to unpack his bag when he heard a knock at the front door. He pulled his SIG Sauer from underneath his nightstand and held it behind his back as he approached the front door.
“Who is it?” he asked as he stood to the right of the doorframe.
“Special courier. I have a delivery for Mr. Scot Harvath,” said a man’s voice.
Harvath stepped in front of the peephole and peered out. Standing in the hall was a tall, blond kid about twenty-five years old. Harvath was only in his early thirties, but any young CIA hard-ons, which this one obviously was, were referred to by guys in the Special Operations community as snot-nosed CIA kids . Harvath opened the door.
“Do you have any ID?” Harvath asked the kid, who, now that he could see him full on, looked more like a muscle-bound southern California surfer than a CIA operative.
“Yes, sir,” replied the young man, who was wearing a briefcase chained to his right wrist. With his free left hand, he reached inside his suit coat for his wallet. That’s when Harvath swung his gun around and pointed it at the kid’s forehead.
“Dumb move, dude,” said Harvath. “You should never let your guard down like that. Those are very important documents in there. What if I was here to steal them from you?”
At that precise moment, the CIA kid swung hard with the titanium briefcase at Harvath’s head, but missed him by a mile. Harvath was much too fast for him and had moved out of the way when the kid telegraphed his intent with his eyes. Harvath answered the assault with a quick blow to the kid’s solar plexus. He fell to the floor with the wind knocked out of him.
“That was an even dumber move,” said Harvath, offering his hand to help the kid off the floor, but he waved it away, still trying to catch his breath.
Harvath helped himself to the kid’s breast pocket and removed his identification.
“Gordon Avigliano,” he said, reading the name off the driver’s license. “Well, Gordy, what do you have for me?”
Harvath offered the kid his hand again and was once again waved off. The young man struggled to his feet and, with his wind back again, asked, “Can we do this inside, please?”
“Sure thing, Gordo; just no funny business. I’ve already seen you do dumb and dumber, but if you go for stupid, you’re gonna leave through the window. Understand me?”
The young man nodded his head. Harvath showed him inside and pointed toward one of the two chairs next to the small table in the kitchen. The CIA courier put his briefcase on the table and looked up.
“Can I see some ID please, sir?” he asked.
Harvath, who was rummaging around inside the refrigerator, blindly pointed his pistol over his shoulder at the courier and said, “Tell your boss that Agent Harvath wasn’t home, but his buddy Samuel Adams signed for the papers.”
“But, sir, I really do need—”
The courier stopped mid sentence when Harvath cocked the hammer of the SIG Sauer.
“They told me this might be difficult, and I said, ‘Difficult? Naw, it’s just a routine delivery.’ Why do I get all the bad jobs?” the courier said to himself.
“Unless you have a nice cold six-pack in that little case of yours, I suggest you give me what you’ve got and clear out. I am not in the best of moods.”
“I can see that.”
“What was that, Gordo?” said Harvath, who withdrew his head form the fridge and shot the kid a look.
“Nothing, sir. Nothing at all.”
“I didn’t think so. Let’s get on with it. I’ve only got ten minutes until Oprah .”
“Until Oprah? ” the courier asked, confused.
“Yeah, you heard me. Oprah .”
“Okay, then, I just need to ask if you’ve had your domicile swept for bugs recently.”
“Bugs? Here do it yourself,” said Harvath as he reached next to the fridge for a fly swatter and threw it at the kid. “I don’t talk in my sleep, nor do my lips move when I read. I plan on digesting what you have in your lunch box there, and then I will
“Who is it?” he asked as he stood to the right of the doorframe.
“Special courier. I have a delivery for Mr. Scot Harvath,” said a man’s voice.
Harvath stepped in front of the peephole and peered out. Standing in the hall was a tall, blond kid about twenty-five years old. Harvath was only in his early thirties, but any young CIA hard-ons, which this one obviously was, were referred to by guys in the Special Operations community as snot-nosed CIA kids . Harvath opened the door.
“Do you have any ID?” Harvath asked the kid, who, now that he could see him full on, looked more like a muscle-bound southern California surfer than a CIA operative.
“Yes, sir,” replied the young man, who was wearing a briefcase chained to his right wrist. With his free left hand, he reached inside his suit coat for his wallet. That’s when Harvath swung his gun around and pointed it at the kid’s forehead.
“Dumb move, dude,” said Harvath. “You should never let your guard down like that. Those are very important documents in there. What if I was here to steal them from you?”
At that precise moment, the CIA kid swung hard with the titanium briefcase at Harvath’s head, but missed him by a mile. Harvath was much too fast for him and had moved out of the way when the kid telegraphed his intent with his eyes. Harvath answered the assault with a quick blow to the kid’s solar plexus. He fell to the floor with the wind knocked out of him.
“That was an even dumber move,” said Harvath, offering his hand to help the kid off the floor, but he waved it away, still trying to catch his breath.
Harvath helped himself to the kid’s breast pocket and removed his identification.
“Gordon Avigliano,” he said, reading the name off the driver’s license. “Well, Gordy, what do you have for me?”
Harvath offered the kid his hand again and was once again waved off. The young man struggled to his feet and, with his wind back again, asked, “Can we do this inside, please?”
“Sure thing, Gordo; just no funny business. I’ve already seen you do dumb and dumber, but if you go for stupid, you’re gonna leave through the window. Understand me?”
The young man nodded his head. Harvath showed him inside and pointed toward one of the two chairs next to the small table in the kitchen. The CIA courier put his briefcase on the table and looked up.
“Can I see some ID please, sir?” he asked.
Harvath, who was rummaging around inside the refrigerator, blindly pointed his pistol over his shoulder at the courier and said, “Tell your boss that Agent Harvath wasn’t home, but his buddy Samuel Adams signed for the papers.”
“But, sir, I really do need—”
The courier stopped mid sentence when Harvath cocked the hammer of the SIG Sauer.
“They told me this might be difficult, and I said, ‘Difficult? Naw, it’s just a routine delivery.’ Why do I get all the bad jobs?” the courier said to himself.
“Unless you have a nice cold six-pack in that little case of yours, I suggest you give me what you’ve got and clear out. I am not in the best of moods.”
“I can see that.”
“What was that, Gordo?” said Harvath, who withdrew his head form the fridge and shot the kid a look.
“Nothing, sir. Nothing at all.”
“I didn’t think so. Let’s get on with it. I’ve only got ten minutes until Oprah .”
“Until Oprah? ” the courier asked, confused.
“Yeah, you heard me. Oprah .”
“Okay, then, I just need to ask if you’ve had your domicile swept for bugs recently.”
“Bugs? Here do it yourself,” said Harvath as he reached next to the fridge for a fly swatter and threw it at the kid. “I don’t talk in my sleep, nor do my lips move when I read. I plan on digesting what you have in your lunch box there, and then I will
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