Haney assembled the drone and got it up overhead. Harvath told him to take his time. He definitely didn’t want a repeat of Norway.
Slowly, Haney conducted a reconnaissance of the property. In addition to the cabin, there was a detached garage, a woodshed, and an old, decrepit outhouse.
Harvath, as usual, stood next to him, watching the feed on the tablet.
“Looks pretty quiet,” said Haney.
“I know,” Harvath replied. “That’s what bothers me.”
“Maybe the guy’s just inside sleeping.”
Harvath knew there wasn’t a chance in hell that was so. Johansson had already admitted that Nikolai had called Gashi, filling him in on everything that had happened at O’Learys, and that Gashi had then called him. There was no way that Gashi would just roll over and go to bed at that point. He’d want to know what Johansson had uncovered. And when Johansson failed to report back in, Gashi would be forced to assume the worst.
If Gashi was inside that cabin, he’d probably be sitting behind the front door with a shotgun, ready to blast the first person who showed up. More than likely, he had already taken off. But to where? Unless he had a boat or a plane, there wasn’t much he could do besides go to ground. Harvath decided he needed to see the cabin for himself.
Looking at Sloane, he said, “You’re with me. Haney stays on the drone. Staelin and Palmer will come in via the woods to the south. Barton’s had the longest day of all of us. He’ll watch the vehicles. Jasinski, you can stay with Barton, or come with us. It’s your call.”
Jasinski hadn’t expected to be in a position where she had to decide whether to opt in or opt out. “I’m in. I’ll go with you.”
“Okay,” said Harvath, pleased with her answer. “You’re with us.” Then, addressing the team, he said, “Everyone should absolutely be expecting booby-traps. Is that clear?”
“Roger that,” they all replied.
Ingesson had wanted to be part of the raid. He had even volunteered to carry his own weapon, a short-barreled tactical rifle he kept, in violation of Swedish law. By the looks of him, he was no stranger to dodging bullets and kicking serious ass, but Harvath had politely said no.
The former K4 Army Ranger was too valuable a find. A pro-Western local, with elite military training, skilled at surviving behind enemy lines, was something Harvath would rather keep as a future asset, already in place.
In short, as formidable as he was, fortunately, they didn’t need him. Harvath’s team was more than well-equipped to handle this.
Taking the lead, Harvath cut across the adjacent property and approached the cabin from the east with Ashby and Jasinski tight behind him.
They moved as one unit, each covering their respective pieces of the pie, weapons up and ready to engage. They were carrying a new close-quarters weapon called the Sig “Rattler,” a compact tactical rifle in the .300 blackout caliber. It was a nice fat round that packed high speed and an incredible punch. Theirs had collapsible stocks and were outfitted with suppressors. They were super smooth and returned almost zero recoil.
Two hundred meters out from the target, Harvath slowed down. They needed to be very careful now. As good as their goggles were, any trip wires would be basically invisible.
Step by careful step, they moved forward. Every tree, every rock, every pile of leaves might hide a Claymore-style antipersonnel device.
Coming up from the south, Palmer and Staelin exhibited the same degree of caution. There was every reason to believe that this cabin would be as well protected as the one in Norway.
In addition to trip wires, Harvath was also concerned about land mines with pressure plates. Via a submarine a few miles off the coast, it would have been nothing for Russian commando teams to get all sorts of equipment onto Gotland. Harvath wasn’t taking anything for granted.
As they neared the cabin, he had his team find cover and then called for Haney to bring the drone in for an extreme close-up.
Harvath didn’t have the tablet with him, so he had to go by the play-by-play coming in over his earpiece from Haney.
“Garage windows impenetrable to camera. Possibly painted, or just really dirty. Moving on to woodshed.”
Several seconds later, Harvath said, “Woodshed appears to be clear. Three, maybe four cords. Nothing else visible.”
“No clear angles on outhouse interior. Proceed with caution in regard to all structures.”
Harvath waved his team forward. The first building they came upon when accessing the property was the garage. Its windows had been painted black. He tried the main door. It had been locked. Pulling out a short crowbar affixed to his pack, he went to work.
Seconds later there was a snap, along with the sound of a piece of metal skittering into the garage. The door was open. Lifting it, Harvath looked inside.
In the center of the small space was a vehicle covered by a tarp. Approaching it, Harvath flipped back a corner of the canvas.
Underneath was a 1990 Mercedes Benz 250-GD SUV. Flipping up his goggles, he pulled out his flashlight and turned on the low beam. The vehicle’s color was olive—an exact match for the mark he had found on Lars Lund’s Volkswagen.
Pulling the cover the rest of the way off, he walked around the front of the vehicle and found damage along the right front quarter panel. This was the car that had been used to kill Lars. He was certain of it.
Turning off his light, he flipped his goggles back down and allowed his eyes to readjust. Then he checked out the woodshed and the outhouse. They were both clear.
He asked Haney to do a final flyby and search the windows of the cabin. He, Ashby, and Jasinski took cover positions while he did.
It took several minutes for him to scan each of the tiny openings and what lay inside. Finally, he reported, “No heat signatures and no movement from inside.”
This only made Harvath more nervous. Had Dominik Gashi been inside, there was the hope that the cabin hadn’t been wired to explode. The Russians weren’t big on suicide. They might drink themselves to death, but that was seen as a virtue, religiously committed to over a significant period of time. Booby-traps were something else entirely.
An empty house, previously inhabited by an assumed GRU intelligence officer, now believed to be on the run, could only be bad news. There were dozens of ways that it could be wired to explode.
A device could be affixed to the door and detonate on entry. It could be rigged to a specific floorboard and explode once an unlucky member of the entry team put weight on it. It could be attached to a closet door or a dresser drawer, just waiting for some poor bastard to open it. The options were both endless and terrifying.
Harvath was aware of them all and he took the lead, starting with the front door.
After checking, as best he could, to make sure it wasn’t wired, he pushed it open with the toe of his boot and stepped back.
Nothing happened.
Relieved, Harvath slowly crept inside.
The structure was built around a rough stone fireplace, big enough to walk into. Horns and antlers were nailed to the walls. There was a variety of dead animals, in various stages of taxidermy, scattered throughout the space. A rough-hewn railing blocked off an elevated sleeping area above. The entire place smelled like mold.
Harvath scanned his weapon from left to right as he and his team made entry.
“Clear!” he heard Ashby eventually yell.