Near Dark (Scot Harvath #19)(53)

Retrieving his coffee, he carried it back to the bathroom and took off his clothes. Climbing into the shower, he let the hot water pound against his body. He let himself be in the present, appreciating the warmth. There was no telling how long it would be until he had another relaxing, unguarded moment.

Assignments had a way of going sideways in the blink of an eye, the tension spiking off the charts. He had learned a long time ago to appreciate the little things and take nothing for granted.

That sense of thankfulness seemed to always be heightened right before he underwent an operation. It was as if time slowed down and, as it did, his senses grew more acute. He could experience things in greater detail. Tastes, sounds, sensations—all of them were more richly available as they passed by in slow motion.

It was the exact opposite of what happened in the field, where everything sped up, and information—sights, sounds, movement—had to be rapidly processed and decisions made in a fraction of a second.

It was almost as if this was his mind’s way of taking deep breaths and limbering up—like a sprinter, preparing to climb into the blocks. And as with a sprinter, it was always a gun that set everything off.

Throwing the temperature selector all the way to cold, he stood under the spray for as long as he could. Sometimes referred to as a “Scottish Shower,” the shock of the freezing water sent a jolt through his body. It was like consuming a couple of espressos back-to-back. He felt energized, his mind sharpened.

Stepping out of the shower, he toweled off and shaved at the sink. When he was done, he polished off his coffee, brushed his teeth, and slowly got dressed.

Despite the jolt from the caffeine, as well as the cold water, he was dragging his feet. The meeting he faced wasn’t going to be easy.

He had no clue whether Proctor and Jasinski had heard about Carl’s death. He suspected, though, that they hadn’t. The Norwegians had been keeping it quiet while they continued their investigation.

That meant he was going to have to read them in on all of it, including Carl’s torture and the killer’s search for information via all his devices and the NIS database. But as bad as that was going to be, it wasn’t even the worst of it.

He had not seen Proctor, nor Jasinski since his torturous personal nightmare had begun. His wife, along with his colleague and mentor had all been murdered. The Russians had then dragged him back to Russia to interrogate and kill him.

They would begin by sharing their condolences, because that was what good, decent people did. Then, they would do the next thing good, decent people did—they would ask him how he was doing.

That was still the part he found the most painful. Not because it was offensive or overly intrusive, but because it asked him to look inward, to examine how he was feeling. He didn’t know if he’d ever be able to do it.

Picking up his pace, he packed his bag and ignored the impulse to make a second coffee to go. He needed to get out of the building. He was starting to think twice about having poured that bourbon down the sink. He knew if he got anywhere near the coffeemaker, he was going to open the minifridge. And if that happened, he wouldn’t be having just one.

He needed to keep himself together—compartmentalize. That used to be something he was good at. Really good.

He could put everything in an iron box, lock it shut, and hide it away in the furthest corners of his mind. It was he how he survived. It was what made him such an exceptional hunter of men—an apex predator. If he were to lose that ability, none of his other skills would matter. Like a sick animal on the edge of the herd, he’d be as good as dead. The lions would come for him first. He refused to let that happen.

Grabbing his bag, he pushed down his pain and headed out to meet Williams.





CHAPTER 24


Williams walked Harvath into the Base Commander’s office, showed him where the secure conference room was, and asked him if he needed anything. Harvath thanked him and said that he was fine.

In addition to pens and pads of paper placed neatly upon leather blotters in front of each chair around the table, there were bottles of water, a large carafe of coffee, cream, sugar, mugs, and a tray of fresh fruit, cheese, and pastries. Colonel Mitchell was a thorough professional.

He was also a smart operator. It wasn’t every day the Supreme Allied Commander of Europe showed up and needed to borrow your conference room for a private meeting put together by the Secretary of Defense. This was his opportunity to shine—and that was exactly what he was trying to do.

“All good?” Mitchell asked, sticking his head in.

Harvath flashed him the thumbs-up. “This is perfect. Thank you.”

“I have my AV and IT people standing by if you need any help. The Wi-Fi password for the day is on the whiteboard.”

“This is going to be pretty low-tech. In fact, it’s going to be no tech.”

The Base Commander shook his head. “A military meeting without a PowerPoint? I think that’s a sign of the Apocalypse.”

Harvath smiled. “PowerPoints are nothing more than silent screams for promotion.”

“You’re not interested in being promoted?”

“I’m unpromotable. Unless there’s an opening on a pirate ship somewhere, I’m going to have this job for as long I can hold on to it.”

Mitchell smiled back. “Bottle of rum. A dead man’s chest. If there’s anything you need, just let me or Williams know. We’ll get you squared away.”