stemmed from a deep sense of insecurity. Harvath didn’t know what the guy had to be insecure about.

He made a shitload of money as a commodities trader and his looks weren’t all that bad, especially after he supposedly had gotten his nose, eyes, ears, and chin done by one of the best plastic surgeons in Chicago.

Despite his faults, Meg had found something in him that she loved. If he was indeed manipulative, controlling, and overbearing, that was Meg’s problem. Nobody was forcing her to marry him.

Nobody had forced Harvath to sabotage his relationship with her either, and as he sat across the table from the man she was going to marry in less than forty-eight hours, he couldn’t help but wonder what it was she saw in him.

“You’re going to explain this letter to me right now,” asserted Kirkland, drawing Harvath’s mind back to the matter at hand. “What the hell are you trying to do?”

“Nobody’s trying to do anything, Todd,” said Harvath calmly.

“My ass you’re not,” he responded. “You’re in cahoots with that crazy bitch who lives next door, aren’t you? She’s always asking Meg questions about you, especially when I’m around and-”

“Todd, Jean Stevens and I aren’t in cahoots together in anything.”

“Really? Then how’d she end up with this letter for Meg? Keep in mind that it’s kind of hard to deny you sent it when you were sitting exactly where the letter said you’d be.”

“I’m not denying anything. I needed to talk to Meg,” replied Harvath.

“And you couldn’t do it over the phone?”

The waitress had returned and Harvath waited for her to set their beers down before answering Kirkland. “No. I need to speak to Meg in person.”

“About what? The fact that you still have feelings for her? If that’s the case, I can tell you with absolute certainty that she is one hundred and ten percent over you, pal.”

Harvath hated when people called him pal, especially ignorant assholes who not only were most certainly not his pal, but also didn’t know what the fuck they were talking about. “I’m assuming Meg doesn’t know about my note?” said Harvath, trying to keep the conversation on an even keel.

“No, and she’s not going to, as far as I’m concerned.”

Harvath hated the high road. He took a long sip of beer and tried to maintain his composure. Finally, he said, “I have reason to believe that Meg is in danger.”

“Which is why you had the Secret Service assigned to protect her, isn’t it?”

“Yes, but-”

“ Yes, my ass,” spat Kirkland. “You just did it to flex your muscle, and I’m pretty goddamn sick of it. Every time I turn around I’ve gotta be reminded of you. It stops right here, right now.”

Harvath had to tell himself to ease up on the grip he had around his beer glass before he broke it. “Don’t turn this into a pissing match with me, Todd. This is a serious threat.”

“So why aren’t you talking to the Secret Service about it, then?”

The man did have a point, and Harvath hated to concede it to him. “Because we don’t yet know the exact nature of the threat.”

“ We? Who’s we? DHS? FBI? CIA?”

When Harvath didn’t answer, Kirkland responded, “See, I didn’t think so. This all about you. You and Meg-at least in your mind. But I’ve got news for you. There is no you and Meg, not anymore. It’s over. So stay the fuck away from us,” he added as he rose and pushed his chair in.