Near Dark (Scot Harvath #19)(11)

“Thank you,” he said.

“You’re welcome,” Haney replied. “No more funerals.”

Harvath nodded. It was a noble ambition, but he didn’t know how realistic it was. Death was an occupational hazard in their line of work. It came with the territory.

The goal, of course, was to make sure the bad guys were the ones doing the dying. But, as evidenced by Lara, the Old Man, Lydia, and now Carl Pedersen, that wasn’t always possible.

Gesturing toward the body bag again, Harvath stated, “This has got to be the same guy. There must be something that ties him to Carl.”

Haney agreed. “This is priority one for the Norwegians. Who knows what evidence they’ve developed since we last heard from them. We’ll take prints, a retinal scan, and photos for facial recognition on the flight home.”

Home. The term didn’t resonate with him the way it once had. Home used to be a place he longed to return to after dangerous assignments abroad. It was what he had been building with Lara and Marco—a life, a family—something worth living for and coming back to. Now, he had nothing.

As he teetered on the edge of an all-consuming darkness that threatened to swallow him whole, he needed to face his demons—in his time, in his own way. If he survived, great. If not, then so be it. It wasn’t time for his self-imposed exile to end.

“Drop me off at the next corner,” he ordered.

Sloane caught his eyes in the rearview mirror and then flicked her gaze to Haney.

“Scot,” said Haney. “It’s not safe for you to stay here.”

“I don’t plan on staying. But I’m a big boy and can handle myself. Maybe I’ll follow in Hemingway’s footsteps. Head down to Cuba. Do some fishing.” And a hell of a lot more drinking.

“That’d be a bad idea,” Staelin interjected.

“Why’s that?”

“Besides Cuba being a communist dictatorship and you being one of the most anticommunist people I’ve ever known?”

“Yeah, besides that.”

Staelin glanced at Haney as if seeking permission to answer the question. But before he could, Chase jumped back in. “There may be more than one assassin out there looking for you.”

Harvath turned to him. “What are you talking about?”

“We have a piece of information that the Norwegians don’t.”





CHAPTER 6


NORWEGIAN INTELLIGENCE SERVICE

OSLO, NORWAY

S?lvi Kolstad was tall, very good-looking, and had made a lot of bad choices. She was lucky to have been allowed back.

Standing up, she stretched her long legs. It felt good to get the blood flowing. She was exhausted and her mind worked better with movement.

Outside, beyond the thick forest of pine and the clear, cold lake, she could feel the thrum of the city. It was always worse late at night. The pull of the different neighborhoods. Places like Grünerl?kka, where she used to go for MDMA, or Brugata for cocaine, as well as Hausmanns gate for heroin, and Gr?nland for meth.

She could feel them all calling out to her as sure as she could feel her lungs inflating as she breathed, and the beating of her heart in her chest. It was a struggle. Day by day. Hour by hour.

The treatment counselors had told her that if she didn’t give in—if she remained strong—that over time the powerful longing would fade. Fade, but never completely disappear.

The closest thing she had found to the euphoria of illicit drugs was intense, lung-searing, muscle-burning exercise. The flood of endorphins released into her system transported her, albeit all too temporarily, to another plane of existence. The only thing better was a mind-blowing orgasm. But for those, she needed a partner—and ever since her divorce, which had sent her spiraling, she couldn’t be bothered to put in the effort. Intimacy wasn’t very high on her checklist anymore. Walking over to the window, she studied her reflection in the glass.

When her blond hair was pulled up in a high ponytail you could see the beginning of a tattoo. It was a line from Sartre in delicate, thin blue script that ran from the base of her neck down to the midpoint of her spine. Il est impossible d’apprécier la lumière sans conna?tre les ténèbres. It is impossible to appreciate the light without knowing the darkness.

Above her right hip was a scar from a bullet that had gone straight through. A couple of millimeters lower and it would have shattered her hip, sabotaging the mission she had been on at the time. While she had bled profusely, she had managed to accomplish her assignment. The scar in front and in back were reminders—both of the dangers she faced in her job and that she should never take anything for granted.

Her striking appearance was rounded out by large blue eyes, full lips, and impossibly high cheekbones. For all of the damage she had done to herself, she hadn’t lost her looks. In fact, some were saying that she looked better now than before her leave of absence from NIS.

It was amazing, she supposed, what being high as fuck and losing your appetite could do for your appearance. There was only one obvious place the drugs had taken their toll—her teeth. Carl Pedersen, though, had fixed them. Or more appropriately, he had paid to get them fixed. A private dentist in Bergen—someplace far away from anyone she may have known or bumped into from Oslo. That was also where he had gotten her into a private drug treatment program. Quite simply, he had rescued her.