The dogs the Troll kept were one of his biggest concerns. Since rescuing one of them in Gibraltar, he had done a little research on them. Caucasian Ovcharkas were amazing animals-swift, agile, ferocious when need be, and fiercely loyal. It was obvious why they’d been the breed of choice for both the Russian military and the East German border patrol. It was also obvious why the Troll had selected them.

Harvath thought about his own Caucasian Ovcharka, or rather the poor dog he had asked Emily Hawkins to take care of while he made up his mind about what he wanted to do with it. He had a big problem with keeping a “gift” from a man who’d been complicit in the slaying of countless Americans, including one of Scot Harvath’s best friends.

To be honest, with Tracy in the hospital and everything else that had happened, he hadn’t really thought much about the puppy until Gary shared with him the animal’s grisly torture. It was a horrible picture that Harvath forced from his mind. He needed to focus.

Harvath listened long and hard before slinging the bag over his shoulder and creeping into the island’s interior. Except for the narrow spits of sand on each side, the island was nothing but trees and luxuriant vegetation. The Troll’s lair was at the tip of the island, built outward on stilts above the water.

Harvath had thought hard about how he wanted to handle the dogs. A tranquilizer gun would have been the easiest method, but he didn’t have one. The only things he had access to for this trip were those in his safety-deposit box, as well as a small storage locker he kept in Alexandria. It wasn’t a lot to choose from.

Though he had his Beretta, he didn’t have a silencer for it, and therefore killing the dogs was out of the question. It would make too much noise. He had to find another way to incapacitate them. But to do that, he’d have to isolate them without arousing suspicion in their master-something easier said than done.

The dogs were the Troll’s own private security force. They never left his side-except when they went outside to relieve themselves. That was their moment of greatest vulnerability. And that was when Harvath planned to strike.

Based on satellite imagery he’d studied, Harvath had noticed that the Troll let the animals out a final time around ten o’clock in the evening. It was now just after nine-fifteen, which meant that Harvath had less than forty-five minutes to lay his trap and get himself into position.

Dogs in general, and the Ovcharkas in particular, excelled at night vision and the detection of movement, so it was imperative that Harvath be nowhere near the bait when they came outside.

Opening his dry bag he removed a football-sized object wrapped in paper. He’d had it prepared especially for this situation. It was ten kilograms of freshly ground beef into which Harvath had the butcher in Angra dos Reis grind a kilo of fresh bacon for added irresistibility.

Then, once safely away from shore, Harvath added his own special ingredient, a high-powered laxative from the pharmacy he’d visited in Rio.

Picking his spot now on the narrow trail that led from the Troll’s retreat, Harvath divided the meat into two sections and placed them close enough together that the dogs would be able to smell them, but far enough apart so that whichever dog got to the meat first, wouldn’t be able to wolf down his portion and then beat his partner to the other.

With the bait set, Harvath stepped into the brush, making sure he stayed downwind as he crept toward the house.

He found a perfect vantage spot among some large boulders near the shoreline. The house glowed with soft lighting and all of its window walls were retracted to let in the evening air. Harvath could hear classical music coming from inside. It was Pachelbel’s Canon in D, and he recognized it immediately. It was one of Tracy ’s favorites. She had it on her iPod and played it on the audio station in his kitchen when she cooked breakfast.

Harvath wondered if she’d been playing it on the morning she was shot.

Drawing his pistol, Harvath pulled back the slide to make sure the weapon was charged and said into the warm night air, “This one will be for you, honey.”

Chapter 84

Since Harvath hadn’t skimped on the drug, it didn’t take long for the laxative-laden meat to work its magic. Both dogs began howling almost in unison. The rumbling tearing through their bowels had to have been horrible.

The music was turned off, and Harvath caught his first glimpse of the Troll. It brought the memories of their first encounter in Gibraltar flooding back to him.

The Troll’s pure white dogs, which were well over forty-one inches high at the shoulder, towered above the little man. Where the animals had to weigh close to two hundred pounds apiece, the Troll couldn’t have weighed more than seventy-five. Harvath placed his height at just under three feet tall. That said, he knew the man’s size was absolutely no indication of his cunning.

The Troll opened the front doors of his rustic villa, and the dogs knocked their master out of the way as they tore out of the house. If the Troll had any idea what was wrong with them, he certainly didn’t show it. Harvath’s guess was that the man had absolutely no idea what was going on. All he knew was that his animals were acting extremely strangely and out of character.

Harvath watched as the Troll followed the dogs outside. It was time.

Stepping out from behind the rocks, Harvath moved quickly up the beach. As he neared the house, he cut around back and hopped a wooden fence that surrounded a lushly planted, open-air bath.

He crossed the fragrant courtyard, and after climbing a small flight of stone steps, entered the house through the wide-open French doors.

Passing through the kitchen area, Harvath dropped a stack of bone-shaped packages on the counter and cupboards and continued in.

Halfway through the living room he noticed a small alcove that must have been used as a reading nook. It had two upholstered chairs, a lamp, and a small side table. Harvath unslung his dry bag, pulled his pistol, and sat down.

To say the Troll was surprised to see him was an understatement. He pulled up short so quickly, he lost his balance. Harvath might have laughed if he hadn’t harbored such an intense hatred for the man.

To his credit, the Troll had a very agile mind. Seeing Harvath and his gun, the man summed up the situation very quickly.

“What have you done to my dogs?” he demanded.

“They’ll be fine,” said Harvath. “It’s only temporary.”

“You bloody bastard,” roared the little man. “How dare you hurt those animals? They have done absolutely nothing to you.”

“And I want to keep it that way.”

The Troll burned holes into Harvath with his eyes. “So help me. If anything happens to them, I will make it my life’s work to see to it that you pay with your very last breath.”

His demeanor had switched from agitated, almost panicked, to an icy calm. There was no question that he meant what he said and that he fully believed he could carry out the threat.

“I left two packets in the kitchen,” said Harvath, referring to the product known as K-9 Quencher he’d picked up at the same strip mall at which he’d bought his computer before leaving D. C.

“What are they?” asked the Troll, the apprehension obvious in his voice.

“Don’t worry. If I’d wanted your dogs dead, they’d be dead. Those packets contain an electrolyte powder specially formulated for rehydrating canines.”

“What did you do to them?”

“It’s just a laxative. They’ll be fine in a few hours. Pour each packet into a bowl of water and leave them outside where the dogs can get to them.” As the Troll glared at him, Harvath added, “And make sure you stay where I can see you.”