The First Commandment

CHAPTER 90

The roar of the large helicopter hovering just above the water outside was eclipsed by the deafening thunder of heavy machine guns emptying themselves into the house.

Harvath grabbed the Troll by the back of his thick neck and forced him to the tile floor as all around them the walls, the furniture, and the fixtures were chewed to a pulp.

Shards of broken glass blanketed the ground, and a fire began in the kitchen. With its wooden construction and thatched roof, Harvath knew the place was going to go up faster than a box of kindling.

Drawing his pistol, he marked in his mind’s eye where the chopper had been hovering and readied himself to return fire. But the opportunity never came.

At a pause in the machine-gun rampage, Harvath popped up from the floor with his Beretta poised, only to see the skis of the helicopter as it disappeared overhead.

Despite the ringing in his ears, he could hear the helicopter as it flew over the roof and had a bad feeling about where it was headed — the landing pad.

The JetRanger could carry anywhere from five to seven passengers, which meant that there was no telling how many men were aboard. Harvath had already expended two rounds of ammunition and had only one spare magazine remaining. He didn’t like the odds if they got into a protracted firefight. His only hope was to get the drop on whoever was aboard that helicopter.

When Harvath reached down to help the Troll off the floor, he was no longer there. Harvath spun to see the man running for the front door. Harvath caught him right at the reading nook. “We have to get out of here,” he shouted as he grabbed the dwarf by his collar.

“Not without the dogs!” he returned.

“There’s no time. We have to go now.”

“I won’t leave them!”

Harvath couldn’t believe the Troll would put his life on the line for his dogs. “Now,” he said as he spun him in the direction of the dining room and gave him a shove to get going.

Passing the couch, Harvath grabbed his dry bag and slung it over his shoulder.

At the dining-room table the Troll stopped again, this time for his laptop. Frantically, he began pulling the cables from its ports. Before Harvath could say anything, he stated, “We’ll want this. Trust me.”

Harvath didn’t argue. Grabbing the device by its handle, he jerked it off the table, stripping it from its remaining cables, which went whipping off in different directions.

With his other hand, Harvath took hold of the Troll’s arm and propelled him forward. They ran to the front of the structure, where the dining room and living room met. Beneath them was the glass floor. Many of its panes had been shattered. Others were pockmarked and splintered from the waves of machine-gun fire that had torn up the house.

As Harvath approached the wall of open windows that led out over the water, the Troll stopped dead in his tracks. “What are you doing?”

“I’m getting us the hell out of here. Get moving.”

The Troll twisted free of his grasp and retreated backward into the house.

“You’re going to get us killed. What the hell is wrong with you?”

The Troll glanced at the fire engulfing the kitchen, its flames now high enough to lick at the roof. As he turned back to Harvath he said, “I can’t swim.”

Harvath was about to tell him he had no choice, when all the lights in the house went out. He knew that whoever had started the job with that helicopter was about to storm the house to make sure it was finished.