Read Online The First Commandment by Brad Thor - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Brad Thor
Tags: Fiction, General, Suspense, Thrillers, Suspense fiction, Espionage, Intelligence Officers, Political, Assassins, Harvath; Scot (Fictitious Character), Terrorists
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house smelled like furniture polish, mixed with the scent of the nearby sea.
Once his night vision was established, he moved quietly down the hallway toward the master bedroom. The hall was lined with family photographs, most of them from many years ago.
At the bedroom, Roussard found the door wide open and his victim fast asleep upon her bed. Crossing over to her, he tucked the metal folder beneath his left arm and unzipped his coveralls.
For a moment, he thought he might have dropped it, but then his hand closed around the object he was searching for.
When he looked back down at his victim, he received the shock of his life. Her eyes were wide open and she was staring up at him. Her bedroom windows were open, and if she screamed, he could be done for.
Roussard’s instincts took over. He grabbed his notebook with both hands and swung-hard. He hit the woman across the left side of her head.
Her mouth opened as if to scream and Roussard hit her again. The woman’s eyes closed and she lay motionless atop her bed.
Blood ran from her nose and her ear. It matted her long gray hair and stained her nightgown. She was unconscious, but still very much alive, which was how he wanted her.
Dropping his notebook on the bed, Roussard scooped the woman up into his arms and carried her into the bathroom. There he placed her in the tub, stripped off her nightgown, and covered her body with a moist paste. Next he sealed all the bathroom vents with duct tape.
He walked back outside to the van and retrieved two sealed plastic buckets and a tool belt.
Back in the bathroom, Roussard set the buckets down next to the tub and removed an atomizer from inside his coveralls.
He opened the woman’s right eye first and then the left, liberally applying the substance and making sure each eye had been completely covered. His job was almost finished.
Roussard removed a screwdriver from his tool belt and pried the lids loose on each of the buckets. He grabbed a towel from above the toilet and tossed it just outside the bathroom door. It was time.
Prying the lids off both buckets, he emptied their contents over his victim, still lying unconscious in her bath, and then hurried from the bathroom, making sure to close the door firmly behind him.
Roussard wedged the towel beneath the door and fixed it in place with more duct tape. He then removed the cordless drill from his tool belt along with a handful of screws and secured the door firmly to its frame.
He walked back outside, replaced the orange cones in the van, and slowly drove back the way he had come.
At the San Diego Marriott Hotel and Marina, Roussard changed out of his coveralls, rubbed the van down for fingerprints, and headed for his dock. The boat was right where his handler had told him it would be.
Once he had navigated his way out into the open, inky-black water, he took out a clean cell phone, dialed 911, and gave the address of a woman in need of assistance on Coronado ’s Encino Lane.
When asked for his name, Roussard smiled and threw the phone overboard. They would piece together who was responsible soon enough.
Chapter 20
BALTIMORE, MARYLAND
Tom Gosse, the funeral home’s director and namesake, had told Sheppard that he’d rather not have their conversation tape-recorded. That meant that the reporter had been forced to take notes, and he was the world’s shittiest note taker.
He couldn’t blame Gosse for not wanting to be on tape. If the story he was telling was true, someone had already been killed to keep it quiet.
Sheppard sat at his kitchen counter nursing a Fosters as he flipped through his notes. The funeral director was a solid guy. Several times during the interview, Sheppard backtracked and pretended to mess up the facts in order to trip him up, but Gosse was unflappable. There was no question in Sheppard’s mind that the man was telling him the truth.
According to his story, about six months ago he’d been at the chief medical examiner’s office
Once his night vision was established, he moved quietly down the hallway toward the master bedroom. The hall was lined with family photographs, most of them from many years ago.
At the bedroom, Roussard found the door wide open and his victim fast asleep upon her bed. Crossing over to her, he tucked the metal folder beneath his left arm and unzipped his coveralls.
For a moment, he thought he might have dropped it, but then his hand closed around the object he was searching for.
When he looked back down at his victim, he received the shock of his life. Her eyes were wide open and she was staring up at him. Her bedroom windows were open, and if she screamed, he could be done for.
Roussard’s instincts took over. He grabbed his notebook with both hands and swung-hard. He hit the woman across the left side of her head.
Her mouth opened as if to scream and Roussard hit her again. The woman’s eyes closed and she lay motionless atop her bed.
Blood ran from her nose and her ear. It matted her long gray hair and stained her nightgown. She was unconscious, but still very much alive, which was how he wanted her.
Dropping his notebook on the bed, Roussard scooped the woman up into his arms and carried her into the bathroom. There he placed her in the tub, stripped off her nightgown, and covered her body with a moist paste. Next he sealed all the bathroom vents with duct tape.
He walked back outside to the van and retrieved two sealed plastic buckets and a tool belt.
Back in the bathroom, Roussard set the buckets down next to the tub and removed an atomizer from inside his coveralls.
He opened the woman’s right eye first and then the left, liberally applying the substance and making sure each eye had been completely covered. His job was almost finished.
Roussard removed a screwdriver from his tool belt and pried the lids loose on each of the buckets. He grabbed a towel from above the toilet and tossed it just outside the bathroom door. It was time.
Prying the lids off both buckets, he emptied their contents over his victim, still lying unconscious in her bath, and then hurried from the bathroom, making sure to close the door firmly behind him.
Roussard wedged the towel beneath the door and fixed it in place with more duct tape. He then removed the cordless drill from his tool belt along with a handful of screws and secured the door firmly to its frame.
He walked back outside, replaced the orange cones in the van, and slowly drove back the way he had come.
At the San Diego Marriott Hotel and Marina, Roussard changed out of his coveralls, rubbed the van down for fingerprints, and headed for his dock. The boat was right where his handler had told him it would be.
Once he had navigated his way out into the open, inky-black water, he took out a clean cell phone, dialed 911, and gave the address of a woman in need of assistance on Coronado ’s Encino Lane.
When asked for his name, Roussard smiled and threw the phone overboard. They would piece together who was responsible soon enough.
Chapter 20
BALTIMORE, MARYLAND
Tom Gosse, the funeral home’s director and namesake, had told Sheppard that he’d rather not have their conversation tape-recorded. That meant that the reporter had been forced to take notes, and he was the world’s shittiest note taker.
He couldn’t blame Gosse for not wanting to be on tape. If the story he was telling was true, someone had already been killed to keep it quiet.
Sheppard sat at his kitchen counter nursing a Fosters as he flipped through his notes. The funeral director was a solid guy. Several times during the interview, Sheppard backtracked and pretended to mess up the facts in order to trip him up, but Gosse was unflappable. There was no question in Sheppard’s mind that the man was telling him the truth.
According to his story, about six months ago he’d been at the chief medical examiner’s office
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