Chapter 14
Harvath chased the assailant into a back bedroom, where the man had thrown a chair through the window, climbed outside onto the roof, and taken off. Harvath took off right after him.
The rooftops of Bangkok were the city’s armor against the elements—a sea of corrugated metal and aging water tanks punctuated by satellite dishes, vent pipes, and endless laundry lines strung at shoulder height.
The pungent air had that Bangkok mix of diesel and old cooking oil that drifted up from the kitchens. Underneath it all was the odor of the river that never seemed to fully disappear—regardless of the tides.
With every step, the metal roof flexed and popped under Harvath’s weight. If he hit a weak enough spot and fell through, he had no doubt he’d be severely injured, maybe even dismembered, but he’d been left with no choice. Not if he wanted to catch this guy.
Twenty meters ahead and picking up speed, the man was widening the gap. Only occasionally did he glance over his shoulder to gauge the position of his pursuer.
Like his colleagues, the man was tall and fit, had a military haircut, and also appeared to be Chinese.
There was one other thing Harvath noticed about him—despite the slick surfaces, the crenelated parapets, and even the gaps between buildings, this guy was familiar with the route. This team had an escape plan. Which once again spoke to the assailants’ professionalism.
Harvath, however, hadn’t been on these rooftops before. Each one he crossed seemed to have been repaired by laying new panels over the old, which created raised lips, practically impossible to see in the dark. More than once, he caught the toe of his boot and almost went down.
But as close as he came to wiping out, he managed to retain his balance and repeatedly used the momentum to propel himself forward. He couldn’t let the man out of his sight.
Whipping through laundry line after laundry line, he used his forearm to slash through the sheets, towels, and random articles of clothing.
He could feel his lungs burning, his chest heaving for air.
It was not exactly a great moment to figure out that as much jogging as he had been doing, he hadn’t been doing enough sprints.
If he had to guess, the man he was chasing was at least ten, maybe fifteen years younger than him—and it showed. Willing himself to move even faster, Harvath increased his pace.
But increasing his speed meant increasing his risk, and that meant there was much less room for error. If he caught the toe of his boot again, or garroted himself on an unseen length of wire, the damage had the potential to be quite serious—potentially unrecoverable.
And if the assailant managed to escape, there was no telling what the fallout might be.
Regrouping with his colleagues might be the least of their worries.
The more Harvath had seen of these guys, the more his Spidey-senses were tingling and the more he wanted to know who they were and what the hell they were up to.
As that thought formed in his mind, he saw the man up ahead launch himself off the building and disappear from sight.
It wasn’t until Harvath got to the edge of the roof that he realized what had happened.
They were at the end of the block. The man had leapt over the narrow street below to the next, lower, set of rooftops. Big mistake. He had just handed Harvath a huge opportunity.
Tired of chasing this guy, Harvath pulled out his pistol and, using the higher elevation to his advantage, fired.
With the third shot, which appeared to strike the man somewhere in his lower back, Harvath watched him fall face-first onto the roof.
The gunshots had caught the attention of the people down below, who, already unnerved by the bombings, screamed as they stampeded in a variety of directions.
After watching the man for a few more moments and not seeing any movement, Harvath judged the distance of the leap, backed up until he felt he had given himself enough runway, and then sprinted like he was being chased by a pack of rabid dogs.
At the edge of the roof, he launched himself into the air and sailed over the street below, before landing hard on the opposite roof, where he rolled in an effort to dissipate the force.
Somewhere in his clumsy ballet, he had caught something sharp, which tore through his shirt and opened a gash on his left side. There was no time, however, for a proper damage assessment.
Drawing his pistol and leaping to his feet, he spun to target the assailant, but the man had vanished.
In his place, all that was left was a faint trail of blood that led off toward a stairwell enclosure, beyond which were two large solar panels attached to a pair of hot water tanks.
Both locations provided concealment, as well as perfect spots to launch an ambush. But without better lighting, there was no telling where the man was hiding.
