Black List

CHAPTER 42

TEXAS

After checking the two figures outside and seeing that they were both dead, Harvath slipped inside the guesthouse. From the direction of the master bedroom, he could hear a man’s agonized cries. Thankfully, the voice was much too deep to belong to Nicholas.

Creeping forward and using the thermal scope, his weapon up and at the ready, Harvath made it about half the distance before Draco charged into the hallway and started barking. The dog’s muzzle looked to be dripping with blood and its eyes were wild, as if it had gone feral. He gave no indication that he recognized Harvath. In fact, he looked primed to attack.

“Easy, boy,” he said softly, but the dog continued barking and moving forward. He didn’t want to hurt the animal, but he also didn’t want to give himself away if he didn’t have to by calling out.

The standoff was quickly broken by Nicholas’s voice from inside the room. “Who’s there?” he called out.

“Rubber Duckie,” Harvath replied, knowing you never answered “me” to a who-goes-there question.

The little man shouted a command in Russian, and the dog ceased barking and returned to the bedroom. Harvath kept his pistol up and pulled it into his chest as he followed.

He stopped at the edge of the doorframe and lowered the scope. A faint glow spilled out the door into the hall, and again he heard a man’s cries. “Are you okay?”

“Yes,” Nicholas responded. “You can come in.”

Harvath did a snap peek around the corner before stepping fully into the doorway. A man in his mid-twenties lay on the floor, covered in blood. Argos, whose snout was also covered in blood, stood nearby. Much of Nicholas’s computer equipment had been shot to pieces. A badly damaged laptop still gave off enough light to see by.

Draco stood alongside Nicholas, who was covering the wounded attacker with his little M3. There was no sign of Nina. Harvath was about to ask what had happened to her when he heard the sound of vomiting from the bathroom.

He stepped into the room and trained his pistol on the young man bleeding all over the floor. The dogs had torn him to shreds. From where he stood, Harvath doubted he’d make it.

“Are you all okay?” he repeated to Nicholas.

“Nina’s shook up, but we’re okay.”

Harvath removed the tiny .45-caliber pistol from his pocket and tossed it to him. “Here,” he said. “Cover him with this.”

Nicholas transitioned to the more powerful pistol and did as Harvath instructed.

As he approached the kid on the floor, he motioned for Nicholas to call off Argos.

“No,” Nicholas argued. “He came to kill us. Let the dogs finish the bastard.”

Harvath glared at him. “Keep those dogs back. That’s an order.”

Nicholas relented, issuing a command in Russian, and the dog retreated to his side.

Harvath looked down at the attacker and decided he wouldn’t need his pistol. Tucking it into his jeans at the small of his back, he bent over and lifted the kid into a sitting position against the side of the bed.

It was a messy operation. When Harvath finally got him into place and drew back his hands, they were slick with blood.

The extent of the kid’s injuries was very grave. His face had been savaged, and the dogs had done incredible damage to his limbs, as well as his groin area, and his throat looked like raw hamburger. Harvath was amazed he could make any sound at all. There was a wet whooshing noise that could be heard beneath the moaning as the man labored to take in oxygen. The fact that he hadn’t slipped totally into shock was incredible.

“You’re in bad shape,” Harvath said gently. “I’ve got a trauma kit and will do what I can, but before I can help you, I need you to answer some questions. Who are you? Who sent you here?”

The kid’s eyes were glassy and unfocused. His breathing was coming in gasps. There was a gurgle as he coughed up a mouthful of blood.

“He’s not going to answer you,” Nicholas replied. “Let me put the dogs on him.”

Argos and Draco began growling again.

“I’m not telling you again,” Harvath snapped. “Keep those dogs under control.” Turning his attention back to their prisoner, he said, “It’s up to you. I’ve got pain meds as well. We can stabilize you and get you to a hospital. It’s your call. Just tell me who you are and who sent you.”

The kid was dressed like his dead comrades outside. He wore 511 trousers, tactical boots, and an ill-fitting sweatshirt likely taken off one of the men he and his team had murdered at the water trough. On his wrist was a military-version Suunto watch, popular with SOF guys. He had short, dark hair and a fit build. Under different circumstances, he could have been some young SEAL or Green Beret Harvath had trained or operated alongside at some point in his career.

He waited for the kid to say something, but nothing came, so Harvath said, “All of the men I worked with were good, honorable men who had shed blood for their country. They’re dead now, murdered by the same people who sent you here to kill us.”

It caused the kid a lot of pain, but he tilted his head and rolled his eyes up to meet Harvath’s. He was no longer moaning. His pupils were beginning to dilate.

“Whatever they told you, they lied,” Harvath said. “You were used. This has to end here, now. If you help me, no one else has to die.”

Moments passed. When the kid opened his mouth to speak, blood-soaked air rattled in and out of his lungs. The words that formed on his shredded lips were barely discernible, and Harvath had to lean down to make them out.

“Bremmer,” the young man rasped. “Chuck Bremmer.”

Harvath thought he recognized the name from when he was attached to the President’s Secret Service detail. There had been a special Defense Department liaison to the White House named Bremmer. “Are you talking about Colonel Chuck Bremmer?”

There was no response. The kid had gone into agonal respiration, or “guppy breathing,” and was gasping in very short, rapid breaths.

Harvath repeated his question, searching the young man’s face for any sign of acknowledgment. All he got back was a cold, glassy-eyed stare. Seconds later, the guppy breathing stopped.

Harvath checked his pulse. He was dead.