Use of Force

CHAPTER 55

Within minutes of the Paris attack, everyone’s phones started going off in the restaurant. As the notification chimes rang, Harvath called the waiter over and paid their bill. He wanted to get to a television. Their waiter suggested an Irish bar a few blocks away.

Entering the pub, they saw the TV sets were tuned to several English-language stations including CNN and BBC. The team ordered coffee and energy drinks. They had a lot to get done this evening and things had just taken an even more serious turn.

The men were not shy about how they felt. Not even with Lovett in their midst.

“Fucking cocksuckers,” Morrison growled as he watched the bloody footage from the Tuileries.

There were already preliminary reports coming through of how many dead and wounded, as well as the victims’ countries of origin. France, Germany, Japan, the United States, Mexico… the crawl on the bottom of the screen seemed to just keep going.

“Religion of peace, my ass,” said Barton, all but convinced he knew who and what was behind the attack.

Staelin and Harvath both watched the footage in silence, studying it for clues.

“Same group as Spain?” the Delta Force operative wondered aloud after several moments.

“And Burning Man,” Harvath replied quietly.

“Were we supposed to stop this?”

Harvath nodded solemnly. It was why they had been put on the trail of the dead ISIS chemist. It had taken them first to Libya, and now Italy. The attacks were connected. He was sure of it.

They went back to watching the TVs in silence.

Everyone in the bar was in a state of shock. No one could speak. There was genuine fear in every single face.

Harvath knew what they were thinking. How long until attacks like this start happening in Italy?

The barman, a redheaded transplant from Dublin named Carey, was pouring complimentary shots of Irish whiskey. He wanted everyone in the pub to raise their glasses out of respect for the dead and wounded.

Harvath politely declined, explaining his team had to compete in the morning. Carey didn’t ask in what. Instead, he retrieved five Red Bulls from the cooler and handed them to him.

When the time came, the team raised their drinks along with everyone else in the pub as the barman led them in a quick farewell to the deceased and a prayer for those who remained.

Harvath didn’t think the attack in Paris would change Carlo Ragusa’s plans, but he raised the subject with Lovett anyway.

“Mount Etna could erupt tonight,” she stated, referencing the volcano on the east coast of the island, “and this horserace would still go in the morning.”

“Then we’d better get started.”

• • •

Lovett’s contact had emailed her a picture of Naya, the Nigerian bartender at the Black Cat, and once more she showed it around.

After going over the plan one last time, Harvath organized the team into waves. As Morrison’s job was to reposition the SUV, he sent him first.

His instructions were simple: Go in, sit at the bar, and send a text as to whether Naya was working.

Because their radios were so bulky, there was no way they could hide them under their street clothes. They were lucky enough simply to conceal their pistols.

If Ragusa was coming to see his mistress this evening, Harvath figured it would happen in one of two ways. Either the Mafioso would spend the bulk of his evening at home with his wife and family before heading out, or he would get to his mistress’s apartment early and expect her to cook for him.

With the little he knew about Sicilians, he doubted Ragusa was going to trade his wife’s cooking for his Nigerian mistress’s. Plus, there was no way he was going to take Naya out to dinner. That wasn’t how men in the Cosa Nostra operated. It was likely a very closely held secret that he was seeing the bartender.

Harvath assumed that Naya would work her shift until Ragusa showed up. Once he arrived, or let her know he was on the way, she’d punch out and head upstairs.

Fifteen minutes later, they had their answer. Harvath read the text aloud. “Naya and another woman tending bar. Club less than half full. Music sucks.”

“Remind him to smile,” Barton said.

“How’s the mood?” asked Staelin. “Any TVs on in there?”

Ignoring Barton, Harvath texted back Staelin’s question.

“No TVs,” came the response. Harvath read it aloud.

“Good,” Staelin replied. “We want everybody having a real good time.”

“Let’s just hope it’s loud,” Harvath remarked.

“Don’t worry,” the Delta Force operative stated. “It’s an Italian nightclub. It’ll be plenty loud.”

Harvath then looked at Barton. “You’re up.”

“Don’t forget to smile,” Staelin added as the SEAL headed out.

Walking away, Barton gave him the finger over his shoulder.

“He’s sweet,” the Delta Force operative said as he took a sip of his Red Bull.

Harvath texted Morrison to let him know Barton was inbound. Then, turning to Lovett, he said, “Time to go.”

Standing up, he looked at Staelin, who was eyeing two attractive young women who had just entered the pub. “See you there?” he asked.

“Yeah,” the man replied, taking a beat longer than Harvath would have liked. “See you there.”

Shaking his head, he gestured for Lovett to go first, and then followed her out the door.

As soon as they stepped outside, he caught the look on her face. “Don’t worry,” he said. “He’ll be there.”

“That’s not what I’m worried about,” she answered.

He was about to respond when he felt the first drops of rain begin to fall.