Takedown

It was on the third night in Gibraltar that things finally started getting interesting.

Forgoing his usual nightclub trolling, Mohammed picked one of the more upscale restaurants in town, where he put away a considerable amount of food accompanied by an incredibly expensive bottle of Bordeaux. Afterward, he headed down to the marina and a vintage Riva runabout, which, once he climbed aboard, sped off into the open ocean.

With a host of airplanes, watercraft, and helicopters at his disposal, the lead CIA/DIA agent immediately mobilized all of his assets to follow Mohammed out into the Mediterranean. When offered the opportunity to tag along, Harvath declined. He had a strong feeling that if Mohammed didn’t plan on coming back, he never would have abandoned his newly minted video library back at the villa.

So while the joint task force pursued their man out into the darkening Mediterranean Sea, Harvath returned to his hotel room and, for the hundredth time since he’d arrived, disassembled and oiled his weapons.

Listening to the radio set in his room, he followed the team’s progress as Mohammed’s landing craft spirited him out to a large yacht with an i

Convinced they had what they were looking for, they informed Harvath that Mohammed bin Mohammed was on his way back to the marina and that the suspect was all his. Leaving his hotel, Harvath threw his gear into his rental car and headed toward the marina. Something told him that Mohammed might just be in the market for one last night of pleasure before leaving Gibraltar.

Little did Harvath know that someone else was banking on the exact same hunch.

One Hundred

The Troll disliked leaving the comfort and security of Eileanaigas House and had done so only because Mohammed bin Mohammed’s escape from American custody had made it absolutely necessary.

Never in a million years would the Troll have believed Abdul Ali able to pull it off, but looking back on the operation, he realized it was his own plan that had been flawed. Once Sacha had helped Ali locate Mohammed bin Mohammed, the Chechen was supposed to kill them both-something that never happened. The Troll had underestimated Ali, but for the moment, none of that mattered. What mattered was that Mohammed be decommissioned once and for all. The fact that the bearded grease tub had forced unspeakable sex acts upon the Troll decades earlier in the Black Sea resort of Sochi made his reasons for killing the man all too personal.

Having searched for him for years and finally locating him, the Troll had hoped that the Americans would do the job for him. The fact that there had been a five-million-dollar bounty on Mohammed’s head had only been icing on the cake. Now, though, the man was free once again, and from what the Troll had observed over the last several days among the bars, restaurants, and discotheques of Gibraltar, this leopard had no intention of changing his spots.

Customized by a reclusive gunsmith in southern France, the diminutive weapon the Troll was carrying had been specially designed to accommodate his exceedingly small frame. Chambered for the devastating.338 Lapua round, its optimal range was between 500 and 1200 meters, with anything below that necessary only when very deep penetration was called for. To use it for any other reason at close range was considered overkill, to say the least.

While the Troll prided himself on being a master of subtlety, he had no reservations about taking Mohammed at even point-blank range, if that was what the situation called for.

While the pedophile had frolicked on the beach by day and had cruised the nightclubs for conquests at night, the Troll had familiarized himself with routes both to and from his potential sniping areas, as well as the routes that could be used for egress from Gibraltar. As with everything else in his world, the Troll was ready for any eventuality.

That changed, though, when he noticed Mohammed bin Mohammed was under covert American surveillance. The team tracking him was exceptional, but not so good that the Troll couldn’t detect their presence. Even so, he decided to remain in play. There was a slight problem, though. The team had an additional man on board-a hitter. The Troll was sure of it. But who was he charged with taking out? Was it Mohammed? Was it the people he was doing business with? Was it both parties?

While the thought of leaving the job to the American assassin was tempting, the Troll knew that if he wanted this done right, he would have to do it himself. And if the American hitter got in his way, he would have to take him out as well.

Attaching a lightweight silencer to the front of his weapon, the Troll reaffirmed to himself that the only thing that mattered was taking down Mohammed bin Mohammed once and for all. If that meant sawing through one or two Americans who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time to do so, then that was just the way it would have to be.

One Hundred One

Though Harvath had been provided with an extremely efficient sniper rifle, he left it in the trunk, deciding instead on several tools designed for up-close work. When he took Mohammed bin Mohammed’s life, he wanted to look the man in the eyes and see the expression on his face.

He had watched the CCTV footage the Libyans had given the United States from New York over and over again. From what they could piece together, Mohammed’s accomplice-a man the CIA had tentatively identified as Abdul Ali-removed a wheelchair from the medical room, helped Mohammed down two or three floors via the stairwell, and then rode the elevator the rest of the way to the garage. While Ali pushed the wheelchair, bin Mohammed cradled the short-barreled M16 Viper of the marine they had overpowered, Brad Harper, and had used it to kill Bob Herrington. That was why Harvath wanted to look into bin Mohammed’s face when he killed him. He owed Bob that much. The only challenge was deciding where to make the kill.

While Harvath was confident that Mohammed would return to the villa to retrieve his clothes and cache of X-rated vacation footage, there was a possibility that his exploits might keep him out all night. If that was the case and he was pressed for time the next day, he might abandon the footage. The way Harvath saw it, his best bet was to wait for Mohammed at the harbor and quietly follow him, trusting that the right opportunity would present itself. For someone who liked to have all of the angles completely plotted out beforehand, this marked quite an operational departure for Harvath, but at the same time, this was not his usual kind of assignment. This was extremely personal.

Hearing from the joint CIA/DIA team that Mohammed’s boat was on its way back in, Harvath mentally checked the first obstacle off his list. How many were left, though, was anybody’s guess.

So as not to be forced to potentially pursue two targets over the water, it was agreed that the team would wait until Mohammed had set foot back on dry land before taking down the yacht.

As the al-Qaeda operative stepped off the dock and headed for Casemates Square, Harvath radioed the CIA/DIA team leader. “Gravedigger, this is Norseman. Mickey Mouse has dry feet. I repeat, Mickey Mouse has dry feet.”

“Roger that,” came the reply. “Good luck.”

Harvath removed his earpiece, turned off his radio, and began to stalk his prey.