The First Commandment

Morrell responded by painting a racing stripe with his MP5 right up the dock, stopping only inches from Harvath’s feet. “Stop right there and drop all your weapons, right now,” he commanded.

“Roussard is on his way to kill Meg Cassidy.”

“Roussard’s not my problem. Now drop your weapons.”

“He killed Vaile’s nephew, for Christ’s sake. You’ll be a hero at the Agency for bagging him. Jesus, Rick. You know Meg. You know better than anybody else what she risked when she agreed to come on that assignment with us. I don’t care what anybody has told you, you can’t let some shitbag terrorist kill her.”

“It doesn’t matter. I’m not authorized to-”

“Fuck authorized. This is about us-all of us who were part of that operation to hunt down Abu Nidal’s kids. Do you know who Roussard is?”

Morrell shook his head. “I don’t think it would make any diff-”

“He’s Adara Nidal’s son, Rick,” replied Harvath, cutting Morrell off again. “This whole thing is about revenge. Payback for whatever twisted thing they think I did to her. And it’s why he saved Meg for last.”

A flood of images sped through Morrell’s mind. He remembered all too well the mission to take down Adara and her brother that he and Harvath has been assigned to years ago.

“All that matters,” continued Harvath, “is that we stop Roussard. After that, I’ll put the cuffs on myself, but we’ve got to get the hell out of here.”

Morrell lowered his weapon and said, “How?”

Chapter 119

The twenty-nine-foot-long Cobalt speedboat his realtor had provided was more than up to the task Roussard had set for it.

Affixing the commercial-grade tripod to the deck in the rear seating area had proven to be a little more time-consuming than he had anticipated, but it wasn’t anything he couldn’t handle. The specially milled joining plates provided a perfect mount for the weapon.

Originally, Roussard had thought he’d have to wait until the very last moment to seat it, but then he witnessed the family a few docks over returning home from an evening of waterskiing and tubing. The next morning, he purchased a similar oversized neoprene-covered “ski tube” and found that it concealed the tripod-mounted weapon perfectly.

The 20mm M61A2 Vulcan was an electrically fired, six-barreled Gatling-style gun that could spit out over six thousand rounds per minute. Not only would Meg Cassidy and all of her guests be ripped to shreds before they knew what had happened, but so would all the bystanders on the shore behind them. The Polaris itself would also be so badly damaged that it would very likely catch fire and sink.

There was no doubt that the waters of Lake Geneva would run red with blood, the fulfillment of Roussard’s final plague.

His body coursed with adrenaline as he bobbed silently in the water a safe distance away. Through his binoculars, he watched as the last of Meg Cassidy’s tardy guests were loaded aboard the oblong pleasure steamer moored at the end of her pier. It was only a matter of minutes now.

Roussard had picked the perfect spot for the attack. The bar at the Abbey Springs Yacht Club would be loaded with early-bird customers, as would its restaurant and the terrace outside. Beneath the terrace, the Yacht Club’s beach would be populated with families barbecuing, as well as beachgoers who had not yet called it a day.

The scene both on the Polaris

and behind on the grounds of Abbey Springs would be nothing short of horrific. Roussard shook with anticipation.

Peering through his binoculars once again, he watched as the last of Meg Cassidy’s passengers boarded and the crew began to untie the lines.

The water was calm and there was little wind to upset the boat’s orientation and equilibrium. It was a perfect night for the type of killing Philippe Roussard was about to do. He smiled as he reflected on how proud his mother would be. He almost didn’t want it to end, but of course it had to. And after tonight, he had only one last name to check off his list. After tonight, he would finally begin to hunt Scot Harvath.

Three sharp blasts of the Polaris’s steam whistle signaled its departure from the pier. Roussard reached down and turned the key, firing up the citron-yellow Cobalt’s engines.

He had already piloted the route several times during the day. As the Polaris passed the subdivision before Abbey Springs known as the Harvard Club, Roussard would uncover the Vulcan and move in for the kill. By the time he reached Meg Cassidy and her guests, they would be parallel with the Yacht Club and the fun could begin.

As he watched the Polaris cruise past a small spit of land that jutted out into the lake, which he’d learned from his maps was called Rainbow Point, he could hear laughter and the tinkling of glasses accompanied by jazz music.

The passengers of the Polaris were blissfully unaware of what was about to happen, and Roussard’s sense of power soared. Nudging his throttles forward, he picked up speed.