Chapter 19 - Attack
Routines often had a way of feeling tedious and annoying especially when it seemed endless or pointless. Funny how he never minded waking before dawn to get a run in and then travel to headquarters. It was a different time, he was a different man who was always excited to bound through the glass doors of the bullpen.
Early mornings meant more time chatting with her while sharing a cup of coffee and catching up on all sorts of topics. It was when his feelings for Mac blossomed that the early mornings became hard.
Most recently, this unreasonable waking at the witching hour meant more time away from her warm body for the week she shared his bed. The apprehension of her following and Mac's intellect deciphering the information being passed kept him on edge.
With a groan he rolled out of his empty bed, slipped on a t-shirt and padded to the kitchen where that stupid laptop greeted him. Harm punched in the long password and squinted as the bright screen came to life.
He did a quick sweep of all the cameras and when the low hum of a boat's engine echoed over the water, he went outside. It was cold, he shivered from the lack of warmer clothing while waiting for the RHIB to approach and the message it carried would be received.
Harm never knew the driver. It was always too dark to see and the cameras could only view so much in the dark. What he did know was that the vessel would make three passes either next to or around the houseboat and then disappear to parts unknown. He considered having his own RHIB ready to give chase but the lack of water traffic at that time of night would give his position away.
And so he waved at the boat and hurried back inside once their business was concluded.
Being tied to the dock at the marina meant the RHIB had to keep a farther distance and that often came with the consequence of shitty intel. The system worked fairly well although the more information was passed the less useful Harm felt.
Faking his death meant trading exciting assignments (albeit deadly) in the field for what amounted to a stay-at-home desk job. He was nothing more than an analyst for MI6 and often wondered if he'd made the right choice.
He was free, somewhat. Alive, definitely. The latter being questionable if he continued to work under Webb's thumb being sent on assignments that were suicide missions. It was Mac that kept him going, the one good thing that fueled each assignment until her safety was guaranteed.
MI6 had granted her safe passage if he joined them and Harm happily traded his life for it. Now, as he sat on the sofa with his laptop on the coffee table and a mug in his hand, he wondered if the trade off was worth it.
New information came in, images of large groups of persons at a training camp in Paraguay along with those of a man that MI6 believed to be Sadik Fahd. The man was still alive and a chill ran down his spine when he saw who stood next to him, one of the men that worked directly for Webb.
He didn't understand how this evidence wasn't enough to bring down the whole operation or why Central Intelligence wasn't more proactive in capturing the terrorist. While he was still on the inside, Harm saw them avoid hard intel and focus on pointless marks that had zero advancement opportunities. It was like they were waiting for something big to happen, another 9/11 or worse to justify their in-country operations.
MI6, on the other hand, was proactive, having caught two of Sadik's lieutenants - one in Egypt and the other enjoying Carnival in Barranquilla. And here he sat with a coffee in hand flipping through images that, while poignant, were useless to him.
Harm wondered if he was being used by British intelligence as a way to one up or completely dissolve the CIA and its clandestine assignments of questionable integrity. He knew the two factions could work well together but mistakes from the Americans had tipped the needle in directions the Brits weren't thrilled by.
It was all a chess game of superpowers and he was caught between being a patriot or doing what he thought was right. Neither choice made him sleep well at night and as he perused another set of satellite images, his eyes focused on one singular spec.
Harm remembered the compound well, a hacienda that Webb claimed was bombed shortly after their escape and yet was still standing. In the days leading to the rescue, Harm had studied the place well, knew the terrain but the one building that stood out the most was a tiny shack.
It sat in a clearing, its metal roof stained yellow from oxidation. The tree that once stood proudly at the corner of the shack appeared to have fallen over and clipped part of the structure. She was in their once, bound spread eagle on a wooden board and scared to death. He arrived just in time for a moment longer and Harm was sure that Mac would have been killed or worse.
Memories of that day often played in his mind with various consequences had he not arrived in time. He was certain that his life would have ended with hers. There was no way he'd have the strength to pull out of Paraguay if Mac had been killed.
