Near Dark (Scot Harvath #19)(64)

Every one of the women he had dated had been smarter than him—and he was pretty sharp. As much as they had loved the United States, they all knew better than to trade their careers for some cocky young SEAL, off to God only knew where for God only knew how long.

Not that Harvath had ever admitted to being a SEAL. That wasn’t something you were supposed to do in casual relationships. Had he hinted at it, especially when he was trying to bed a gorgeous Scandinavian flight attendant? Though he would have denied it in a court of law, it “may” have happened. As the old saying in the Special Operations community went—if you weren’t cheating, you weren’t really trying. Tier One guys were not selected because they were experts at following rules. They were selected because they did whatever it took to get the job done.

“Property line,” Harvath said as he neared the edge of the woods. “Fifty meters out.”

“Good copy,” Nicholas replied. “Norseman, fifty meters out.”

Harvath checked the drone feed once more. Everything looked good. There was no one near the house—no neighbors trimming rosebushes or walking dogs, no landscapers mowing lawns, no children kicking soccer balls or riding bikes. He was good to go.

He took a moment, unslung his pack, and waited. Crouching down behind the last copse of trees, he waited.

It wasn’t that he didn’t trust what the drone was showing, he simply trusted his instincts and his own eyes more.

Pulling his earbud out, he closed his eyes and listened. The easiest thing to hear was the wind blowing through the trees around him. Beyond that, he could make out the tumble of water from the fountain in Landsbergis’s expansive backyard. From somewhere else came the high-pitched notes of a metal wind chime.

They all came together to form the soundtrack of an affluent suburb. The only threat here appeared to be Harvath. And that was exactly how he preferred it.

“Breaking property line,” he stated, having reinserted his earbud. “Norseman inbound.”





CHAPTER 29


Harvath quickly made his way across the manicured lawn and came to a stop with his back against the side of the house.

Studying the door, he noticed a metal strip, lined with buttons, about three inches high and an inch wide embedded in the frame.

“In addition to standard locks, I also see a keypad here. Do we have an entry code?” he asked.

“Negative. There doesn’t appear to be one in the file.”

That wasn’t unusual. The alarm company’s job was to monitor for break-ins and dispatch a response if one took place. They didn’t need a set of keys or an entry code to carry out that job.

“Roger that,” said Harvath, as he fished the lockpick gun out of his pack. “What about the alarm panel location and passcode?”

“From where you are making entry, go left into the dining room and back through the kitchen. There’s a panel in the hallway behind the refrigerator.”

“Good copy. Panel in the hallway behind the refrigerator.”

“Passcode one, one, seven, six, two, zero. Repeat one, one, seven, six, two, zero.”

“Roger that. Confirming passcode one, one, seven, six, two, zero.”

“Affirmative,” said Nicholas.

“Zero comms,” Harvath directed, requesting radio silence. “Unless and until you see movement.”

“Roger that. Zero comms.”

Sliding over to the door, Harvath gave it a quick once-over before inserting the lockpick gun and opening it.

The moment he entered the house, the alarm started beeping.

Per Nicholas’s instructions, he went left into the dining room, traversed the kitchen, and emerged into the hallway. There on the wall, in a mudroom-style area, was the alarm panel.

Harvath punched in the code: one, one, seven, six, two, zero. The beeping stopped and the alarm panel fell silent. He was in.

There were no children’s or women’s items in the mudroom. The only clothing he saw appeared to belong to Landsbergis, including the Barbour jacket he’d been wearing the one and only time he and Harvath had met.

Returning to the kitchen, Harvath quickly searched for any signs someone might have recently been in the house. The espresso machine, oven, and stovetop were all cold. There was nothing unusual in the garbage or the microwave either. All good signs.

Making his way back to the hallway, he wanted to check the rest of the rooms before resetting the alarm and picking a place to await the intelligence officer.

But no sooner had he turned the corner and stepped into the hall than he discovered a pistol pointed at his face.

He recognized the weapon immediately. With its two-piece suppressor, it wasn’t one you saw every day—at least not outside Russia. The would-be shooter, though, was a complete stranger to him.

“Drop the backpack,” the figure said. “Slowly.”

Harvath did as the woman instructed. Had Landsbergis sent her to intercept him? She spoke English with a slight accent, but it wasn’t Lithuanian.

“Hands up.”

Again, he did as she ordered.

“If you lower your hands, even a millimeter, I’ll shoot you. Is that clear?”

“Crystal,” said Harvath, beginning to zero in on the accent. She was tall, blond, and even with her hair pulled back and barely any makeup on, she was attractive. He didn’t see a ring. “Who are you?” he asked, buying time. “The girlfriend?”