Creeping forward, his pistol up and at the ready, Harvath strained his ears for any sound of the assailant.
He followed the trail of blood as best he could until it disappeared behind the stairwell enclosure.
The structure was nothing more than a flimsy box made from thin pieces of sheet metal.
If the man was indeed hiding on the other side and if he decided to pull his own weapon and begin firing, Harvath was a sitting duck.
Glancing to the side, he saw a pile of discarded roofing tiles. Using his left hand, he reached down and picked one up. It wasn’t terribly heavy, but it was going to be tough chucking it with the wound he had sustained to his left side. At this point, however, he didn’t have much choice.
Twisting at the waist and drawing his left arm back as far as he could, he let the tile fly.
In the next moment, with his finger applying pressure to his trigger, he swung around the stairwell enclosure, prepared to engage the third assailant.
But as the tile landed on the other side of the roof and shattered into a million pieces, he realized his would-be distraction was a waste. The man wasn’t there.
Moving quickly to the hot water tanks, Harvath spun around them, ready to neutralize his target, but the man wasn’t there either.
Before he could reacquire the blood trail and figure out what had happened, he heard a sound from the other side of the roof.
Turning, Harvath raised his pistol to fire just as he saw the man drop off the edge of the roof toward the sidewalk below. Fuck.
Charging after him, Harvath arrived at the parapet, which was covered in blood, and prepared to leap over it and give chase. But before he did, he risked a look over the edge to assess what would be breaking his fall. The moment he did, two bullets screamed right past his head.
The man he’d been chasing hadn’t dropped all the way down to the street level.
Just beneath the parapet was a narrow ledge where he now lay in a pool of blood.
From somewhere in the distance, the sound of approaching police cars could be heard.
Harvath was running out of time. He needed to make up his mind.
If he stuck his head above the parapet again, he could get it blown off. That said, the man had lost a ton of blood and the two shots he had taken, regardless of how well aimed, might have been the last thing he was capable of.
Harvath was weighing his odds when a barrage of gunfire erupted, tearing up the roof around him.
For a moment, he thought another shooter—perhaps a fourth assailant—had entered the fray.
But soon enough, he realized that the bullets were coming from underneath him.
The man on the ledge was still very much alive.
Rolling away from the danger, Harvath returned fire. He emptied his magazine, inserted a fresh one, and fired five more rounds before pausing and trying to assess the situation. The only thing he was certain of was that the police were getting closer.
He waited as long as he dared. When no further gunfire was directed up at him, he changed position and risked another look over the parapet.
This time, he was not met with a hail of bullets. The man on the ledge, eyes open and unblinking, was definitely dead.
Keeping his pistol trained on him, Harvath climbed over the parapet and dropped down to search his pockets.
The man had no wallet, wasn’t carrying a phone, and didn’t have any pocket litter.
Even the labels had been removed from his clothes.
Aside from his Russian-made Grach pistol, there wasn’t anything on his person that could be used to help identify him.
At least that was what Harvath was thinking until he took a closer look at the man’s watch.
Like the other two attackers back at Tommy Sombat’s loft, this guy wasn’t wearing any jewelry. No rings. No gold chains. None of the flashy stuff one might associate with underworld operatives. The watch, however, was something different.
The other assailants had been wearing similar watches—black and chunky, with thick bands made of rubber. And now that he saw this one up close, Harvath knew exactly what it was.
Crafted out of titanium and selling for over $20,000, the ruggedized Breitling “Emergency” watch was one of the most expensive adventure chronographs in the world.
But its price tag wasn’t its most eye-popping feature. What made the watch so unique was its integrated antenna, miniaturized transmitter, and dual-frequency distress beacon.
After taking a picture of the man’s face with his phone, he removed the watch, tucked it into his front pocket, and climbed back up to the roof.
He needed to get back to Morrell and Tommy Sombat before the cops flooded the neighborhood. But if history was any guide, Morrell had already taken off and Harvath had been left to fend for himself.