The Last Patriot

CHAPTER 54

Ozbek didn’t wait to see if the shooter was going to start firing at him. He knew that his body heat would begin rising soon.

He rushed into the living room with his pistol up and at the ready. At the door, he crouched down and reached up with his left hand to grab the handle.

When the door released, he pulled it back slowly, just enough to squeeze through, and then swung into the hallway.

He found the shooter halfway down the hall with the thermal imaging unit pressed up against his face. Ozbek pulled his trigger. The man stumbled backward and as the imaging unit fell to the ground, Ozbek saw the face of Matthew Dodd.

He pulled the trigger again, punching another two rounds into the man’s chest and sending him tumbling backwards.

As Dodd fell, he squeezed the trigger of his own weapon, splintering the doorframe just above Ozbek’s head.

Ozbek rolled back into the apartment and called for Rasmussen to come give him cover fire. Risking a peek into the hallway, he snapped his head back inside just as two more of Dodd’s rounds came blistering toward him.

Ozbek waited a beat and then stuck his gun around the door frame and pulled the trigger.

Once more, he called for Rasmussen and once more he stuck his head into the hallway. This time, he saw Dodd racing into the rear stairwell. Ozbek fired, but the man disappeared from view.

When Ozbek glanced back in the apartment and saw Rasmussen’s condition, he knew he had to get him medical attention soon. There was also Stephanie Whitcomb to consider. For all he knew, she could still be alive outside, barely clinging to life.

Even so, Matthew Dodd was too damn close to let get away.

Ozbek looked at Rasmussen and said, “I’ll be right back,” as he jumped up and charged into the hallway.

He reached the rear stairs and took them three at a time. He landed hard on the first landing and peered around the corner. There was no sign of Dodd, and Ozbek launched himself down the next set of stairs.

It wasn’t until he was almost at the second floor landing that he noticed how dimly lit it was. Dodd had shattered the overhead lighting.

Racing toward a field of broken glass, as well as a possible ambush, Ozbek grabbed the banister and tried to halt his forward trajectory.

Losing his balance, he slid down the stairs sideways. He landed hard on the second-floor landing where the broken glass dug into his left leg and shoulder.

Ignoring the pain, Ozbek swung his pistol down the next set of stairs and kept moving. When he got to the ground floor, he carefully opened the back door and stared out. There was no sign of the assassin.

Ozbek wanted to continue the chase, but he had no idea in which direction the man had fled and he also had two operatives down.

Pulling pieces of glass from his flesh, Ozbek hurried back up the stairs to Dodd’s apartment. He needed to get Rasmussen to a hospital and hoped to God that Stephanie Whitcomb wasn’t going to need to be taken to a morgue.

CHAPTER 55

WASHINGTON, D.C.

It was just before nine-thirty in the morning local time when the Bombardier jet touched down at Ronald Reagan National Airport.

A Signature Flight Support representative met Harvath and Nichols at their plane. She helped steer them quickly through the private aviation passport control and customs area, and when the men politely declined complimentary breakfast and hot showers, she escorted them outside to where a gray Buick was waiting for them.

The men threw their bags in the trunk and Harvath slid into the front passenger seat next to the driver, while Nichols climbed in back.

“How was the flight?” asked Lawlor as he pulled away from the curb.

“Beats a cold C-130 any day of the week,” replied Harvath as he peeled off his disguise and introduced Anthony Nichols.

As they merged onto the George Washington Memorial Parkway, Harvath asked about Tracy.

“The doctors at the American Hospital have been in touch with her surgeons back here,” said Lawlor. “They still have her under observation.”

“Has the swelling gone down?”

“Not as much as they would like. They’ve started her on a new medication.”

Harvath didn’t like the sound of that. “Is she in any pain?”

Lawlor shook his head. “Apparently, the pain is the one thing they have managed to get under control.”

“Have you spoken with her?”

“No, but someone from the embassy has. She’s hanging tough and not telling anyone anything.”

Harvath looked out at the sailboats and other watercraft dotting the Potomac despite overcast skies. “How are the French authorities treating her?”

“Her medical treatment is still first and foremost. But with three cops dead and a bunch of civilians killed and wounded at the bombing, there are certain elements pressing to be allowed to interrogate her.”

“I suppose I can understand that,” Harvath admitted.

“The sooner we accomplish things on our end,” replied Lawlor, “the sooner we can give the French enough to hopefully get Tracy released.”

“Hopefully?”

“You know what I mean,” grated Lawlor.

The men rode the rest of the way in silence.

Forty minutes later, Lawlor swung the car off the road and rolled to a stop in front of a nondescript, padlocked gate. “Do you want to do the honors?” he asked, holding up a key.

Harvath took it and stepped out of the car. It was a bittersweet feeling to return home after all this time without Tracy.

Harvath unlocked the gate and pushed it open wide enough for Lawlor to drive through.

Pulling even with Harvath, Lawlor rolled down his window. “Do you want to get back in, or do you want to walk?”

“I think I’ll walk,” said Harvath.

He noticed the sign for his alarm company lying in the weeds and re-planted it, then swung the gate shut behind him.

He watched as Lawlor and Nichols disappeared down the winding, tree-lined drive and began walking.

Bishop’s Gate, as the property was known, was a small, eighteenth-century stone church that sat on several acres overlooking the Potomac River, just south of George Washington’s Mount Vernon estate. It was the twin of a small church in Cornwall called St. Enodoc.

Bombarded during the revolutionary war because of its status as a haven for British spies, Bishop’s Gate lay in ruins until 1882, when the Office of Naval Intelligence, or ONI, secretly rebuilt it and turned it into one of the ONI’s first covert-officer training schools.

Eventually the ONI outgrew the Bishop’s Gate location and the stubby, yet elegant church with its attached rectory was demoted to a document storage site before being cleared out and abandoned.

As a token of his appreciation for everything Harvath had done for his country, President Rutledge had deeded Bishop’s Gate in its entirety to Scot in a ninety-nine-year government lease with a token rent of one dollar per a

It had been more than fifty years since the Navy had any use for Bishop’s Gate other than as a file graveyard, yet Harvath had been overwhelmed by the president’s gift. Not including the garage, the unique house formed by the church and the attached rectory came to over four thousand square feet of living space. All Harvath had to do was make sure the grass was mowed and his dollar-a-year rent was paid on time.

As he walked down the driveway, he was reminded of the president’s generosity and how much they had been through together over the years. Though he still harbored resentment over how he had been treated, he wondered if Tracy had been right. Maybe it was time to forgive Jack Rutledge and move on.