“It looks like you got my point,” said Scot as he let go of the pole.

The man, still on his knees, fell forward, but only a foot before the bottom of the pole hit the ground and he was propped up like a human pup tent. Not wasting a moment more, Harvath went for the man’s pistol.

A blanket of fire erupted in front of him as bullets ricocheted off the cobblestones of the passageway. The gunman must have radioed his position to his two colleagues. There was no telling how far away they were. The bullets were close enough, and that was all that mattered. Harvath ducked and rolled toward the opposite entrance. Snaking around the outer wall of the chalet, he jumped to his feet and ran.

56

The first thing Harvath needed to do was to stop his bleeding. The next was to get the hell out of Dodge…Wengen…whatever.

The village was situated on what the Swiss call the Wengen sun terrace: a long westward-facing plateau that got fabulous sun in the afternoon. That was definitely the case today.

Quickly and carefully, Harvath picked his way from chalet to chalet, trying to stay concealed as best as was possible in the blazing sunshine. He made a makeshift pressure bandage from his windbreaker so he wouldn’t leave a trail of blood for the remaining two gunmen to follow.

Seven chalets later, Harvath came upon a restaurant that was blaring techno music. This was definitely a snowboarder hangout. Scot scanned the crowd of young faces, hoping to find his little blond girlfriend with the nose ring and her friends. They would be perfect cover, but they were nowhere to be seen. Scot needed to come up with another plan.

Snowboarding was an interesting sport in that it offered a high probability for wipeouts. And, wiping out in the strong sunshine meant that the snow you picked up melted quickly and even the most waterproof of snowboarding outfits got wet.

A leafless tree on the side of the restaurant had become the snowboarders communal coat rack. Why these kids never took them inside or out onto the terraces with them to dry out was beyond him, but right now Harvath was grateful for it. He found a drab brown-and-gray coat that looked as though it would fit and chose a good-sized black helmet from the pile so neatly arranged at the base of the tree. A couple of people would be very angry to find their gear had been stolen, but at least Harvath might have a better chance at survival. Walking away from the restaurant, he also grabbed the last snowboard in the line leaning against the wall.

He put the jacket on and found there was a pair of goggles in the pocket, which he put on along with the helmet. Quickly, he made his way toward the Männlichen gondola. The pain in his arm was almost unbearable. He didn’t think he had any arterial damage, but he needed to get a better look at the wound. If he wasn’t careful, he could risk bleeding to death. Spotting a busy pizzeria, he ducked inside and went downstairs to the men’s room.

Taking off the coat, he saw the windbreaker pressure bandage was stained with blood. Untying the knotted sleeves, Scot braced himself for a gush of blood. The bullet had nailed him pretty good, but it hadn’t penetrated an artery. A fraction more to one side and he would have been in real trouble. He checked the injury over thoroughly and realized it was a serious grazing wound and would definitely need stitches, but that should take care of it.

Harvath’s belt was made of woven black leather, the type whose buckle can be placed anywhere. He removed it from his cargo pants and quickly wrapped it around the upper section of his left arm, pulling the belt tight, his eyes pinched shut in response to the pain. He looked at his watch and marked when he would need to release the tourniquet. He covered his arm with the bloody windbreaker, hoping to prevent any blood from seeping outside of the jacket, cleaned his hands as best he could, and left the restaurant.

With a snowboard under his right arm, the jacket zipped all the way up, and the helmet and the goggles on, Harvath had his best disguise yet. He moved as fast as his legs would carry him to the gondola and watched for signs of his attackers.

Before getting on board, he bought a hot dog and a couple of cans of Red Bull energy drink. He needed to build his strength back up. A gondola operator pointed at the no eating/no drinking sign.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” said an exasperated Harvath.

The operator wasn’t kidding.

I’ve been shot at, trampled, chased by goats, shot at again, and this guy’s worried about me eating in his precious gondola? What a day, he thought to himself.

After two fast bites of the hot dog, Scot threw the rest of it out and slid the Red Bull into his pocket.

As the gondola drew up the mountain, Harvath stood facing the back, and watched Wengen slowly recede in front of him. He had made it. He was safe, but for how long?

Once at the top of the Männlichen, it was a short but painful walk to the Grindelwald gondola that took him back into the village he’d been in only hours before. The only way down from Grindelwald was the train to Wilderswil. He watched the station carefully, letting two trains go before he decided to get on board. In the station’s bathroom, he had released the tourniquet for a moment of precious relief. The fingers of his left hand had gone numb half an hour ago.

In Wilderswil, he caught the bus to Interlaken’s Centralplatz, where he found a pay phone and called Balmer’s. He told Jackie where he was, that he was hurt and needed her to pick him up.

The weight of the snowboard helmet threatened to crush his neck. He was light-headed, his legs were like rubber bands, and his stomach was churning. He stayed in the phone booth, leaning against the side until Jackie arrived twenty minutes later.

57

“You look like shit,” was the first thing Jackie said as Scot eased himself into the passenger seat.

“And a gentle bonsoir to you as well, fair lady. Hey, I’m not auditioning for the Chippendales here. I’m hurt. Did you bring the things I asked for?”

“Yes, but I don’t have any experience in this stuff.”

“Didn’t you take that wilderness medicine course in Utah when we all used to go backcountry skiing?”

“Yeah, but that was years ago.”

“I’ll guide you through it step by step.”

“Scot, I don’t think I-”

“Jackie, if I could go to a doctor, I would, but the doctor would ask questions and would probably want to invite the police to take a look. I can’t afford that. You have to do this for me.”

He closed his eyes, and they drove the rest of the way in silence.

In Scot’s room, Jackie produced a small bag that contained everything he had asked for. The guys who ran Jackie’s adventure-sports desk with canyoning, bungee, and rafting trips in the summer had left behind what they joked was their Rambo first aid kit. One of them, an American named Tony, was a certified EMT, and his partner, Paul, had been a registered nurse. There wasn’t much these two couldn’t handle out in the field, and the kit reflected that. Inside Jackie’s bag, which she had dumped onto the bed, was the first aid kit, a bottle of hydrogen peroxide, gauze, and clean bandages.

Scot groaned as he took off the stolen jacket. Jackie gasped when she saw his entire left side caked with blood.

“What the hell happened to you? And don’t tell me you cut yourself shaving.”

“I cut myself shaving.”

“Do you want my help or not?”

“I was shot.”

“Shot? I thought no one knew you were here.”

“Either that or it’s open season on anyone with a bad dye job.”

“But who in Switzerland would want to shoot you?”

“Jackie, I’m a little bit under the weather at the moment. Can we play fifty questions later?”