According to Jeffery, the only means of communicating with Damien was a highly encrypted email system that was sent via satellite burst.
None of that mattered to Harvath. He had no intention of communicating with Damien electronically. He wanted to chat with him face-to-face.
As he made landfall on the eastern side of the island, he picked his way across the rocks, careful not to leave any footprints in the sand. Once back in the brush, he unpacked his dry-bag and assembled his equipment.
Even though he didn’t have to traverse much terrain, his plan had been to travel light. He had packed an H&K 45 Compact Tactical, a Knight’s Armament Company suppressor, and a CRKT James Williams Shinbu knife. In and out. Cold, hard, and fast.
After lacing up his boots, he conducted one last comms check.
“Moonracer, this is Norseman. How do you read?”
“Reading you five by five,” Nicholas replied.
“Current target locations?”
Nicholas relayed what he was seeing via satellite, and Harvath marked the men’s positions on his map. He then signed off. It was time to move.
He followed the road from the beach until he reached a fork, and then headed west toward the clutch of whitewashed guest cottages on the other side of the narrow island. About half a kilometer from the main residence was where Damien would be housing the security team he had flown in. According to Nicholas, there was no activity. No one at that location was standing guard.
Stepping off the road as he approached, he examined a series of support buildings. There was a garage, a maintenance shed, and a storage building — all of which were devoid of people.
The next structure he came across appeared to be a caretaker’s cottage and he slipped soundlessly inside via an unlocked screen door.
Clean dishes sat in a rack next to the sink, and the kitchen curtains fluttered in the ocean breeze of the open windows.
Attached to the refrigerator was a to-do list of groundskeeping items accompanied by a list entitled Meal plans for Mr. Damien. Raising his pistol Harvath crept toward the bedroom.
At the door, he took up the slack in his trigger and then eased it open. It slid quietly on well-oiled hinges. In the bed was an older couple fast asleep. They were not combatants.
Lowering his pistol, he retreated from the room, closing the door behind him and leaving their home.
Pushing on to the beach, he examined a large boathouse packed with all types of watercraft. An overhead winch system was used to place the selected toy onto a trailer. The trailer then rode on a narrow set of rails down into the water where the ski boat, sailboat, WaveRunner, and even a bright yellow mini-sub could be launched.
Confident that no one was inside the boathouse, Harvath moved on to the first guest cottage. The sound of the waves crashing along the beach masked his approach.
Like the caretaker’s cottage, this cottage had its windows open and storm shutters pinned back to allow the breeze in. It was divided into two bedrooms, each with its own entrance facing the beach. Through the curtains, he could make out a figure sleeping in each room. Stepping around to the beach side, he silently entered the first cottage door.
Even though the man was asleep, Harvath recognized him instantly. He was one of Jan Hendrik’s men who had helped butcher everyone in the Matumaini Clinic, as well as the village back in Congo.
With his pistol pointed at him, Harvath kicked the corner of the man’s bedframe and waited for him to open his eyes.
When he did, Harvath raised his index finger to his lips and warned him to be quiet.
“I’m the one who kidnapped your boss in Bunia,” he whispered. “I wanted you to know that all of those people you murdered for Mr. Damien in Congo — the men, the women, and the children — they were all immune to the virus.”
The man’s look of shock quickly turned to something else. When he opened his mouth to yell for help, Harvath shot him twice in the head and quickly moved to the next room.
Here, another butcher lay sleeping, and Harvath repeated his drill, kicking the bedframe and making sure the man knew why he was there before shooting him in the face.
The next cottage was empty, as were the nearby toilet and shower facilities. The one after that, though, had two more of Hendrik’s mercenaries, and Harvath rapidly dispatched them both.
He checked the final cottage only to find it empty. He knew where everyone else was.
Inserting a fresh magazine into his weapon, he stepped outside and headed toward the main house half a kilometer up the beach.
Halfway there, was another empty support building, which Harvath cleared before closing in on Damien’s residence.
The large main house was at the tip of the island with stunning views of the ocean in three directions. It was shaped like a U with a two-story central structure and two, single-story wings jutting back off each end.
It had all been built of stone quarried right on Bird Cay and whitewashed like the cottages. There was also a dramatic walled pool and a paved courtyard surrounded by archways. The entire property was simple and elegant, a reminder of an era long gone.
The feature Harvath was interested in the most, though, was the external stone staircase that led to a terrace off the master bedroom and from there up onto the roof. But before he could get to Damien, he needed to get through the rest of his security team.
Two men were on a roving patrol around the outside of the house. That was where Harvath started.
His suppressor was exceptional, but he needed to make sure that absolutely no sound traversed the open air and gave him away. Securing his pistol, he drew the Shinbu.
It was 14.75 inches in length, 9.25 of which was its high-carbon steel, tapered-tip blade designed for slashing and deep penetration. It had been created for Special Forces Operatives to employ when their firearms couldn’t be employed — like right now.
Using one of the archways of the open-air courtyard to conceal himself, Harvath waited for the first guard to pass, and then he sprang.
He clamped his left hand over the man’s mouth and bent his head back as far as he could. Plunging the blade up and through his rib cage on an angle, he punctured both lungs and lacerated his heart.
He held on to the guard until he ceased struggling and then dragged his body off to the side where it wouldn’t be seen.
Wiping his blade on the man’s clothes, he returned behind the stone archway and waited for the next guard. Minutes later, he appeared. But then something went wrong. Instead of passing, he stopped — right on the other side of the arch. Had he seen something? Did he know somehow that Harvath was there? The only word that came to Harvath’s mind was that one that rhymed with truck.
The man was so close, he could hear him breathing. And then he couldn’t. But it wasn’t because he had walked away — it was because he was about to attack.
Harvath charged to his left, but the man wasn’t there. He had gone in the opposite direction.
Pivoting, Harvath sent the tip of his blade back in the direction he had come and followed it with his body.
The guard had indeed come around the other side of the wide column and Harvath’s blade caught him in the lower abdomen.
He didn’t waste any time. Pushing the knife the rest of the way in, he then jerked it upward, but the guard slammed his rifle down on top of it. He then swung the butt of his weapon as hard as he could toward Harvath’s head.
Harvath jerked back, getting caught in the side of the face with a glancing but painful blow.
Bringing his rifle around, the guard prepared to fire. Harvath would get only one chance.