Near Dark (Scot Harvath #19)(6)

He wasn’t like the other customers. He seemed like a “somebody.” Somebody, who at one point in his life, had prospects; potential. She had a lot of questions. Where had he come from? What was he doing here? How long was he going to stay? Most of all, she wondered what he was like in bed.

When it came to her advances, though, the man was immune. Whoever had wounded him had done a bang-up job.

Still, she liked having him around. There was something comforting about his presence. The strong, silent type—he struck her as a guy who could handle himself.

Maybe he was an ex-cop, or possibly ex-military. It didn’t matter. All she knew was that having him in the bar made her feel safe.

Not that a lot of bad things went down in Key West. But, like every other resort town fueled by alcohol and an “anything goes” attitude, sometimes things got out of control.

It was at that moment that the door opened. And as it did, no one inside had any idea how out of control things were about to get.





CHAPTER 2


Harvath was a detail person and had developed a good feel for the bar’s rhythm as well as for its customer base. So, when the front door opened and two out-of-place men walked in, his Spidey sense immediately began tingling.

The two gorillas looked like a pair of bikers who had picked up the wrong bags at the airport. They wore stiff, new boots without a scuff on them. Their shirts were also new; the sun-blocking, SPF kind that sport fishermen wore and which could be found all over the island.

Despite the heat outside, they had their sleeves rolled down to their wrists and buttoned tight—as if they were trying to hide something. Probably tattoos, he thought.

Neither wore any jewelry, but as they passed his booth, he noticed they each had pierced ears. And from the white stripes on one of the men’s fingers, Harvath could tell that he spent a lot of time outside and normally wore several thick rings.

Beneath the other man’s shirt, he caught a flash of silver chain attached to a wallet. Somewhere, better hidden, they were each probably carrying a knife, and maybe even a firearm.

It wasn’t that he begrudged anyone their right to self-defense. He had spent a career carrying and using weapons. But these weren’t your garden-variety Florida rednecks down in Key West for a good time. The bearing of these men suggested something different—something dangerous.

Yet unless they were dumb enough to walk over and put a gun in his face, he didn’t care who they were or why they were here. In street parlance, he was all out of fucks to give.

That voice in the back of his head, though, kept asking questions. Why had the men removed their jewelry? Why were they keeping their arms covered? Why the new boots? What the hell were they up to?

Trying to ignore his gut, he took another sip of cheap bourbon, opened the newspaper, and attempted to mind his own business.

His instincts, though, weren’t done raising the alarm.

Throughout the animal kingdom, when Alphas crossed paths, there was always eye contact. Both of these guys were definitely Alphas and both had observed him, but neither had made eye contact. The omission was like a white-hot, phosphorous flare sailing across the animal portion of his brain.

They hadn’t made eye contact because they knew that doing so would trigger a response. It was the only possible explanation.

He had always been adept at reading people. It was like a sixth sense. The worse someone’s intent, the better he was at picking up on it. He could sum up a situation and get off the “X,” as it was known in his line of work, faster than just about anyone else.

Whatever the men were planning, it wasn’t good. He could feel it in every fiber of his being.

Seating themselves at the bar, the men each ordered a shot and a beer. Tossing back their whiskeys, they then clinked mugs, knocked back the beers, and ordered another round.

It didn’t take long for them to get loud. And as they did, they began to grate on Harvath’s nerves.

All he wanted was to drink in peace, but they were making it difficult. For some reason, when their second round arrived, they decided to start giving the bartender a hard time. He couldn’t believe this was happening all over again.

Adjusting his position in the booth, Harvath angled himself so he could keep a better eye on the situation.

As she set the drinks down, they tried to touch her. One of the men even attempted to push money into her jeans. From the other side of the bar, she swatted the guy’s hand away and gave him a warning.

Harvath wondered why the hell she didn’t just throw them out. This wasn’t a strip club. But it also—he reminded himself—wasn’t his bar and, therefore, wasn’t his problem. At least it wasn’t his problem until he got to the end of his drink and needed a refill.

Holding up his empty glass, he signaled that he was ready for another. To her credit, she noticed.

Grabbing the bottle of bourbon, she stepped out from behind the bar. But despite giving the two problem customers a wide berth, she couldn’t avoid a clash.

As she walked by, one of them leapt up, grabbed her around the waist and pulled her to him.

He had his thick arm around her so tightly that even if she had wanted to smash the bottle against his head, she wouldn’t have been able to.

“Get the fuck off of me,” she ordered, but it only seemed to delight the man and encourage him further. Burying his bearded face against her, he kissed her neck as his buddy howled his approval.