The Last Patriot - Brad Thor [117]
Wrapping his good arm around it, the man pinned the al-Jazari clock to his chest, grabbed all the papers, and slowly brought everything back over to the assassin.
As he drew even, Dodd motioned for him to stand in the room behind him. Once Moss had passed, the assassin looked straight at Harvath and Ozbek. “I’ve got what I came for,” he said. “Whether anybody dies today is up to you.”
“We’re not even, Dodd,” replied Ozbek. “Not by a long shot.”
“Should we settle up right now?” asked the assassin as he pointed the pistol at the CIA operative’s head.
Nichols looked like he was gearing up to say something and Harvath stepped on his foot to keep him quiet.
“Get moving,” Dodd said as he placed the pistol back against Ferguson’s head and began to back out of the room.
“What about them?” asked Harvath, referring to the two captives. “You don’t need to take them with you.”
“No, I don’t,” Dodd replied, “but I’m going to.”
“The man needs medical attention.”
The assassin stared at Harvath. “He’ll live as long as nobody tries to follow us.”
“Nobody is going to follow you,” said Harvath.
Tightening his grip on Susan Ferguson, the assassin motioned for Moss to start walking and he slowly backed out of the room.
Once he had disappeared from view and they heard the door at the front of the house slam shut, Ozbek said, “Let’s go. Come on.”
“He’s got two hostages,” replied Harvath.
“I understand that, but we can’t just let him disappear with that device.”
“It’s no good to him anyway.”
“What do you mean?” said Ozbek. “All he has to do is slide some paper in there, ink the quill and crank the handle.”
“It won’t work without this,” replied Harvath as he held up the Basmala gear. His fingertips were bloody from having blindly pulled it from the machine behind his back while Dodd’s attention was on collecting their weapons from the floor.
“He still has Susan and Jonathan, though,” protested Nichols. “He’ll kill them.”
“I don’t think he’ll kill them,” replied Harvath as he once again used his shirt to stem his bleeding.
“Why? Because he didn’t kill Gary?” challenged Ozbek.
Harvath looked at him. “That’s exactly why. If we let him go, Moss and Ferguson have a much better chance of surviving and you know it. I want this guy too, but let’s be smart.”
“Fuck ‘smart.’ We’re wasting time.”
Harvath knew Ozbek had lost a member of his team and had another in the hospital because of Dodd, but getting more people killed wasn’t going to fix anything. “Listen to me. Don’t let your desire to make Dodd pay for what he did to your people cloud your judgment.”
Ozbek knew Harvath was right, but it pissed him off. Picking up the hammer, he threw it at the fireplace.
Nichols was about to register another objection when they heard the front door crash open and Jonathan Moss begin screaming for help.
En masse, they ran to the front of the house where Moss lay on the threshold bleeding. “I need a doctor,” he cried.
“What happened?” asked Harvath. “Where did they go?”
“I don’t know. The man told me to turn around and then they just disappeared!”
Ozbek held out his hand to Moss. “Give me your car keys.”
“Aydin, no,” ordered Harvath, but it was too late.
Ozbek pulled the keys from Moss’ jacket pocket and ran for the parking lot.
There was no use in trying to stop him. Instead, Harvath handed Nichols Moss’ cell phone and had him call 911 while he tore open the man’s shirt to assess his wound and rig a makeshift pressure bandage that would slow the bleeding until help arrived.
Moments later, Ozbek reappeared. “Your car and Moss’ are out of commission,” he said to Harvath. “All of the tires have been slashed.”
CHAPTER 85
WASHINGTON, D.C.
TWO DAYS LATER
Harvath had decided it was best to stay away from Bishop’s Gate until a much better security system could be installed. He had returned only once to gather up some things and then camped out at Gary Lawlor’s place in Fairfax.
Though Gary was still in the ICU with a skull fracture, he’d made Harvath give