With a heavy sigh, he snapped the laptop shut and pushed it aside. He was disgusted by this turn of events but as he reached for the satellite phone in order to relay information to Will, the light hum of an engine got him moving towards the bow.
Not once had the messenger boat ever returned on the same day and though he found it odd, Harm hurried outside in time to find a small boat coming closer. As he walked to the edge of the bow to signal the driver, he didn't anticipate the man hanging off the side of the houseboat who swung down and kicked Harm right in the chest.
The blow knocked the wind out of his lungs and sent Harm into one of the wooden adirondack chairs, the weight of his body splintering it. He groaned and rolled onto his back. Thankfully his head didn't hit the ground and despite the tears in his eyes, he managed to come to one knee and block a second attack.
He balled his fist and struck at his assailant's midsection, sending the man against the bow's railing and allowing Harm to recover.
"Who sent you?" He growled out hovering over the man which he clearly towered over. In the distance he heard the boat circling again, the engine being pushed to full throttle this time.
At that moment, he lamented not carrying a weapon once the peppering of muffled ammunition struck the side of the houseboat shattering a window and half of the sliding glass door. As Harm hit the deck his assailant jumped into the dark waters where the boat circled back to grab him.
Harm's own inflatable boat sat at the top of the houseboat, unusable until he placed it on the davit and lowered it to the water. There was no time. Instead, Harm's eyes focused on his neighbor, the Smith vessel that was a rental for summer vacationers and sat with a tender attached by ropes to its side.
He jumped off his own boat as the RHIB raced away, ran down the docks and wasn't surprised to find the keys in the tender's ignition. No one stole a thing in this area of the States and the lack of tourism ensured all equipment was safe. The 17 foot, center console Triumph was put into gear giving chase as the engine opened up and began to cruise over the still water.
Harm took to the radio moving the buttons to a specific channel where he knew he could ask for help. "Mayday, mayday, it's Jacob Kaine. My POS is passing the Seabring estate and heading towards the Blue Cat Marina. Send help. Send help now."
He pushed the throttle all ahead, feeling the sleek boat practically flying over the glassy waters to the Blue Cat Marina, a resort that closed a month prior and was being renovated for the following Summer.
He was getting closer by the second, the wake from the vessel ahead visible in the light of the moon. As more bullets flew his way, Harm lowered himself beneath the counsel. Then came the hard slam of his polymer hull against the rubber of the RHIB that he purposely struck. The smaller craft was punctured but miraculously kept moving forward until it slammed into docks that had been torn apart for refurbishment.
One man didn't survive, the blunt force trauma killing him instantly. The other was knocked around but survived and began to run as Harm drove his boat directly onto the sand, jumped out and gave chase. He was barefoot and managed to ignore the unpleasant feeling of rocks and sand and other materials shredding his feet.
Harm followed the man as he ran past the pool deck and into the main lobby. "There's nowhere to go, pal." He said with a heavy breath and a racing heart. "The place is boarded up and I suspect you're out of ammo."
But the man tried anyway, pointed and shot to hear the trigger click from the empty cartridge. "Fuck!" Instead the man lunged at Harm, his burly frame able to tackle the former commander with ease. They tussled, rolled on the ground and took Harm's neck with the crook of his elbow.
Oxygen was being depleted, the feel of his windpipe being crushed as the life was being squeezed out of him. The more he fought, the easier it was for his attacker to tighten his hold. Harm took whatever breath he had left and angled his body to the side, hoping to create a little gap to mount an escape.
It worked but only for a moment until the man took his neck again and cinched down even harder. He was dying, losing whatever fight he had left until the deafening crack of a gunshot made everything stop.
The sticky warmth of blood spread around him and became one with the ringing in his ears and the sound of his name being called over and over. A strong hand helped him to his feet and as the ringing ceased his eyes focused on Sergeant Eric Winters.
"Are you gonna be alright?" Winters asked as he slowly neared the houseboat. Both men had been mostly silent when the bodies were photographed and taken by a clean up crew. Little questions were asked.
Harm stared out over the water as the marina came into view. "Yeah. No one is that stupid to attack once in one night. I guess I owe you my life, Eric. Thank you."
