Page 115 of Shadow of Doubt

“Jesus,” said Staelin, leaning in closer to watch his monitor. “One of these guys just pulled a sledgehammer out from under his jacket.”

There was a pause as Staelin continued to watch the events on the ground level unfold. Then his voice crackled back across the radio, “Breach. Breach. Breach. They just made entry.”

“Roger that. We’re live.”

“Confirmed,” Staelin replied. “They’re breaking into four-man teams. One is headed for the north stairwell. Another is crossing the lobby toward the south stairwell. And, if you can believe it, it looks like these idiots are going to send the last team up the elevator.”

“It’s the Russians,” said Harvath. “I can believe anything. Just make sure there’s something there to greet them.”

“Roger that,” the ex–Delta Force operative stated, getting up from the front desk. “I’m going to position one.”

“Good copy,” said Harvath as he texted Preisler.Contact. You’re cleared hot. 10 seconds out.

When Preisler sent him the thumbs-up, Harvath began counting down from ten. Flipping the fire selector on the 417 from safe to single shot, he snugged the butt of the weapon up against his shoulder and consulted the range card taped next to the window.

As soon as he saw Preisler stand up and approach the table where Powell and Elovik were seated, he sighted in his target and took a deep breath.

Exhaling, he pressed the rifle’s trigger.Good hit,he murmured to himself as it shattered the windshield of Elovik’s vehicle, idling in the no-parking zone. He followed it up with five more, moving back and forth between the driver and passenger.

He then watched as Preisler, who already had the Russian military attaché on his feet with a pistol jammed tightly into his side, steered him out of the café and down the block.

True to their arrangement, Powell—who had laid money on the table to pay their tab—was walking right alongside. When they reached the embassy vehicle, the station chief popped the trunk and removed thebriefcase with his payment; then the trio disappeared around the corner to where Harvath had parked the CIA man’s Citroen.

As soon as they were no longer visible, Harvath closed the window, transitioned from Haney’s 417 to Johnson’s H&K UMP submachine gun, and let Staelin know he was coming.

With only one, half-loaded backup mag, he was going to have to be judicious with how much lead he slung.

That said, if the handful of improvised devices they had created ended up working, they might be able to tilt the field to their advantage, regardless of how outmanned they now found themselves.

Racing down the hallway, Harvath tagged up with Staelin not far from the elevator and the front desk area. The Russians coming up the elevator were going to be first on the floor. It was critical that they not gain any ground.

“We good?” Harvath asked as he drew even with him.

“If we’re not,” Staelin replied, “we’re about to find out.”

Ahead of them, the elevator indicator chimed, and each floor indicator lit up as the carriage approached.

Finally it arrived at the fifth floor, and when it did, Harvath announced, “Showtime.”

When the doors started to open, he and Staelin pulled the tabs on their homemade diversionary devices and slid them across the floor toward the elevator.

As the four gun-wielding Russians inside were revealed, the fuel-air explosive devices detonated. There was a bright flash, followed by a mutedboom.

Though not the overwhelming flashbang effect Harvath had been hoping for, it was enough to temporarily blind, if not stun, their attackers.

Not wanting to waste a single moment of their advantage, he and Staelin sprang from their hiding places and, guns blazing, fired rounds of two shots in rapid succession known as controlled pairs. None of the Russians made it out of the elevator.

As the four men lay dead or dying, Harvath helped himself to one of their Kedr machine pistols and, adjusting the fire selector, delivered four quick head shots just to make sure. With that, it was time for Harvath and Staelin to split up.

It had been decided that Harvath would take the north stairwell and Staelin the south. Pulling the stop button so the elevator couldn’t return to the lobby, the two men hustled in their separate directions.

In the middle of Harvath’s hallway, next to a purposefully overturned supply cart, lay a metal box about the size of a loaf of bread. Two long, uninsulated wires, which were hopefully difficult to see, connected it to a jerry-rigged detonator.

Taking up his position in an exam room, Harvath used a small mirror, placed across the hall, to watch the stairwell.

It was hard to hear anyone approaching over the continuous ringing of the elevator alarm. The attackers could be right behind the north door, having a full-blown conversation, and he wouldn’t have known. His only confirmation of their arrival was going to be visual. And so he watched, and waited.

Finally, he saw the stairwell door crack open and figured one of two things was going to happen next. Either these guys were going to toss out a flashbang or an actual grenade first, or they were going to push right out of the stairwell, ready to get their gunfight on.

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