It was the perfect night for a drop. The ocean was warm and calm. It was like landing in a bathtub.
As everyone climbed on board, the boat crews cleared the parachutes. Once everyone was accounted for and had taken their places, the crews fired up the powerful diesel engines and headed for the Libyan coast.
Back at the safe house, Harvath was on the roof when his satellite phone vibrated.
Reading the message, he turned to Barton and said, “Boats are on their way. Twenty minutes out.”
? ? ?
After the Reaper had destroyed the militia convoy, Harvath had loaded Haney into the technical and taken off.
They were close to the coast. With the help of the drone, they had found an old beach road, which had allowed them to get back to the safe house without being seen. The rest of the team was already there.
The moment he pulled in, they rushed to the truck to help carry Haney inside, where Staelin assessed his injury. Harvath was exhausted and would have killed for some sleep, but he still had work to do too.
Strike Force Two had dispatched a new, fully fueled, fully armed drone to have on station above their location. It seemed unlikely that the remaining militia members knew who, much less where, they were, but it was good to have the extra firepower available just in case.
When he stepped into the safe house, the first thing he started working on was how they were going to get out of the country. None of their contingency planning had accounted for taking on the entire Libya Liberation Front.
Because the militia controlled this portion of the country and had eyes and ears everywhere, crossing at the border checkpoint into Tunisia was out of the question. So was trying to get out by airplane. They had been lucky just to make it back to the safe house. Going back out on the road would push that luck, probably to the breaking point.
You could only kick Murphy in the nuts so many times before he kicked back. That left only one way out—via water.
A boat extraction was a possibility he and McGee had discussed. It was an expensive, high-risk last resort, but there were no other options. Things had gotten too hot.
Once again, he got on his satellite phone and went directly to the DCI. McGee got the ball rolling right away.
When the DCI called back with confirmation, it came with one caveat. Because Haney and Gage were both stable, the powers that be at AFRICOM and the Defense Department wanted to wait until dark. There was no use drawing undue attention by pulling up in broad daylight.
Harvath wasn’t crazy about waiting, but he understood the reasoning. It was better to wait until dark.
With the added peace of mind of having the drone overhead, he assigned a new guard rotation, then went into the kitchen and started some coffee. He wasn’t going to feel fully at ease until they had put Libya far behind them.
He prepared a quick bite and poured a cup of coffee, hoping it might improve his mood. It didn’t.
Walking back to the bedroom where Halim as well as the satellite phone salesman were being held, he put his game face on and stepped inside.
“Who dressed his wound?” he asked, pointing at the smuggler’s hand as he entered.
Morrison was in charge of watching the two prisoners. “Staelin did,” he replied.
“We’re not running a free clinic here,” said Harvath as he pulled out his knife.
Walking over to the chair Halim was tied to, he slipped the blade against the man’s wrist and drove it down and through his bandages.
Whether he had made contact with the injured area, he couldn’t tell. What was obvious was how uncomfortable Halim was. As soon as the knife began to move, he winced and perspiration broke out across his forehead.
“Has he been given any pain meds?”
“Hell no,” Morrison answered.
“Good,” said Harvath as he began to peel away the bandages. Staelin had done a professional job. In fact it was too professional. Frustrated, Harvath yanked at the remaining pieces and the smuggler went into a spasm of pain.
Finally, he exposed the severed finger. It looked even worse in the light of day than it had under his night vision goggles.
“Whether you keep this finger or not is up to you. Do you understand me?”
The smuggler nodded.
Harvath held up his phone and showed him a university picture of Mustapha Marzouk—the chemistry student who was the owner of the laptop of doom. “Do you recognize this man?”
The smuggler shook his head.
“Look again,” he ordered.
The man did.
“Well?” asked Harvath.
“I don’t know him,” the smuggler replied.
He was lying. Taking the tip of his knife, Harvath began poking at the exposed wound where his finger was barely attached.
Halim screamed in pain.
“Do you recognize this man?”
“Yes! Yes, I recognize him!” he yelled.
Harvath forced a smile. “Now we’re getting somewhere. Who is he?”
“I don’t know.”
He began to bring the knife forward again.
“I don’t know his name!” the smuggler cried. “I never know the names.”
“But you recognize his face.”
The man nodded.
“I can’t hear you,” said Harvath.
“Yes, I recognize his face!”
Harvath set the photo down where Halim could still see it. “You must see hundreds of new people a year,” he said. “Maybe even thousands. Why would you remember this person?”
“Because he was a VIP.”
“Bullshit,” Harvath replied, going back in for the stump. “You’re lying.”
“No! No! No!” he cried. “Not lying. He was a VIP. His organization paid extra.”
“Paid extra for what? To send him out in a storm and make sure he drowned?”
The smuggler lowered his gaze, but Harvath didn’t buy his faux remorse for a second. “What did they pay extra for?”
“For first class.”
“First class?”
Halim looked up at him. “To sit on the top deck. To have food and water. To use the satellite phone if he wished.”
“But not to have a life jacket,” Harvath stated.
The man didn’t respond. He simply cast his eyes back down.
“Who paid you? What organization?”
The smuggler remained silent. Harvath grabbed his arm by the wrist and jammed his knife into the man’s stump.
Halim screamed and went rigid as the pain exploded throughout his entire body.
“Who paid you?” Harvath yelled.
“Daesh!” the man cried out, using the Arabic name for ISIS. “Daesh paid me.”
Withdrawing the knife, he wiped it on the smuggler’s shirt. Halim was on the verge of passing out. Harvath stepped away.
Leaning against the wall, he waited for the man to regain his composure. When he felt enough time had passed, he re-engaged.
“Why would you send a VIP into a storm like that?”
The man was slow to reply, but eventually said, “We thought they could make it.”
“Bullshit. You sent them out like you always do, in a bad boat without enough fuel.”
“No,” the smuggler argued. “The boat wasn’t the best, but it had extra fuel. We thought they could beat the storm.”
“And then what? What was the VIP supposed to do then?”