Near Dark: A Thriller by Brad Thor

jewelry and buy new long-sleeve shirts and boots in order to help avoid identification.”
    Lawlor nodded. “From what the Key West chief says, it wasn’t their first rodeo.”
    “How far did the chief get read in?”
    “Not far at all. The two goons were still unconscious whenthe cops got there, so they didn’t see anything. No one but us knows about the would-be shooter.”
    It was good intel. Lawlor had come through for them and he had done it quickly.
    Harvath turned to Nicholas. “Have we identified the corpse?”
    “Not yet,” the little man answered, “but his weapon was pretty interesting. Glock 43. Single stack magazine. Nine-millimeter. It was modified with a switchthat stops the slide from cycling. Not only does it make it quieter, but it prevents the brass from being ejected. The suppressor appears to have been 3D-printed. Perfect for a professional, one-and-done assignment.”
    “What’d you do with the body?”
    “It’s someplace safe, on ice for the time being.”
    “What’s next?”
    “ Next ,” said Lawlor, as he saw the server approaching, “is you eat breakfast. Then,assuming you’re in, we’re going to go over everything you know about Pedersen and develop a plan.”
    There was no question in Harvath’s mind. Based on their intel, he was being hunted. He wasn’t wired to sit and wait this sort of thing out; to play defense instead of offense. “I’m in,” he stated. “ All in.”
    It sounded nice to think that he was doing it for his teammates, or for The Carlton Group,or the Old Man’s legacy, or even for the country. But deep down, down near that flickering flame of his humanity, he knew his reasons weren’t nearly so noble. It was because the rage was still there.
    And as the realization swept over him, he was reminded of a quote about the dangers of hunting monsters. If you weren’t careful, Nietzsche had warned, you became what you hunted. “When you gaze longinto the abyss,” he had said, “the abyss gazes also into you.”
    But no sooner had that quote entered his mind than it was expelled by another, one sent from deep down near his anger: “Fate whispers to the warrior, ‘ You cannot withstand the storm .’ The warrior whispers back, ‘ I am the storm .’ ”
    As the server set down his meal, Harvath forced himself to concentrate and begin forging a mental pathtoward the person who had betrayed Carl Pedersen.

CHAPTER 11
    G RANVILLE
    N ORMANDY R EGION , F RANCE
    L ong before Paul Aubertin had killed his first police officer, he had been a lover of all things French.
    Born Michael Collins McElhone to a Catholic family in West Belfast, he was a teenager during the ongoing, partisan “Troubles” of Northern Ireland in the 1990s. France, with its “Liberté, égalité, fraternité,” couldn’t have seemed farther away.

    With a passion for its history, its language, its culture, its politics, and its gastronomy, the young Francophile had hoped to study in Montpellier, Lyon, or maybe even Paris one day.
    It was a lofty goal for a working-class boy whose parents were constantly late on their rent and struggled to put food on the table.
    Nevertheless, he had clung tightly to his dream. Until, one day, his entirelife had been shattered.
    His father, a deliveryman who supported a unified and independent Ireland, had been beaten to death by members of a paramilitary group that preyed on civilians called the Loyalist Volunteer Force, or LVF for short.
    Despite their absolutely heinous actions, they had been able to evade anything resembling accountability or prosecution. So emboldened were they by theirapparent untouchable status, that they even developed their own Hitler Youth–style offshoot called the Young Loyalist Volunteers.
    He was sixteen and had thought about joining, working his way up the organization from inside, and killing all those responsible. He had seen similar things done in the movies and for a moment felt it was a solid plan.
    But then, he had