Page 50 of Edge of Honor

“You have some in the house?”

“Lots of it.”

“A man after my own heart,” said Harvath. “What’s your best bottle?”

“That’s easy. I’ve got a Pappy Van Winkle. Fifteen years old.”

“Go pour yourself a couple fingers of that. It’ll help take the edge off.”

“You don’t mind that I have a drink?” Rogers asked.

“As long as it’s just one, you’ll be fine.”

“How about you?” the Ambassador offered. “Would you like one?”

Harvath smiled, but shook his head. “Unfortunately, I’m on duty. I will, though, absolutely take a rain check.”

“You can count on it. It’s the least I can do.”

Harvath watched as Rogers walked away toward the bar in his stylish den. He then returned to working on his helmet.

Once the goggles were attached, he went over his short-barreled Rattler for the umpteenth time and then did the same with his Glock. After that, he shrugged into his plate carrier and poured two big mugs of coffee.

Walking into the living room, he handed one of them to McGee and asked, “Everything all right?”

“Look at you,” the ex–CIA director said. “Should I have brought a vest?”

“I told you you could if you wanted to.”

“To be honest, I have so many boxes in my garage, I wouldn’t even know where to start looking for it.”

“You cleared out pretty fast,” said Harvath as he took a seat across from him. “I thought you’d stick around D.C. for a while, maybe do a stint on a board of directors or dip your toe into the consulting world.”

McGee smiled. “I don’t think the corporate world would be a good fit for me.”

“What about a think tank? Or academia? With your history, some university could offer a Robert McGee master’s degree in black ops, covert ass-kicking, and shooting bad guys in the face. Those precious little college students would be lined up around the block and camping out for something like that.”

“More like taking over the building and trying to firebomb my office,” the man said with a laugh. “I think I’m just going to enjoy retirement. What about you? You’ve been out about as long as I have. Do you miss anything?”

“Maybe a little,” Harvath replied, “but to be honest, I haven’t had the time. For the last six months, it feels like as soon as I was unpacked, it was time to pack again and Sølvi and I were on to the next spot.”

“Good for you. You deserve a little happiness. Especially after everything you went through.”

“Thank you,” Harvath said, taking a sip of his coffee.

“And by the way, you know that if I’d still been in charge, I never would have allowed what the Agency did to you.”

“I know.”

“What Andy Conroy did was flat-out inexcusable. Deputy director of operations or not, that was beyond bad.”

Harvath appreciated the man’s support and told him so, but because he wasn’t in the mood to rehash the whole thing, he changed the subject back to McGee and his retirement. “That’s it then? You’ve moved to some little beach cottage where you paint all day? At least tell me you’re working on your memoirs. That’s something I could get behind. I’d pay good money to read a Bob McGee book. Just based on the body count alone, you’d have to publish it in multiple volumes.”

McGee smiled once again. “Nope. I’m not banging away on a typewriter. I do paint. I run on the beach. Do a little fishing. Some crabbing from time to time. That’s it. And I like it that way.”

“It sounds lonely.”

“It’squiet. There’s a difference. After decades of living at eleven, it’s nice to dial things down to a three. It’s relaxing. At least it was until today.”