The Lions Of Lucerne

Epilogue

Caspian Sea-one month later

“Dahling, if you don’t hurry, you will miss sunset,” drawled the beautiful blonde woman in her thick Russian accent. Her tan body was a stark contrast to the white cotton hammock in which she lay. Their sleek sailing yacht sat peacefully at anchor off the Russian coast, with only an occasional ripple across the warm, dark water to disturb yet another otherwise perfect day. “Dahling, are you bringing drinks?” she said in that voice that had captivated him when he first met her in Minsk.

“Da. A little more tequila and I’m going to show you the best margarita you’ve ever had. Even the fucking Mexicans don’t make ‘em this good,” shouted a man’s voice from below deck.

“Well, hurry. Light is going!”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Keep your perestroikas on. If you knew how to do anything else but lie around, I’d be up there enjoying it instead of down here!”

From the quiet water, eight wet-suited men with rebreathers broke the surface. Four swam forward to the bow of the vessel, while the remaining men boarded from the stern.

With his MP5 at the ready, Scot Harvath crept quietly into the bowels of the yacht and searched for his target. As he rounded on the galley, he could hear the sound of a blender working on crushed ice.

Ten feet away, his target was dressed in madras Bermudas and a white linen shirt. Harvath conspicuously cleared his throat, and Donald Fawcett spun to see the MP5 pointed right at his forehead.

“Who the fuck are you? What do you want on my boat? I paid some pretty big people a lot of money for protection. If you don’t want to have the Russian Mafia crawling up your ass, I suggest you turn around and get off my yacht immediately,” said Fawcett, incredulous even in the face of death.

“I’m operating on a little higher authority than the Russian Mob,” said Harvath.

Fawcett hadn’t expected to hear English. Whoever this was, he was American, and that could mean only one thing.

“I have a special delivery for you from the president,” Harvath continued. He lowered his weapon, took aim, and shot the finger of Fawcett’s right hand that still rested on the blender’s pulse button. The blender exploded, sending margarita mix all over the galley as Fawcett reeled back in pain. He staggered and moved backward toward a row of drawers. Shock and disbelief was written across his face as he clutched his bleeding hand.

“You have no authority here. These are Russian waters,” cried Fawcett. “There is no extradition deal here. You can’t just come and take me.”

Fawcett let go of his bleeding hand and reached for something behind him.

“You see, that’s where we have a problem due to lack of communication. I didn’t come to take you back,” said Harvath. He saw the fear in Fawcett’s eyes quickly turn to hate as he pulled a gun from behind his back and pointed it at Harvath.

Reflexively, Scot squeezed the trigger and sent a volley of bullets into Fawcett’s head.

Before the lifeless body had slid to the floor, Scot engaged the throat mike beneath his wet suit and spoke the four words he knew the president, Gary Lawlor, and everyone else watching and listening in the White House situation room were waiting to hear. “Tango down. Mission accomplished.”

He then disengaged the microphone and said into the quiet space, “That was for you, Sam. I’ll miss you.”

Harvath looked at his watch and figured he would be able to make the morning flight to Zurich. He knew Claudia would be more than happy to pick him up. It was finally time for that vacation.