Until Harvath knew exactly what Palmera was saying, he knew he needed to treat every utterance as potentially important. Placing the Taser up against the man’s groin, Harvath sent the unmistakable message that Palmera could keep playing the tough guy, but that it would be at his own peril.

As Harvath leaned forward to try to decipher what the man was saying, there was what sounded like an enormous oak tree being split down the center by a white-hot bolt of lightning. Harvath’s vision dimmed and he stumbled backward.

Bumping into the coffee table, he lost his balance. From somewhere behind where Palmera had been sitting, Harvath heard the sound of breaking glass and Finney and Parker desperately shouting at each other.

Seconds later there came the sound of squealing tires from outside on the street. It was followed by a sickening thud, and even in his haze Harvath knew that a car had hit someone. He prayed it wasn’t Palmera.

Shaking off the stars that were clouding his vision, along with his self-contempt for being suckered into such a powerful headbutt, Harvath forced himself to his feet and struggled out the door and into the street.

Finney looked up from where Ronaldo Palmera’s mangled body lay beneath the bumper of a dented green taxi cab and shook his head.

Harvath moved toward the corpse and Ron Parker grabbed his arm. “He’s dead,” said Parker. “Let’s get out of here.”

“Not yet,” replied Harvath, as he slipped out of his friend’s grasp and walked over to Palmera.

A crowd was beginning to form, but Harvath ignored them. Bending down, he slid the digital camera from his pocket, snapped a picture, and removed the man’s disgusting boots.

Joining Finney and Parker back on the sidewalk, Harvath said, “Now we can go.”

CHARLESTON, SOUTH CAROLINA

Mark Sheppard’s police contacts warned him to mind his Ps and Qs in Charleston. Since 1995 it had been consistently recognized as the “best-mannered” city in America and they didn’t take well to rude or boorish behavior. Sheppard didn’t know whether to say thank you or be insulted. Either way, he didn’t plan on being in town long enough to make an impression.

Police shootings were very rare in Charleston, and Sheppard had no problem finding what he was looking for. According to the newspaper articles he’d read, the main tactical response group on site for the John Doe police “shootout” was the Charleston County Sheriff’s Office SWAT team. The SWAT community was a relatively small one, and Sheppard was able to parlay his influence with a high-ranking Baltimore SWAT member into an introduction with SWAT chief Mac Mangan in Charleston.

Though normally a smooth operator with the media, Mangan had never cared much for reporters. As far as he was concerned, they had one goal and one goal only-to make him and other law enforcement officers look bad.

Dealing with those from his own backyard was bad enough, but having to indulge a Yankee journalist who was undoubtedly on his way down here to second-guess his team and paint them as a bunch of trigger-happy hicks did not sit well with him. If he and his wife hadn’t been such good friends with Richard and Cindy Moss up in Maryland, he never would have agreed to this meeting.

Sheppard met Mangan-a big bull of a man in his late forties-at the Wild Wing café on Market Street, where they ordered lunch.

By the time their food arrived, Sheppard felt confident that he had exchanged enough cop talk to put his subject at ease and transitioned into what he really wanted to discuss. “I assume Dick Moss told you why I’m here?”

Mangan nodded and took a bite out of his sandwich.

“What can you tell me about what happened?”

The SWAT team leader thoughtfully chewed his food and then dabbed his mouth with his napkin. “Bad guy barricades himself inside house. SWAT team goes in. Bang. Bang. No more bad guy.”

Sheppard smiled. “I get it. Charleston County is not a place that takes kindly to bad guys.”

Mangan raised his thumb and forefinger in a pantomimed pistol and shot Sheppard a wink as he dropped the hammer.

The reporter laughed good-naturedly. “The Post and Courier article went into a little more detail, but it sounds to me like they got it pretty much right.”

The SWAT team leader opened his mouth and took another large bite of his sandwich.

“I’m beginning to think that maybe I should have started asking my questions before we got our lunch.”

Once again, Mangan raised his pretend pistol and pulled the trigger as he shot Sheppard another wink.

The reporter was getting pissed off. “You know, Dick told me to be prepared for the aw shucks dipshit redneck routine, I just didn’t expect it to start so quickly.”

Mangan stopped chewing.

“Don’t let me interrupt your lunch,” Sheppard continued. “As long as I’m paying for your hillbilly happy meal, I want to make sure you enjoy every bite. By the way, what kind of kiddy toy comes with barbeque and a draft? A pack of Marlboros?”

The SWAT team leader wiped his mouth with his napkin and dropped it on his plate.

Sheppard watched him, not caring at all if the man was pissed off. He hadn’t come all the way down to South Carolina to get jerked around by Stonewall Jackson here.

Slowly, a smile began to spread across Mangan’s face. “Dick said you could be a bit touchy.”

“He did, did he?” replied Sheppard.

Mangan nodded.

“What else did he say?”

“He said that after I got done fucking around I should try to answer your questions.”

Sheppard noticed that his left hand had curled into a death grip around his Coke. With a laugh, he allowed himself to relax. “So does that mean you’re done fucking around?”

“That depends,” answered Mangan. “Are you done being sensitive?”

Typical cop ball-busting. Sheppard should have seen it coming. Cops were no different in Charleston than they were back in Baltimore. In response to the man’s question, the reporter nodded.

Mangan smiled. “Good. Now what do you want to know about the shooting?”

“Everything.”

Mangan shook his head back and forth. “Let’s just cut through all the crap.”

“Okay,” said Sheppard, playing along, “Dick said you were the first guy in the house. What did you see?”

“That’s the first thing we need to get straight,” he replied. “I wasn’t the first guy in.”

“What do you mean?”

Mangan signaled for Sheppard to turn off his mini tape recorder. When he did, the SWAT man looked over his shoulder and then, turned back to the reporter and said, “The only way I’m going to tell you anything is if you agree that it’s all off the record.”

UTAH OLYMPIC PARK

PARK CITY, UTAH

Philippe Roussard was fit and athletic, but he had never considered himself much of a sportsman. How an entire culture could be so obsessed with such a wide array of sports was beyond him. Surely, it was a luxury only a Western nation like America could afford.

Roussard sat and watched the young aerialists of the U. S. Freestyle Ski Team practice. It was a bright, cloudless day. The temperature was perfect-upper seventies and not much wind, excellent conditions in which to train.

The setting reminded him of the many villages where his family would rent chalets for their holidays. Of course, they were much more remote than this. The need for security in his family was such that the few times a year they did get together, it was always somewhere where they ran little risk of being seen, or worse, targeted.

The 389-acre Utah Olympic Park had been the site of the 2002 Olympic bobsled, luge, and ski-jumping events and was also a year-round training site for members of the U. S. Ski Team.