Harvath shook his head. “Only six men? That’s all?”
“Apparently, that’s all we needed.”
When the first of the GRU operatives, a bald, muscular man with a scar along the side of his head, got within striking distance, he took Harvath down hard.
Wrenching his arm behind his back, he placed him in handcuffs, left him on the ground, and patted him down.
Relieving him of his Taser, he tossed it to a colleague who was going through his backpack.
Harvath heard the Russian word for spy several times as they laid out all of the contents, including his weapons, on the bench and examined them.
The man patting him down took his phone, his watch, his flashlight, all of his cash, and the two knives he was carrying. He then stood guard over him, placing his boot on top of his neck and pushing down with an unnecessary amount of force in order to create the maximum amount of pain possible.
It radiated throughout his skull. He had never felt anything like it.
Just as his vision was beginning to dim, Tretyakov yelled for the goon to knock it off.
The man dialed it back from an eleven to an eight. The pain was still white-hot. If he kept at it, Harvath was going to end up with permanent damage.
Tretyakov had to yell again. This time, the man obliged, removing his boot completely from Harvath’s neck. Then, when his boss wasn’t looking, he dug it into Harvath’s left shoulder blade, creating an all-new kind of agony.
As exquisite as the pain was, Harvath didn’t give the asshole the satisfaction of making a single sound.
Finally, they replaced everything in the backpack and Tretyakov gave the command to get Harvath to his feet. Asshole used the handcuffs to do it, adding even more injury to Harvath’s shoulders, particularly the left one. They then walked him back in the direction from where they had come.
At the cathedral, they turned left and walked toward the back, where several cars were parked.
The brutality of the Russians when it came to interrogations was legendary. If what had just happened to him was any indication, and he had every reason to believe it was, the nightmare hadn’t even started yet.
Everything he had ever been taught about escape and evasion flooded back into his brain. He knew that he had to keep his wits about him. If he lost his head, he might miss an opportunity.
Already, he had managed to reach down to the hem of his coat, tear the inside seam, and remove the plastic handcuff key he had sewn inside. All he needed now was an opportunity.
It would probably come once he was inside a car. Judging by the group of vehicles he was being led toward, they were all sedans. That meant the GRU team would have to split up. It also meant that Harvath would have fewer guards to deal with.
Stepping into the parking area, Harvath took a deep breath and tried to loosen his body. Extricating himself was going to be incredibly difficult. And, depending upon whether there were cars ahead of or behind his, he would probably have only seconds to decide which direction to run.
His chances for success were not good. Not only that, but all he could do at this point was escape. There was no way he could also take Tretyakov.
The operation was a failure, and it was his fault. Had he waited, had he not been so impulsive, it might have succeeded.
As these thoughts raced through his mind, Harvath didn’t realize that he had slowed down and was shuffling across the pavement.
The bald goon gave him a shove and that was when it happened. There was a crack, followed by a spray of blood as one of the GRU operatives went down.
CHAPTER 68
* * *
Harvath had time to unlock only one hand. Whipping his arm hard to the left, he used the open handcuff like a mace and tore a giant gash right across asshole’s forehead, nose, and cheek.
As the man’s hands flew to his face, Harvath pulled the GRU operative’s pistol from his holster and shot him twice in the chest and once in the head. Turning to the next operative, he did the same.
He turned to engage a third, but before he could, the man took two rounds to the head and dropped dead to the ground.
Looking around him, Harvath counted six bodies. There was blood and brains and bits of bone everywhere. As quickly as it had started, it was over. The GRU had been caught out in the open, without any cover or concealment. Each of the operatives had gotten his ticket punched.
The most important GRU person, though, was gone.
“Hurry!” Chase yelled, as he, Staelin, and Ashby stepped out from behind the vehicles. “Tretyakov took off!”
Harvath had no idea how they had gotten there, or how they had set up such a quick ambush, but now wasn’t the time to ask.
Spinning around, he could see Tretyakov disappearing into the park’s trees.
The man had shed his briefcase and was running fast. Even with the head start, Harvath was confident that he could catch him, and he took off running.
This was what he had been training for. All the squats, all the hellacious early morning runs, all the wind sprints, and all the Hulk Sauce—it all came down to this. He had pushed his body to the limit so that when it counted most, he could prove he was not only still in the game, but deserved to be here.
With every stride he grew closer. Tretyakov didn’t stand a chance. Short of turning around and firing a gun at him, which he would have done by now if he could, Harvath had him.
Twice, the man had looked over his shoulder and the fear was evident in his face. Gone was the cool customer on the bench. He had been replaced by a scared animal, running for its life. The apex predator was in his prime and was about to prove once again why he occupied the top of the pyramid. Harvath had never felt as alive, as purposeful, as he did at that moment. He had this, and a smile swept across his face.
Then he heard the roar of a car engine, followed by a quick double-tap on a horn. As Sloane raced past him in one of the GRU sedans, she winked and flashed him the thumbs-up.
Rocketing ahead of Harvath, she caught up to Tretyakov, jerked the wheel quickly to the right, and sent him tumbling across the ground.
When he got to them, she already had him Flex-Cuffed.
“You can make goo-goo eyes at him later,” she cracked, as he stood there, mouth slightly agape. “Come on. Help me get him into the car.”
Harvath obliged, and after seat-belting him in, hopped in the back with him.
“We gone,” stated Sloane, peeling out before Harvath’s door was even closed.
“Has anybody discussed a plan?” asked Harvath, as she pinned the accelerator to the floor.
“The plan is that we get the hell out of here.”
Across the river, Harvath could see the flashing lights from approaching police cars. “Good plan,” he said.
Sloane blasted past the cathedral, where Staelin and Palmer peeled out in another GRU sedan right behind them.
“Any other sights you wanted to see before we left town?” she asked.
“Nope,” replied Harvath. “All good.”
“Okay. Buckle up.”
Harvath fastened his seat belt as she sped across the bridge, pulled up her emergency brake, and drifted into a hard left turn.
The maneuver spat them out onto a wide boulevard and she dropped the hammer.
Weaving in and out of early morning rush-hour traffic, she traded paint with buses and all sorts of other vehicles. No matter how dangerous each prior move that she made was, she found a way to top it.