He stood half a step back, just behind the Chief Inspector’s right side. He had wanted to be up front, but it was out of the question. Nyström had to take point, as the encounter had to be done in Swedish.
Having dated several Swedish flight attendants, Harvath spoke a little of the language, but it was composed of relatively useless words—pickup lines, a few naughty sentences, and drinking songs, and some tourist phrases he had used when he’d previously been over to visit. And, of course, it was all built upon the foundation of the first thing anyone learns in a foreign language—swear words.
All of it was useless as the door opened and Nyström leaned in to engage.
The first thing the man did was something Harvath had watched seasoned American cops do. The moment the door opened, he stuck the toe of his boot inside so that it couldn’t be closed.
As soon as Harvath saw him, he knew that they had their man. Gashi’s Swedish was terrible, and he asked the police officer if he spoke English. As he had done with Harvath upon their first meeting, the Chief Inspector instantly transitioned over.
“Good evening,” he said. “Just a routine check. A neighbor called in a report of suspicious activity.”
Gashi looked around, trying to ascertain which neighbor it might have been, then flicked his eyes toward Harvath. “I haven’t seen anything,” he said,
“Are you the owner of this house?”
“No, I am the caretaker.”
“Are you alone inside?”
“I’m sorry,” Gashi replied. “What exactly is it that you are looking for?”
“We’re just here taking a look and making sure everything is okay,” Nyström reassured him. “It’s quite late. Are you living in this house?”
“Me? No. I have a full-time job at FörsPak. I do my caretaking on the side—at night and on weekends.”
“May I see some identification, please?”
“Of course,” the man replied, flicking his eyes toward Harvath again.
If Harvath didn’t know any better, he would have sworn that the man had recognized him from somewhere. But that was impossible.
What Harvath couldn’t know was that Gashi recognized him from the CCTV footage that Johansson had pulled from Visby Hospital.
Regardless, Harvath’s ‘Spidey sense’ was officially tingling. Transitioning the flashlight to his left hand, he let his right hand drop and hover just above his holster.
Keep an eye on his hands, he thought as Dominik Gashi reached back as if to retrieve his wallet.
Instead, the man pulled out something that looked like a Victorian surgical instrument. It was long and highly polished, catching what little light there was in the fog.
Gashi slashed in a downward motion with amazing speed. His target—Chief Inspector Nyström.
Upon seeing the blade, Harvath reacted. He drove his left shoulder into Nyström, trying to knock him out of the weapon’s path.
At the same time, he double-punched the tail cap of his flashlight, triggering an eruption of strobe lights. He tilted the beam as best he could, hoping to catch Gashi in the face to blind him, as he drew his pistol.
He fired twice at the man’s left knee and then two more times into his left shoulder. He wanted him incapacitated, not dead.
The Russian dropped the knife and it clattered to the ground as he stumbled backward. Stepping in, Harvath kicked it aside and shoved Nyström fully out of the way.
Holstering his pistol, he quickly patted Gashi down to make sure he didn’t have any more weapons. Then, grabbing him by the collar, he yanked him away from the house and back toward the patrol car.
The Chief Inspector was slow to follow.
When Harvath looked back, he could see that the Swede was badly injured. He was bleeding profusely from his left arm and part of his chest.
He had raised his arm to shield himself from Gashi’s knife, which had cut right through the chunky plastic strap of his digital watch, and deep into his forearm, and had kept going across part of his chest—above where his vest was. The weapon was incredibly sharp, having cut through his jacket and the uniform beneath before slicing through his flesh, revealing bone.
Dumping Gashi behind the patrol vehicle, Harvath buffaloed him with the butt of his Sig Sauer and gave the signal for his team to move in.
Just as they began to appear from the trees Gashi’s own team appeared in the windows and the doorway of the house, and opened fire.
CHAPTER 50
* * *
Nyström, despite his injuries, found a reservoir of strength and summoned an incredible burst of speed.
As he caught up with Harvath behind the patrol vehicle, his pistol was already out and he was putting rounds on the house.
“Where’s your med kit?” Harvath yelled as he slammed a fresh magazine into his Sig and returned fire at the Spetsnaz soldiers.
“I’ll be okay.”
Nyström was bleeding a lot and starting to look weak. He clearly needed medical attention, and soon. But before that could happen, they needed to neutralize the threat inside the house.
Hailing Sloane over his radio, Harvath said, “Hit them with the gas!”
Seconds later, the first tear gas canister sailed out of the launcher, crashed through one of the windows, and began aerosolizing inside.
Quickly, Sloane worked her way through the trees and pumped three more rounds into different parts of the house.
Harvath had made the rules of engagement crystal clear. Whoever stepped outside holding a weapon was a legitimate target.
With tear gas filling the structure, Harvath secured Gashi with Flex-Cuffs and then searched for the medical bag in the patrol car.
Finding it, he returned to Nyström.
The Chief Inspector was leaning against the left front tire, trying to use the engine block as cover. Laying the bag on the ground next to him, Harvath tore it open and removed what he needed to tend to the injured man.
Around them, gunfire crackled as his team returned fire and put rounds on the beach house. Windows shattered and shards of glass went flying as pieces of wood splintered in all directions.
Using a pair of shears to cut away the clothing, Harvath examined Nyström’s wound. He was bleeding badly, but the wound wasn’t spurting. Applying a tourniquet could mean the loss of his arm.
He ripped open packages of bandages and used an Israeli battle dressing to stanch the bleeding. It was all he could do for the moment.
Taking the cop’s empty sidearm, he ejected the spent magazine, flicked it aside, and inserted a new one. “You’re topped up,” he said as he depressed the slide release and handed the weapon back to the Chief Inspector.
Popping up over the hood, Harvath focused on the front door. When two Spetsnaz operatives emerged, choking on tear gas, but with weapons still in their hands, he and his team let their rounds fly. Both men dropped dead right there on the doorstep.
From the rear of the house came the sound of more gunfire. Harvath knew that meant additional Spetsnaz operatives were likely trying to escape via the back door.
Three more Russian soldiers appeared at the front door, stumbling over the bodies of their dead comrades, but with their hands held high.
Unlike his lousy Swedish, Harvath actually spoke some passable Russian, and he yelled out a series of commands, which the remaining men obeyed. He warned them to stay facedown on the ground, and said that if they did not, they would be shot.