with an enormous uppercut, snapping the attacker’s head straight back, knocking him unconscious. The fight was over.
Or so Harvath had thought.
One of the number-one rules in a street brawl was to always watch for other assailants. Just because you couldn’t see them, didn’t mean they weren’t out there—friends of the combatants, eagerly waiting to jump in, or even sadistic onlookers hoping to land a cheap shot when your guard was down.
Usually, Harvath had good situational awareness. He knew to look for these kinds of things. This time, though, he had failed to.
Maybe it was the bourbon. Maybe it was the sweat stinging his eyes. Maybe he had simply lost a step.
Whatever it was, when a figure stepped out of the shadows and pointed a suppressed pistol at him, he knew he was going to die.
CHAPTER 4
Harvath had no idea who had come to kill him. He had made so many enemies over his career that it could have been anyone, or any organization, or just a random asshole.
He had cheated death so often, though, that it was hard to believe it had finally caught up with him. He only hoped that it would be quick. And, that if there was a heaven on the other side, that Lara would be waiting for him there. Straightening up, he turned to fully face his killer.
The man holding the weapon stood about five-foot-ten, so they were essentially eye-to-eye. He was slim but fit, with brown hair, brown eyes, and pale skin. His features were nondescript and of indeterminate origin. In a word, he was utterly forgettable—a quintessential “gray man” if Harvath had ever seen one.
He radiated an icy calm. His breathing was steady and his weapon didn’t tremble. Clearly, he was a professional and had done this kind of work before.
There was nothing in his eyes, nothing in his face that signaled a motivation—no rage, no vengeance, no passion. He didn’t look like someone Harvath had directly wronged. No, this was a transaction—cold, detached, and impersonal.
While Harvath wanted to know who had sent the man and why, he refrained from asking. He wasn’t going to give the killer, or more importantly his employer, the satisfaction.
Besides, there was no need to drag the whole thing out. If this was how his life was going to end, he planned to exhibit some modicum of stoicism. Might as well just do it and get it over with.
Stopping just at the edge of the shadows, the killer maintained his distance, bolstering Harvath’s assessment that he was a professional. He didn’t need to come any nearer. He had watched Harvath fight and would know that getting too close could end badly. Better to stay where he was, take the shot, and disappear back into the darkness before anyone knew what had happened.
What’s more, if he was a pro, he would have done his homework. He would have known Harvath was too smart and too well trained to have risked sneaking up on him.
Sending two knuckle-draggers to lure him outside was smart. They’d probably been paid to beat him within an inch of his life and take off before the cops got there. What the hooligans wouldn’t have known, was that once they had fled, the hitter’s plan was to materialize and finish the job. Smarter still, the cops wouldn’t have been looking for a lone, mysterious gunman. Based on the accounts of everyone in the bar, the knuckle-draggers would have been the prime suspects. The hitter would have walked away clean. Harvath had completely thrown a wrench in that plan.
No doubt, the two bruisers were expendable. Whether they regained consciousness and escaped before the police arrived was their problem. The killer had only one priority at this moment—taking out his target.
In the distance, the klaxons of emergency vehicles could already be heard. The assassin was running out of time. It was now or never.
As if reading his mind, the man took a deep breath, looked down the slide of his pistol, and adjusted his sight picture.
Harvath wasn’t afraid to die. He didn’t look away or close his eyes. In fact, he kept them locked right on his killer.
The assassin began to apply pressure to the trigger and Harvath knew the moment had arrived. He braced for the worst. And then it came.
There was a muffled pop followed by silence. That was it. He felt no pain. In fact, he was still very much alive.
How was that possible? Had the assassin missed? Had his weapon malfunctioned? A fraction of