Looking out the French doors that led to the master bedroom’s private balcony, Harvath had an unimpeded view of the lake. His eyes were immediately drawn to the pier and the conspicuous absence of the Cobalt speedboat Nancy Erikson had arranged for Roussard.
A bad feeling was growing in the pit of Harvath’s stomach.
He backtracked the way he’d come, rechecking everything along the way. When he got to the garage, he opened the driver’s-side door of Roussard’s Lincoln and popped the trunk.
Smiling back at him was a bright blue Kiva duffle. “Gotcha,” said Harvath.
But after opening it and sifting through all its mundane contents, he realized he hadn’t gotten anything. Clothes, toiletries, it was all run-of-the-mill stuff. Not only was there nothing incriminating inside the bag, there was nothing at all pointing to what Roussard was planning to do.
Harvath slammed the trunk closed and was about to go back inside when he noticed a large plastic garbage can by the garage door.
He ran to it and threw back the lid. At the bottom was a white garbage bag. Harvath pulled it out and took it back inside the house.
Clearing off the dining-room table, he ripped open the bag and emptied its contents. Illuminated by the shafts of waning afternoon light, he picked through the few bits and pieces of trash that had accumulated over Roussard’s short stay.
There were empty mineral water bottles, microwavable entrée packages, ashes, butts, and a couple of empty packs of Gitanes. Mixed in among everything was a brochure for the grand yachts of the Lake Geneva Cruise Line company.
Harvath took a dish towel and wiped the brochure clean. Rental homes the world over were filled with local magazines, as well as brochures on sights and things to do. It was no surprise that the owners of this house would have done the same for their renters. But what was it about this brochure that warranted Roussard’s throwing it out?
Harvath rapidly flipped through the pages, trying to discern its significance. It wasn’t until he neared the end that he noticed a dog-eared page, and his heart stopped cold in his chest.
The text at the top read “The Grand Yacht Polaris was built in 1898 for Otto Young, one of the first millionaires on Geneva Lake. Experience the luxurious lifestyle of this time period while surrounded by the original mahogany and brass aboard the Polaris. Her deck is open to the lake breeze and the cabin area contains a beautiful brass-top bar. Perfect for private tours, or treat your guests to a one-of-a-kind cocktail party.”
Harvath had been wrong. Roussard’s target wasn’t Meg’s wedding, it was her rehearsal dinner.
As he dropped the brochure on the table he heard the distinct sound of a hammer being cocked behind him. It was followed by Rick Morrell’s voice from the other side of the kitchen saying, “Don’t move, Scot. Don’t even breathe.”
Chapter 116
A million and one things sped through Harvath’s mind, chief among them being, How the hell had they found him?
Harvath knew that any attempt to negotiate with Morrell would be futile. He didn’t care how close he was to nailing Roussard and he wouldn’t care that Roussard was at this very moment about to carry out another attack. Morrell’s sole purpose was to put a hood over Harvath’s head and throw him into a dark hole for a long time.
If there was one thing that Harvath knew about life, it was that it was all about timing, and Morrell’s just plain sucked.
Without warning, Harvath dropped to the floor and out of sight of Rick Morrell and his men. As he scrambled on his hands and knees into the living room, the dining area erupted in a hail of silenced weapons fire. Morrell’s marching orders were clear-Harvath was to be taken dead or alive.
The front door exploded inward and Harvath fired a volley of booming rounds into the frame, which scattered an additional contingent of Morrell’s men and sent them scurrying for cover outside.
Firing several more rounds as he ran, Harvath made it to the grand staircase and charged up the steps. Reaching the master bedroom, he could hear men pounding up the stairs behind him.
There was no time to slow them down by barricading the door. Harvath needed to maintain his lead.
Racing through the bedroom, he shut the doors to the walk-in closet and the bathroom and let himself out the French doors onto the small balcony.
Checking first for any signs of Morrell’s men on the ground below, Harvath hopped up onto the stone balustrade and pulled himself onto the steeply sloped roof.
The slate tiles were almost impossible to get traction on. Harvath’s feet kept slipping as he moved his way down the roofline. His goal was to drop onto the garage and from there to the ground where he could make his way back into the woods. However, it didn’t turn out exactly the way he had planned.
Ten feet away from the garage, Harvath’s foot caught a loose tile and he lost his balance-this time for good.
He went down hard, hitting the edge of the roof before being launched into the open air. Harvath tried to right himself, but he was traveling at too great a rate of speed.
He landed hard on his left side, the force of the impact crushing the air from his lungs. Despite the thick bed of landscaping mulch, had he landed on his head, his neck would have snapped like a matchstick. Though Harvath didn’t feel very lucky at the moment he was, extremely.
Even though his brain was scrambled from the fall and he couldn’t breathe, he knew on a primal level that he needed to get moving or he was going to be dead.
He sucked in huge gulps of air, trying to saturate his lungs with oxygen. As his chest heaved, he caught sight of his pistol lying in the dirt several feet away.
He scrambled toward it, and as his fingers closed around the slide, he felt the air returning to his lungs.
Getting to his feet, Harvath made sure to remain below the window line as he ran toward the garage. When he got there, he pulled up short, flattening his back against the cool stone wall.
Raising his H amp;K to chest height, he risked a quick peek around the corner.
Two of Morrell’s men were already on the ground looking for him, and one was headed his way. In a word, Harvath was fucked.
Chapter 117
The only chance Harvath had of escape was to draw Morrell and his men off his trail, and to do that, he was going to need to take one of them out of commission.
Planting his feet, Harvath crouched and gripped his pistol by the barrel, turning the butt outward. All of this would be so much easier if he were willing to kill Morrell and his team, but that was still off the table.
He quieted his breathing and listened. He knew the man was just around the corner, no more than a few feet away, yet he couldn’t hear anything.
Harvath’s legs burned and sweat was breaking out on his forehead. He was like a coiled spring that had been wound too tight. He wasn’t going to be able to hold this position much longer.
Suddenly, there was a flash of color as one of Morrell’s men did a hasty peek around the corner of the garage. That was when Harvath sprang.
Grabbing the man’s submachine gun with his left hand and pulling him off-balance, Harvath slammed the butt of his pistol into the man’s temple hard enough to make him see stars, lots of them.
Instantly, his knees buckled, and Harvath yanked him the rest of the way around the corner to his side of the house.
Keeping his own pistol trained on him, Harvath took the man’s MP5, as well as a spare magazine, and slung it over his shoulder. The man carried a.40 caliber Glock in a paddle holster at his hip, and Harvath helped himself to that too.