Near Dark (Scot Harvath #20) - Brad Thor Page 0,63

need is for you to make sure the rest of my gear is here when I come out.”

“Yes, sir. It will be,” said the airman. “I promise.”

Williams walked Harvath up to the door and swiped his keycard through the electronic reader. “Down the hall, first door on your left. Take all the time you need. I’ll be here.”

Harvath thanked him and headed inside.

The space looked like it might have been an officer’s club at one point. The walls were paneled with wood and there were plenty of framed photos and pieces of art depicting military aviation.

The furnishings, while tasteful, were several decades old. It had the same industrial cleaning supplies smell that most U.S. installations had—probably because Uncle Sam bought those supplies in bulk.

Walking down the hall, Harvath found the door he had been told to look for and stepped inside.

The lounge was about the size of a small studio apartment. There was a sitting area complete with TV, a desk, a snack station cum kitchenette with a minifridge, coffeemaker, and a microwave, as well as a small bathroom with a shower.

In addition to sourcing gear for Harvath, McGee had been kind enough to have someone pack him a go-bag with clothes and toiletries. It was all comfortable, middle-of-the-road casual stuff. Nothing that would make him stick out and get noticed.

He laid out a few things, turned on the hot water in the shower, and crossed over to the kitchenette. Opening the fridge, he checked out the contents.

It had been stocked just like a hotel minibar. There were waters, soft drinks, juices, beer, and mini-bottles of hard liquor. The Maker’s Mark bourbon, with its signature cap dipped in red wax, immediately caught his attention.

“Just one,” he said to himself as he pulled it out, kneed the fridge shut, and searched the cabinets for a glass.

The glasses were all the way to the right, along with the coffee cups. Taking one down, he opened the bourbon, and poured.

He knew it was a bad idea the same way he knew it wouldn’t be “just one.” It’d be one now, then another when he got out of the shower. He’d try to cover up the odor of alcohol by brushing his teeth, gargling with mouthwash, and taking a strong, black coffee to go.

No sooner had he raised the glass to his lips than his conscience got the better of him. He couldn’t let his demons hold sway over him like that. He was working, for God’s sake. The President had personally signed off on this operation and had set all the wheels in motion. The last thing he needed—no matter how good he thought he might be at hiding it—was for Proctor to report back to the Secretary of Defense that he had shown up with booze on his breath.

Setting the glass down, he fired up the coffeemaker, grabbed a mug, and inserted a pod.

As the machine brewed his coffee, he carried his glass of bourbon into the bathroom and dumped it down the sink. There’d be plenty of time for drinking later.

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