Winters nodded and carefully brought his vessel alongside the houseboat. "You know? When we first met I thought you were a fucking prick. I was wrong." He extended his hand and took Harm's shaking firmly. "Heard your former Navy."
Harm hopped onto the houseboat, cringing when he saw the broken glass. The place wasn't a complete mess but there was some work to be done until he could replace the windows.
"Tomcat pilot."
"Nice. I flew Apaches for the Army once upon a time… I guess you could say we're brothers and arms. Stay safe Jake…or whoever you are."
"It's Rabb, Harmon Rabb."
"Radio if you need me, Rabb." And with that Winters pushed off the houseboat and was gone.
It would be two hours later as the sun flirted with the horizon that MI6 would make contact. He had replaced the broken windows with plywood and was now pacing the vessel like a caged lion waiting for a satellite phone to ring and connect him to anyone who had a clue about his attack.
Of course it was William Kitcher on the opposite line. Like Webb the man had become something of a gnat he couldn't quite get away from. No one spoke unless Will decided it was warranted and in the background Harm heard the clinking of glasses, the sound of a soiree in full swing. "I heard, are you alright?"
"Where the fuck are you?"
The background sounds diminished as the Brit entered an empty room and closed the door behind him. "One of those stupid parties men like us can never get away from. Call it an unwanted assignment."
Will laughed but Harm was not amused. The last hour had done little to calm him. "Goddamnit Kitcher, I was attacked tonight after the drop. Someone came on board and tried to kill me."
"I know Winters sent us their pictures but little has shown up. I'd run them by INTERPOL but they're being a bit cheeky with intelligence these days."
The British agent's passive attitude struck Harm as surprising. He expected concern, an appology or even an anknowledgement that MI6 had fucked up. "You son of a bitch you said your people would make sure no one would find me. I'm compromised now. My home, the only thing I have left is compromised!"
"Harm, stop. Take a breath."
"Who sent them? Who the fuck sent them, Kitcher?"
"You know who. You're just too stubborn."
"How did they find me?"
"Mr. Rabb you really are daft." Will took a breath, slow, ragged and almost pained, like he was suffering through this conversation. "I kept hoping you would figure this out on your own. Because I knew that if I said a thing you wouldn't trust me then you wouldn't believe me…Your girl is a spy."
Despite himself, Harm could only laugh. He knew Will had a grievance over the feisty brunette all because of Mac's involvement with Webb. "You never liked her."
"Because I knew from the beginning that something was off. She's a spy, Harm. She works for the CIA. She was tapped by them in college and has worked as an analyst for years."
"You need to stop." He warned but the MI6 officer kept spewing more and more lies. "I don't believe you. If she worked for them, I would have known. She would have told me."
"Harm! Stop being so daft, man. You know if any of her assignments were classified she wouldn't be able to tell you a damn thing."
"Will…stop."
"Think, Harm. It all happened after Paraguay when you went off to rescue a woman that maybe didn't need saving."
But Mac did need saving. Had he arrived a minute too late she would have been tortured or killed. Webb's injuries could have been part of a ruse but not Mac's. He lived through her trauma, the nightmares, the PTSD she hid away from him. "You weren't there. They would have killed her."
"Maybe. Maybe not." Harm could hear Will typing frantically onto a keyboard and imagined the British agent sitting in some darkened office, the only light that of a computer screen. "Go to your laptop and set it to recieve."
"I'm sitting in front of it."
Will typed in a few more things, cursed at the computer when it wouldn't act like he wanted and then sighed. "No one knew about the houseboat except me, the messenger and the cop. It's not a coincidence that someone found you just a couple days after she left. Damn it man I know you're in love with her but think clearly."
Harm opened his mouth to argue until a message began coming through. He clicked on the attachment and saw paperwork signed by Mac's hand with a stamp stating it belonged to the CIA. The fight in him was gone when another image appeared - a scan of an identification card, the woman dressed in a business suit type of attire with her hair done a certain way. The Marine stoicism came through in the photo of Sarah MacKenzie and as Harm stared at the screen, he felt his heart break into a million peices.