Page 22 of Edge of Honor

He was indulging himself, scrolling through the super high-end cars, the McLarens, Lamborghinis, and Aston Martins—all vehicles that now, thanks to his windfall, were within his reach to own—when he received a text from Nicholas.

He and Sølvi had just been over at Nicholas’s place to see Nina and the new baby. It was amazing how much she had grown since the christening.

Opening the text, he read Nicholas’s message.

“You’re never going to believe this,” he said, looking at Sølvi. “I’ve got to go back to the office.”

“Did you forget something? Can’t they mail it to you?”

He shook his head. “No, it’s not that. Brendan Rogers is there.”

“The former National Security Advisor?”

“Correct.”

“Wasn’t he part of the team that helped get you out of Russia?” she asked.

“Yeah, he was the Hostage Czar at the time.”

“What’s he doing at the Carlton Group? Is something going on?”

Scot shrugged. “I don’t know. Nicholas just asked if I could come in. He says it’s important.”

“Then you should go. I would offer to give you a ride, but.”

“I’ll tell you what,” he replied. “How about you come pick me up in your hot-shit American muscle car in a few hours and we’ll grab a late lunch together?”

“Burgers?”

“Whatever you want. As long as it’s not lutefisk, I’m in.”

Scot hated the traditional dried cod cured in lye that the Norwegiansserved at Christmas. He’d had one bite with Sølvi’s family back in December and had thought he was going to hurl. He couldn’t even get their dog to eat it under the table. It was that bad.

He decided it must have been some kind of torturous communal penance dreamed up by the Vikings to appease their angry and vengeful gods.

That night, before going to bed, he’d made it clear to Sølvi that if she ever tried to make him eat it again, he’d have her dragged to The Hague and brought up on war crimes.

“Stillsoangry about the lutefisk,” she said with an impish grin. “My brothers warned me that you were weak.”

“If your brothers had to eat half of the terrible stuff I’ve eaten over my career, they’d be curled up in a corner crying and sucking their thumbs.”

The image of her two very large brothers crying over bad goat, fried scorpions, or whatever other foul things Scot had been forced to ingest in the field made her laugh.

“Okay, I promise. No lutefisk. For now.”

“Notever,” Harvath reinforced, giving her a kiss. He needed to get back up to the house and get changed. Board shorts and a Parliament-Funkadelic T-shirt weren’t exactly office attire—though he was tempted to keep his flip-flops on, just as an f-you to the system.

Twenty minutes later, he came downstairs to the kitchen in a light gray houndstooth suit that had been hanging at the back of his closet for over a year. Underneath the jacket he wore a crisp, white, oxford slim-fit shirt, but no tie. Now that he was retired, he didn’t intend to ever wear a tie again. Caving on footwear, he opted for a pair of black, cap-toe shoes. In his outer breast pocket, a half-inch block of a perfectly folded linen handkerchief was visible. On his left wrist was the Seaholm Offshore dive watch Sølvi had given him as a wedding gift to replace the one he’d been forced to part with in Afghanistan.

“Doesn’t that suit fit just right in all the right places,” she said approvingly, as he gave her a slow 360 to take it all in. “I think I like corporate Scot. Alot.”

Harvath laughed. “I’ll let my tailor know you give him five stars.”

“And then some. I could get used to seeing you like this.”

“Please do us both a favor and don’t. This is the last thing I want to be putting on every day.”

“I’m just saying, this is a really good look on you.”

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