The key began to turn and then stopped. Harvath knew why. Palmera had expected to hear something. Undoubtedly, the dogs normally went nuts when they heard Palmera’s key in the lock.

Harvath shot Finney a look. They might be able to take Palmera and his pals in the gangway, but with the element of surprise no longer on their side, something very bad could easily happen.

Finney got the message. Reaching over to the lean-to doghouse he rattled the sheets of corrugated metal.

The two men stared at the door, their ears straining for any sound from the lock that would signal Palmera’s intent. Nothing happened. Obviously, the sound they had created was not what Palmera was looking for. Harvath changed his focus from the door to the top of the wall, certain that at any moment Palmera or one of his cronies was going to pop his head over to see what was going on.

The moment never came. Instead, Palmera provocatively rattled his key in the lock. He was toying with the dogs-trying to get them worked up. Perhaps they were even better trained than Harvath had imagined. After all, they hadn’t sprung until he was already over the fence and in the garden. This could have been a game Palmera played with them, getting them all worked up before he revealed himself as being the “perceived danger” on the other side of the door. Harvath knew plenty of people who liked to tease their dogs good-naturedly from time to time. Maybe his plan would work.

As the key turned and the heavy lock thunked open, a small smile crept across Harvath’s face. It was definitely going to work.

Palmera’s face was the first thing he saw. It was pockmarked from years of horrible acne and barely covered by a lousy excuse for a beard he had grown in reverence to his Muslim faith. His black hair was unkempt and his dark, narrow eyes told Harvath everything he needed to know about him. After Harvath was finished with Palmera, he would kill him. But first, they had a little talking to do.

When the Mexican terrorist had stepped all the way into the garden, Harvath sprang from his hiding place and let the barbed probes of his Taser rip. They tore through Palmera’s thin cotton shirt and lodged in his chest. Instantly, the electricity began flowing, and the assassin was treated to something American law enforcement officers referred to as “riding the buffalo.”

As his muscles locked up and his six-foot frame raced face first toward the ground, Tim Finney put all of his weight behind the garden door. It slammed shut with a deafening crack that sounded like a rifle shot and sent both of Palmera’s cohorts tumbling into the gangway-leaving one of them unconscious.

Before the other man realized what had happened, Finney had reopened the door and was on top of him. With one well-placed blow to the head, the man had joined his friend in the realm of the unconscious.

Parker had been charged with kneecapping the Arabs if things had turned sour, but now that they’d been both knocked cold, he jogged down the gangway and helped Finney drag their bodies into the garden.

With Palmera’s hands Flexicuffed behind his back and a piece of duct tape across his mouth, Harvath relieved him of a semiautomatic pistol, two knives, a can of pepper spray, and a Keating Stinger. This guy was a real sweetheart, and Harvath couldn’t wait to go to work on him. If he was lucky, Palmera would be difficult and require a very lengthy interrogation.

Harvath kept his knee pressed into the back of the man’s skull as Parker and Finney duct-taped and hogtied his amigos with Flexicuffs and pitched them into the corrugated lean-to to sleep it off on top of the dead dogs.

Once they were done, Harvath stood up and yanked the just-reviving Palmera to his feet. With the cold tube of his silencer pressed against the killer’s ribs, Harvath didn’t need to articulate what would happen if he did anything stupid. Palmera was a smart man and knew all too well what was in store for him.

Ron Parker drew the living-room curtains as Harvath tore the piece of duct tape from Palmera’s mouth and shoved him into a chair.

When the man opened his yapper to curse the three of them, Harvath kicked him in the maracas so hard it knocked the wind out of his lungs.

As Palmera lay on the floor gasping for air, Harvath yanked him up by his shirt and placed him back in his chair. “I ask questions and you answer them. That’s how this works. Any deviation from that program and I am going to get nasty. Do we understand each other?”

Palmera didn’t respond. He simply glowered at Harvath.

Removing the Taser from the holster at the small of his back, Harvath pressed the device against Palmera’s neck and pulled the trigger. Even without an additional cartridge that could be fired from a distance, up close the Taser could still be used as an effective touch-stun weapon.

Instantly, Palmera’s body locked up, and he fell forward out of the chair. When he hit the floor, his nose bore the brunt of the impact and shattered.

As Harvath helped him back into his seat, he leaned in toward his ear and said, “You know every one of those cases of people dying in America via a Taser are bullshit. Ninety-nine percent of the time they have an underlying heart condition. How’s your heart, Ronaldo?”

“Fuck you,” the man spat as he fought to fully regain his breath.

Harvath placed the Taser on the other side of his neck and said, “We can do this all night. I brought lots of extra batteries.”

Palmera began to spit in his face, so Harvath let him ride the buffalo again.

Harvath placed the man back in his chair and waited until his breathing had stabilized. “If this isn’t getting your attention, we can prepare a footbath for you and get the battery out of your truck. It’s up to you.”

Instead of English, this time Palmera cursed at him in Spanish. It was a subtle indication that they were beginning to wear him down.

Palmera’s broken nose was bleeding, so Harvath signaled for Finney to bring them a towel from the kitchen.

When Finney returned and handed him the towel, Harvath wrapped his hand with it, grabbed Palmera’s nose as hard as he could, and pulled the man toward him.

The assassin roared in pain. Harvath made sure he spoke loud enough to be heard. “What were you doing in D. C.? How’d you find my house? How’d you find my mother’s house?”

Palmera didn’t answer. He was on the verge of passing out from the pain. “Why are you targeting the people around me?” demanded Harvath. “Are you working alone or did someone send you? Answer me!”

Harvath was ready to give the scumbag another ride for five with the Taser when Finney put a hand on his shoulder. He didn’t need to say anything. The gesture was enough. They had all night if they needed to work on him. Beating him unconscious would only serve to hinder what they had come to do. They were here to get information, and if Harvath didn’t get control of his emotions, he was going to blow it.

He let go of Palmera’s broken nose and tried to push the images of what had happened to Tracy and his mother from his mind. There’d be plenty of time to take out his full anger on Palmera, but not yet.

Harvath stepped away from his prisoner and watched as the man’s chin slumped against his chest. It was a good thing Finney had stopped him when he had. Palmera’s eyes were unfocused and half-closed.

Just as Harvath was about to slap him around a bit to bring him to, Palmera began mumbling. It was faint and neither Harvath, Finney, nor Parker could understand what he was saying. He was probably just reciting verses from the Koran. They all did that when they were scared. No matter how tough Palmera thought he was, he was no match for Harvath. It was very likely that the man saw in Harvath what Harvath had seen in him-the ability and the willingness to kill.