Free Fall: A Prelude to Hidden Order Read Free Page B

secure his weapon and then step in and FlexCuff each of the men.
    Removing the Somali’s AK-47, Harvath sat Abuukar back down at the desk as Sanchez took Mukami to the other side of the bridge.
    “How many men do you have on board with you?” Harvath asked.
    Without hesitation, the pirate proclaimed, “Fifty!”
    Harvath smiled and struck him with an open-handed slap, knocking the Mets cap from his head. The blow stung and brought tears to the man’s eyes.
    “Let’s try again,” said Harvath. “How many men?”
    “Twenty,” replied Abuukar, until he saw Harvath begin to draw his hand back. “Nine. I have nine men with me,” he corrected.
    Harvath was adept at reading microexpressions, what poker players often referred to as “tells.” A microexpression was a subtle facial cue that indicated when a person was under stress either from lying or because of an intent to do harm. Harvath now had a baseline with which to read the Somali.
    Activating his radio, he gave Kass a quick update and suggested he take two of the crew to retrieve Dean and begin tending to his injuries.
    Then, turning back to Abuukar, he asked, “Where’s the ship’s captain?”
    “We have him someplace safe.”
    Harvath didn’t like that answer. Grabbing the Somali by the back of his neck, he slammed his head forward into the table.
    There was the crack of cartilage as the pirate’s nose broke. Blood began to flow, staining his shirt. Harvath grabbed him by his collar and righted him in the chair.
    He had interrogated plenty of very bad people over the course of his career and, in some extreme cases, had even tortured people. He had never lost any sleep over it, though, and no matter what road this particular interrogation took, he wouldn’t lose sleep over it either. That was because Abuukar wasn’t just a pirate; he was a murderer. He had murdered a man with a wife and two children for no other reason than to send a message. Harvath was considering returning the favor, but not until he had squeezed every last drop of information he could from the pirate.
    Harvath spoke slowly and deliberately. “Where is the captain?”
    The Somali still appeared dazed from having his head slammed into the desk and could only mumble. Harvath leaned in to better hear what the man was saying. He’d made it only halfway when he realized his mistake.
    Abuukar reared his head back and spat a frothy mix of blood and saliva, narrowly missing Harvath’s face by only a fraction of an inch.
    Harvath hated spitters. Normally, he would have knocked a guy out for doing that, but not this time. The last thing in the world he had any intention of touching without a ten-foot pole and a level-four hot-zone suit was a bleeding Somali.
    Harvath found a roll of duct tape in one of the desk drawers and used it, along with the pirate’s New York Mets cap, to fashion an improvised spit shield and secure it over the man’s face.
    “Now, you either tell me where the captain is, or I’m going to tie a rope around your neck and feed you to the sharks. Your choice.”
    The arrogant Somali was indignant, and his eyes burned into Harvath’s like two hot coals.
    Harvath stared right back, never once averting his gaze.
    “I know where he is,” the Kenyan suddenly offered from the other side of the bridge.
    Harvath looked at him and then back at the Somali pirate. “Does he?” he asked. He could see the distress in the pirate’s face and it made him smile. Using the duct tape to secure the Somali to his chair, he stated, “Don’t go anywhere. I’ll be right back.”
    As Harvath walked across the bridge, Abuukar yelled threats at Mukami from behind his spit shield, chronicling what would happen to him if he revealed anything at all.
    Harvath wasted no time. “Where’s the captain?”
    “They took him to port,” the Kenyan engineer replied.
    “We already know that. Tell me something we don’t know.”
    “The pirates have a house. It is surrounded by a high wall.