Use of Force

CHAPTER 26

Both assault teams slipped out of their respective buildings and headed toward their designated targets.

On Harvath’s team, Barton took point, Morrison covered the rear, and Harvath was in the middle.

The guesthouse reminded Harvath of buildings he had seen across North Africa — cinderblock construction, small windows, wooden door with iron hardware.

Approaching the entry, Gage whispered over the radio, “Knock, knock, motherfuckers.”

At the door, Barton waited for Harvath to squeeze his shoulder. When he did, the red-bearded SEAL tried the handle. It was unlocked. As he opened it, Harvath swept inside, followed by Morrison. Barton closed the door and brought up the rear.

It was a narrow hallway with a door to the left and a door to the right. Dealer’s choice. Harvath could choose either one.

He had been on countless raids throughout the Muslim world. He knew what to look for in situations like this. Shoes.

Glancing to his left and his right, he saw men’s shoes stacked up outside both doors. There were no women’s or children’s shoes. That was a good sign.

Harvath chose the door with the larger pile and cut to the left. Morrison cut to the right, and Barton — as planned — followed Harvath.

He tried the knob, but the door wasn’t even fully closed. Whoever had entered last hadn’t closed it all the way.

Harvath leaned gently against it, his rifle ready to fire. He braced for the squeal of metal on metal, thinking the old hinges would give him away. But the sound never came.

Pushing into the room, Harvath was almost clear of the doorway when one of Halim’s men sat up in his bed, followed by two more. All three of them had their weapons not next to their beds, but in their beds.

Whether they had been awakened by the goats bleating and were just being cautious, or whether they always slept with their AK-47s, Harvath would never know. Nor would he ever care. Depressing his trigger, he engaged.

He felled the first two men with headshots. But as he engaged the third man, his shot went wide and hit the wall.

Reacquiring the target, he skipped one off the man’s skull — giving him a Mohawk — and then put one right into his left eye, killing him.

By now, Barton had shoved into the room from behind him. Halim’s men were throwing off their blankets and scrambling for their rifles. Barton took the right side of the room. Harvath focused on the left.

Harvath fired in controlled pairs — his shots now rock steady and deadly accurate. Barton was just as deadly, if not more so.

As soon as the job was done, Harvath sent Barton to check on Morrison. Once he had exited, Harvath walked the length of the room, delivering extra rounds to make sure there were no survivors.

At the end of the row of beds, he heard Haney’s voice come over his earpiece. “Jackpot.”

They had Halim.

• • •

After sending Morrison and Barton to cover the front door, Harvath moved through Morrison’s room to make sure there were no survivors. There weren’t. The Force Recon Marine was damn good at his job.

Exiting the guesthouse, Harvath headed to the main house while Morrison and Barton, covered by Gage, swept the rest of the compound.

Staelin and Haney had found the smuggler, alone, in his bedroom.

As Harvath entered, he saw Halim sitting, flex-cuffed to a gilded chair with a blood-soaked towel wrapped around his hand.

“What happened?” Harvath asked.

“He went for this under his pillow,” Haney replied, holding up a Makarov PMM pistol. “So, I shot him.”

“Good job. Go clear the rest of the house. I’ll keep an eye on him.”

From his pocket, Harvath removed one of the few pictures ever taken of Umar Ali Halim.

It was twenty years old, but the scar that ran from above his left eye, down through his eyebrow, over his nose, and across his left cheek was unmistakable. There was no question they had the right guy.

Halim was built like a wrestler, thick and muscular. He had short black hair, a close black beard, and a noticeable overbite that reminded him of Saddam Hussein’s psychopathic son Uday.

Harvath could have turned on the lights, but he wanted to keep the smuggler on edge. The room was extremely dark. Being denied the ability to see was unsettling.

“Let’s see your hand,” Harvath said, as he slung his weapon and unwound the towel.

Even through his night vision goggles, he could tell that the injury was severe. There was a lot of blood and one of Halim’s fingers had been blown almost all the way off. It lay on the towel, barely attached.

“It looks like your piano career is over,” said Harvath.

Halim didn’t respond. Instead, he brought his head back and spat a huge glob of spit in Harvath’s face.

Drawing back his weapon, Harvath crashed it into the bridge of the smuggler’s nose, breaking it. “Your modeling career isn’t looking so good now either.”

Wiping the man’s saliva from his face, he chastised himself for not expecting it. North African and Middle Eastern men used spitting as a high-grade insult.

It wasn’t the first time one had spat at him. They usually did it out of fear. It was their way of trying to assert dominance over a situation in which they had zero control. It had to be responded to quickly, which was why Harvath had broken the man’s nose. The smuggler needed to know, right up front, who was boss and that Harvath hadn’t come to play games.

He looked back down at the man’s injured hand and touched it near the severed finger with his suppressor. The smuggler’s body went rigid as a lightning bolt of pain shot through his body, and he let out a piercing scream.

Harvath carefully wrapped the towel back around it, making sure not to get any blood on his bare hands.

They were going to have to treat him before they started his interrogation. The easiest route to answers would likely be through the man’s injured hand. But as far as Harvath was concerned, that would be taking it too easy on him.

Karma was a bitch and Umar Ali Halim deserved as much of his own medicine as could be forced down his throat. Harvath wanted to take him for a ride on his own flying carpet.

As Staelin had the most medical training on the team, Harvath wanted him to patch up the Libyan.

He was just about to hail him on the radio when he heard his voice in his earpiece: “Boss, we’ve got a problem. Need you in the courtyard ASAP.”