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
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.