Near Dark (Scot Harvath #20) - Brad Thor Page 0,22

Palm Island until he had been kicked off—had been good. No one knew him. No one asked him difficult, painful questions. In a way, it had felt as if he had outrun his old life. Then, just like that, it had caught up to him again. And now here he was.

Nicholas, who had been born in Soviet Georgia, abandoned by his parents, and raised in a brothel, was no stranger to pain either. He had no desire to inflict any, unnecessarily, on Harvath.

The Carlton Group had become the little man’s home. The losses of Reed Carlton and Lydia Ryan had been devastating for him too. He had also cared very deeply for Lara and his heart broke for his friend at losing his new wife. With that said, they had a serious problem to deal with—and Harvath needed to face it head-on.

Entering the Holly cabin, Nicholas led his friend out onto the screened-in porch. There, he had an ice bucket, bottles of water, a bottle of Blanton’s Gold bourbon, and a box of Cohiba cigars.

“You got the best berth at Camp David,” Harvath remarked as they sat down.

“I wanted Aspen,” Nicholas joked, “but President Porter said no.”

A brief smiled flashed across Harvath’s face. He wouldn’t have put it past Nicholas to have asked for the President’s personal cabin. He was a man of incredibly fine taste and boundless appetites—particularly when it came to food, wine, and, until recently, extremely expensive women. He had been tamed—or so it had appeared—and Harvath felt terrible for not having asked about his girlfriend, Nina.

They had been on again, off again so many times, it was hard to know what the exact status of their relationship was. Before everything had gone upside down at The Carlton Group, Lydia had told Harvath that, in her opinion, the volatility in the relationship was what drew Nicholas and Nina so passionately to each other.

“How’s Nina?” Harvath asked.

Nicholas paused for a moment before responding, searching for the right words. Finally, he replied, “She’s good.”

There was something about the little man’s expression, something that caught Harvath’s attention. “Just good?”

“We don’t know yet.”

“What does that mean?”

Nicholas picked up the box of Cohibas and offered him one. “It looks like I’m going to be a father.”

Harvath was dumbstruck and, for a moment, didn’t know how to respond. All Harvath had ever wanted was a family of his own. He had almost, finally, had one with Lara and her son, but it had been snatched from him.

Now, here was Nicholas, on the verge of being given that priceless gift, yet the downbeat tone with which he delivered the news suggested he was anything but happy.

“What’s wrong with you?” asked Harvath. “That’s wonderful news. You make it sound like you’ve just been diagnosed with a terminal illness.”

“What’s wrong with me? All you have to do is look,” he said, waving his hand over his body, emphasizing how small he was. “What if the baby is born like this?”

“What if it isn’t?”

“What if it is?”

Harvath understood his friend’s concern, but the chances that Nicholas and Nina’s baby would also suffer from primordial dwarfism were so small they were almost nonexistent. The condition required a mutant gene from both parents and therefore was incredibly rare.

“Everything is going to be okay,” said Harvath as he chose a cigar. “When is she due?”

“In seven months. Give or take.”

“Your baby is going to be beautiful. Trust me. You’re going to be a great father.”

Nicholas began laughing so hard, he nearly dropped the box. “From Marquis de Sade to Mother Goose. Sounds like a seamless transition.”

Again, Harvath smiled. He had missed him. “I didn’t say it would be easy. I said you’d be great at it. And you will be. Congratulations.”

“Thank you for the vote of confidence,” he replied. Selecting a cigar for himself, he then placed the box on the small table between them and offered Harvath the cutter.

“You first,” his friend said.

After Nicholas had snipped his cigar, he tossed the cutter over to Harvath followed by the lighter.

The tips of their cigars glowed a bright orange as the men puffed away in the semidarkness of the porch and blew heavy clouds of smoke into the air.

Nodding toward the bourbon, the bottled water, and the ice, Nicholas intimated that it was time for Harvath to pour.

Once the drinks were made, they quietly clinked glasses and then settled back in their chairs. There was no toast. Neither wanted to break the silence that had settled over them. For the moment,