The First Commandment

Chapter 124

Harvath had refused all the president’s invitations to come and meet with him at the White House.

Though the charges of treason against him had been dropped, Rutledge still wanted to have a serious heart-to-heart so that they could put the past behind them and move forward.

To his credit, Harvath was smart enough not to deny the president’s requests outright. Since Tracy ’s release from the hospital, she had been living at his place. He told everyone that taking care of both her and his recovering puppy kept him busy around the clock.

The president knew Harvath was lying, but let it go. Harvath had been through a lot. He’d been thrown under the proverbial bus, and not only had the president not helped him out from under, but he had ordered him to stay there while the bus’s tires rolled right over him.

Rutledge didn’t blame Harvath for not wanting to see him, but enough was enough. The president called Gary Lawlor and told him in no uncertain terms that he wanted Harvath standing in front of his desk inside the Oval Office by the end of the day or it was going to be Lawlor’s ass on the line.

Ever the good soldier, Lawlor had his assistant clear the rest of his day, and he went to drag Scot in to meet with the president.

When he arrived at Bishop’s Gate, he didn’t see Harvath’s car and figured he had gone out to pick up groceries or medications for Tracy or the dog, which they had named Bullet, after their mutual friend, Bullet Bob, who had been killed during the attacks on New York City.

Lawlor parked his car and walked up the front steps. Looking down at the threshold, he wondered for the umpteenth time what it must have been like for Harvath to come down and find Tracy lying there in a pool of blood. It was a horrible image, and he tried to shake it from his mind as he raised the heavy iron knocker and let it slam against the thick wooden door.

As he waited, he thought how ironic it was that Harvath should live in a former church. The man had become a devout penitent to the people whom Roussard had harmed. He visited his mother repeatedly in California, and as her eyesight began to return, he made sure she had the best of care once she was ready to come home. He visited both Carolyn Leonard and Kate Palmer at their hospital in D. C. as often as he could and kept their rooms filled with fresh flowers until they were well enough to be discharged. After that, he bombarded them with more flowers and basket upon basket of food. No matter what anyone said to him, Harvath wouldn’t stop. This was his self-imposed penance, and until the guilt was lifted from his soul there was no stopping him.

When it became known that Kevin McCauliff had used the NGA’s DOD computers on Harvath’s behalf, the young analyst was brought up on discipline charges. Harvath called in every favor ever owed him and pulled every string imaginable to have the charges dropped and for McCauliff to be honorably discharged from his position at the NGA. Tim Fi

Lawlor knocked upon the heavy door once more, but no one answered. There wasn’t even the sound of Bullet’s barking which was a given lately.

Having been told where Harvath kept his spare key, Lawlor retrieved it and opened the front door.

“Hello?” he shouted as he poked his head inside. “Anybody home?”

Lawlor waited, but there was no response. Coming the rest of the way inside, he closed the door behind him.

He walked into the kitchen first and found that everything had been cleaned and put away. Normally, it was a chaotic jumble of pots, pans, dishes, and glasses as Scot and Tracy moved from one culinary undertaking to the next. Something definitely wasn’t right.

Opening the fridge to help himself to a beer, Lawlor found it completely empty. None of this was making any sense.

He strolled out of the kitchen and into the large area that functioned as Harvath’s living room. Everything here had been straightened and put in its place as well.

Suddenly, Lawlor noticed something on the stone mantelpiece above the fireplace. Walking over, he found Harvath’s BlackBerry and his DHS credentials. Next to them was a crisp piece of Tracy ’s stationery folded in half.

Opening it, he read a simple two-word message that had been written in Harvath’s hand.

Gone fishing.

Acknowledgments

My beautiful wife, Trish, made it clear that in this book I should thank my readers first. She’s right, of course (she’s always right, I’ve learned), but there’s part of me that wonders what kind of husband I would be if I didn’t thank her first. On more nights than I can count, Trish came home from her own demanding career only to gladly feed and bathe our little ones so I could keep on writing. Thank you, honey. I love you more than you will ever know.

Having snuck in that thank-you to my wife, I want to now thank you, the readers. It has been a pleasure meeting you on tour and at book festivals and writing conferences across the country. It is because you recommend me to your friends, family, neighbors, and coworkers that my career is growing. I continue to be humbled and appreciative of your support.

Without the fabulous bookstores and the Atria/Pocket sales staff, you wouldn’t be holding this in your hands right now. I am extremely grateful to all the people who have worked so hard to build me as an author and who strive to make every book bigger than the last. It is a team effort, and along with the Pocket/Atria art andproduction departments, I couldn’t hope to be aligned with more creative, intelligent, or nicer people in the publishing business.

I dedicated this book to Scott F. Hill, PhD, for many reasons. His knowledge of the thriller genre is broader and deeper than that of any human being I have ever met. He continues to be an excellent sounding board and a great friend to brainstorm with. More than that, Scott is a model patriot who has dedicated his life to improving the lives of our veterans. People like him make me proud to call myself an American.

I have a pool of gentlemen and one lady who have definitely been there, done that, and have the T-shirt to prove it. I like to refer to them as my sharpshooters, and they work hard to make sure I get things right. When I don’t, it’s my fault, not theirs. In no particular order, these exceptional patriots are Rodney Cox, Chuck Fretwell, Steve Hoffa, Chad Norberg, and Steven C. Bronson. To this list I am honored to also welcome and thank Cynthia Longo and Ronald Moore.

My Sun Valley crew was right there with the latest in political and federal law enforcement issues. My sincere thanks, as always, go out to Gary Penrith, Frank Gallagher, Tom Baker, Daryl Mills, and Terry Mangan.

Anyone who has been to the a

Ronaldo Palmera is a slime bag of the highest order who was based upon a real terrorist. In no way should he be confused with my delightful father-in-law, Ronald Palmer. Ron’s vast experience south of the border was the inspiration for all things Mexican in this novel, and his insight and guidance was, as always, very much appreciated.