A cascade of moldy wood shavings being used as animal bedding fell down into the tunnel. The smell of dung was even stronger now.
As Harvath scanned the small barn, he saw four goats staring back at him. The minute they made eye-to-night-vision-goggle contact, they started bleating.
They were loud. It sounded like someone had just tripped a burglar alarm. Harvath had to act fast.
He had come ready to kill Halim’s people, but not a bunch of goats. It wasn’t their fault they were here. Besides, the suppressor on his H&K could only muffle his shots to a certain degree. There was no such thing as a true “silencer.” Those only existed in the movies.
Quickly scanning the barn, he saw several sacks of grain suspended from the ceiling. They had been hung out of reach of the goats, as well as any bugs or rodents.
Hopping out of the opening in the floor, he drew his knife and slashed open the nearest sack. Grain spilled out and began piling up beneath. The goats went right for it, and immediately quieted to eat.
Harvath looked down into the hole and signaled for his team to hurry up and climb out. As they did, he cut down the rest of the sacks. He needed the goats to be quiet long enough for them to get out of the barn.
Approaching the door, he opened it just wide enough to peer outside. They were in the northeast corner of the compound. Directly across from them was the guesthouse, beyond that was the main house, and directly to the right was the structure with no windows. Piled next to it was a bunch of wooden crates and empty pallets.
“It’s a good thing you left the goats alone,” Gage whispered, as he joined him at the door. “They hate it when you drag their girlfriends into these things.”
Harvath chuckled and stood aside so he could take a look.
“See the building to our right?” he asked as Gage peered outside.
The Green Beret nodded. “Good view of the courtyard.”
“Think you can get up on the roof?”
“Let’s find out.”
Harvath reached out to the drone team again.
“Negative movement in the compound,” they replied.
With Morrison and Barton keeping an eye on the goats, Harvath counted down from three and opened the door. Gage headed for the building while Staelin and Haney covered him.
Once there, he quietly leaned several of the pallets up against the wall and then hopped on top. Harvath braced for the dry, sun-bleached wood to splinter under the big man’s weight, but it didn’t happen.
Pulling himself up with his massive arms, he swung his legs over the parapet and soundlessly belly crawled to the other side.
“In place,” he radioed a few moments later.
“How’s it look?” Harvath asked.
“Like church on a Monday. Quiet and empty.”
From his perch, Gage had a clear view of the guesthouse, the main house, and the front gate. If anyone appeared with a weapon, or if there were any “squirters,” bad guys who tried to make a run for it, Gage knew he was free to engage.
The first thing Harvath wanted to make sure of, though, was that the Green Beret wasn’t perched atop a nest of Halim’s men. Giving the signal, he sent Staelin and Haney to check it out.
One of the number-one rules in taking down a target was: Don’t run to your death. With their weapons up and at the ready, they moved purposefully across the courtyard, scanning for threats as they went.
At the door, Staelin waited for Haney to squeeze his shoulder—the signal that he was ready to go. When he did, the Delta Force operative tried the handle. It was unlocked.
Opening the door, Staelin stepped aside to allow Haney to sweep in and then followed.
They both radioed back the same message: “Clear.”
Staelin then stated, “Jesus. This guy Halim is a sick bastard. It looks like a medieval torture chamber.”
“Everything but an iron maiden,” Haney added.
“Stand by,” Harvath replied.
He wasn’t surprised to learn that the windowless building was where the smuggler indulged some of his most vile psychopathy. Rumor had it that Halim had been a commander in the Soqur Al-Fatah, or Hawks of Al-Fatah.
They were the most feared of Gaddafi’s death squads. Their unit traveled the country, hunting down insurgents. They used shipping containers, painted with a black crescent moon, to imprison and torture suspects into providing information on their networks. Wherever they went, people disappeared and shallow, mass graves followed.
Only in a unit like Soqur Al-Fatah could a psycho like Umar Ali Halim have found a home and been paid to hone his exceptionally evil penchant for inflicting pain on his fellow human beings.
Harvath signaled Barton and Morrison to open the last bag of grain and join him at the door.
When they did, he asked for a final SITREP from the drone team back in Tunisia and Gage up on the roof. Once they had reported back the all clear, he ordered everyone to get ready for phase two.
Staelin and Haney were closest to the main house, so they would go for Halim. Harvath, along with Morrison and Barton, would hit the guesthouse, where Halim’s men were believed to be.
With a final check of weapons, comms, and gear, everyone was good to go. Harvath, having transitioned back to his suppressed rifle, once again counted down from three.
This was why they had come all the way to Libya. It was now game on.
CHAPTER 26
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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.