Near Dark (Scot Harvath #19)(23)
Instead of answering right away, he circled back to the information Gary uncovered. “What did you find regarding Key West?”
Lawlor removed a folder and slid it across the table. Harvath opened it and, sipping his coffee, scanned the pages as Lawlor narrated.
“The chief in Key West is a graduate of the FBI’s National Executive Institute, and we happen to know each other. His officers showed up moments after you left. The two heavies you laid out both had outstanding warrants, so after they got some much needed medical attention, they were taken into custody. After our initial conversation, the chief made a call to the Florida Attorney General. In exchange for dropping some low-level beefs, they were able to get the suspects to cooperate.
“The bottom line is that someone they don’t know paid them five hundred bucks to get you outside and beat the crap out of you.”
“After which, I was supposed to get a bullet in the head,” said Harvath.
“They claim to have no knowledge of anything else.”
“But they knew enough to remove their jewelry and buy new long-sleeve shirts and boots in order to help avoid identification.”
Lawlor nodded. “From what the Key West chief says, it wasn’t their first rodeo.”
“How far did the chief get read in?”
“Not far at all. The two goons were still unconscious when the cops got there, so they didn’t see anything. No one but us knows about the would-be shooter.”
It was good intel. Lawlor had come through for them and he had done it quickly.
Harvath turned to Nicholas. “Have we identified the corpse?”
“Not yet,” the little man answered, “but his weapon was pretty interesting. Glock 43. Single stack magazine. Nine-millimeter. It was modified with a switch that stops the slide from cycling. Not only does it make it quieter, but it prevents the brass from being ejected. The suppressor appears to have been 3D-printed. Perfect for a professional, one-and-done assignment.”
“What’d you do with the body?”
“It’s someplace safe, on ice for the time being.”
“What’s next?”
“Next,” said Lawlor, as he saw the server approaching, “is you eat breakfast. Then, assuming you’re in, we’re going to go over everything you know about Pedersen and develop a plan.”
There was no question in Harvath’s mind. Based on their intel, he was being hunted. He wasn’t wired to sit and wait this sort of thing out; to play defense instead of offense. “I’m in,” he stated. “All in.”
It sounded nice to think that he was doing it for his teammates, or for The Carlton Group, or the Old Man’s legacy, or even for the country. But deep down, down near that flickering flame of his humanity, he knew his reasons weren’t nearly so noble. It was because the rage was still there.
And as the realization swept over him, he was reminded of a quote about the dangers of hunting monsters. If you weren’t careful, Nietzsche had warned, you became what you hunted. “When you gaze long into the abyss,” he had said, “the abyss gazes also into you.”
But no sooner had that quote entered his mind than it was expelled by another, one sent from deep down near his anger: “Fate whispers to the warrior, ‘You cannot withstand the storm.’ The warrior whispers back, ‘I am the storm.’?”
As the server set down his meal, Harvath forced himself to concentrate and begin forging a mental path toward the person who had betrayed Carl Pedersen.
CHAPTER 11
GRANVILLE
NORMANDY REGION, FRANCE
Long before Paul Aubertin had killed his first police officer, he had been a lover of all things French.
Born Michael Collins McElhone to a Catholic family in West Belfast, he was a teenager during the ongoing, partisan “Troubles” of Northern Ireland in the 1990s. France, with its “Liberté, égalité, fraternité,” couldn’t have seemed farther away.
With a passion for its history, its language, its culture, its politics, and its gastronomy, the young Francophile had hoped to study in Montpellier, Lyon, or maybe even Paris one day.
It was a lofty goal for a working-class boy whose parents were constantly late on their rent and struggled to put food on the table.
Nevertheless, he had clung tightly to his dream. Until, one day, his entire life had been shattered.
His father, a deliveryman who supported a unified and independent Ireland, had been beaten to death by members of a paramilitary group that preyed on civilians called the Loyalist Volunteer Force, or LVF for short.
Despite their absolutely heinous actions, they had been able to evade anything resembling accountability or prosecution. So emboldened were they by their apparent untouchable status, that they even developed their own Hitler Youth–style offshoot called the Young Loyalist Volunteers.
He was sixteen and had thought about joining, working his way up the organization from inside, and killing all those responsible. He had seen similar things done in the movies and for a moment felt it was a solid plan.
But then, he had applied a little more brainpower. The LVF was based only a half hour away in Portadown. They would have access to any number of people in Belfast who could check his background. There was no way he could pretend to be a motivated Protestant, looking to join the fight. And the minute they realized he was the son of a man the LVF had murdered, it would be all over for him. He couldn’t do that to his mother. He would have to be more covert.