In addition, he still needed a lever and fulcrum to raise the container off the man’s crushed legs, to gather up any food and water he could find, and come up with some sort of a pack in which he could carry as many supplies as possible that would aid in his escape.
It was a long list. The sooner he got started on it, the better—for both of them. He had no idea how soon a rescue team would arrive.
“I return,” he said, in his limited Russian.
The loadmaster didn’t respond.
It was a bad sign. Even so, Harvath had promised the man that he would help him.
Further back, near the cargo ramp, he opened a series of metal cabinets. Each contained a range of equipment, but none that he needed. If there was a med kit on board, it wasn’t in this part of the plane. Maybe it was kept up near the cockpit. And if so, it was a lost cause.
Harvath did, though, find what resembled some kind of moving blanket. His luck, at least in part, was holding out.
Removing it, he turned to hurry back to the loadmaster. But as he did, he came face-to-face with the remaining Spetsnaz soldier. The man was bleeding from a gash above his left eye and had a suppressed ASM-Val rifle pointed right at him.
“Zamerzat!” the man ordered, blood dripping down his face. Don’t move.
CHAPTER 6
* * *
* * *
GOVERNORS ISLAND
GILFORD, NEW HAMPSHIRE
“Whoever the killer was,” said Chief Tullis, “he or she knew what they were doing.”
“You think this was done by one person?” asked McGee.
“Not necessarily. Based on the footprints outside, there were likely multiple assailants. The victims, though, were all lined up, on their knees, and shot execution-style. Judging by the wounds, we believe it was done by the same shooter with the same weapon.”
Pointing at the bodies, he continued, “Based on the shot placement, specifically rounds being directed to the head, the chest, or both—the killer appears to have training. None of the shots went wide. We didn’t dig anything out of the walls, the ceiling, or the floorboards. No rounds went through any of the windows. Cool, calm, and collected. If I had to guess, I’d say the killer had probably done this sort of thing before.
“Then there are the cameras. Most of the seasonal properties up here have them in case of burglary or vandalism. This house has four and should have showed us anyone coming or going.”
“But?”
“We can’t review any of the footage.”
“Why not?”
“It was recorded to a DVR in a crawl space above the front hall closet. It has been smashed, and the hard drive is missing.”
Before he had even landed, there was no doubt in McGee’s mind that this was a professional hit. His two most pressing questions at this point were Who was the hitter? and Where was Harvath?
“How about the adjoining properties?” he asked. “How many of them have cameras?”
“Several,” the Chief answered. “I already have officers working on accessing the footage.”
“How soon will your team start in on hair, prints, and fibers?” asked Militante.
“All of that gets handled by the AG and the State Police. Our job is to secure the crime scene and preserve all possible evidence.”
“If there’s any assistance the FBI can give, all you have to do is ask.”
“Thank you,” Tullis responded. “I’m sure the Major Crime Unit will appreciate that.”
While McGee knew that forensics were often key in solving homicides, they didn’t have that kind of time. Whoever did this already had a big head start. In fact, if it was a professional, he or she was probably already out of the country. Time and distance were two of their biggest impediments—and those would only grow.
“What else have you found?” he asked.
“The shooter,” the Chief stated as he held up another evidence bag, “appears to have policed up all of the brass, except for one.”
McGee accepted the bag from him and, along with Militante, studied the shell casing.
“Nine millimeter,” the FBI Director concluded. “Popular round. Likely consistent with the gunshot wounds of the victims.”
The CIA Director nodded and handed the bag back to Tullis, who set it back on the table.
“Now it’s your turn,” replied the Chief.
Militante knew the police officer wasn’t speaking to him. He glanced at McGee, who had turned away and was staring out the window at the flat, gray lake.
“This was supposed to be a safe house,” the DCI revealed.
Tullis wasn’t surprised. With what he knew of the CIA, anything