Harlan Coben Audiobook Novels & Stories

He wasn't holding a cane; he was holding a simple, leather-bound ledger. "Mr. Vane," the man said, his voice a melodic baritone that carried across the Flats without effort. "My name is Harlan. I am the Lead Auditor for the Directorate’s Inner-Rim holdings. I believe we have some... outstanding accounts to settle." Leo stepped off the Coyote, his boots crunching on the obsidian. He didn't reach for his blade. He reached for the "Null-Link," feeling the emerald energy of the Spire humming in the distance, ready to strike if he gave the word.

I rubbed the marks automatically, blood rushing back into my fingers with sharp pins-and-needles. “On the floor,” Cole ordered. I slid off the bed onto my knees before my brain caught up. Carpet burned the tender skin. My hands hovered uncertainly at my sides. Harlan stepped behind me. Rough fingers tangled in my hair and yanked my head back so my throat arched. “Look at him when he talks to you.” Cole crouched until our eyes were level. Close enough that I could smell his aftershave—something clean and expensive that made Harlan’s stale-beer musk seem even thicker by comparison. He reached out and traced one fingertip along my lower lip, parting it slightly.

The hotel suite smells like stale coffee and fear. We’re on the twenty-third floor of some anonymous downtown tower, curtains drawn tight against the city lights. The PI man mr Harlan, mid-fifties, ex-cop with tired eyes and a voice like gravel has turned the dining table into a war room: laptops open, files spread, a digital recorder spinning slowly in the center. Alex paces behind the sofa like a caged animal. I sit on the edge of an armchair, knees pressed together, hands twisted in my lap. And across from me, on the edge of the bed, is my mother.

His god-like face is etched in a frown so tight, it sends chills down my spine. And he’s standing so close that even through the biting cold, his heat bleeds into me, and for a moment, I forget how to breathe. Good Lord, how much did he hear? I remain frozen as Harlan places the phone to his ear and growls; “This conversation is over.” And as quickly as my speechlessness came, it flies out the window when he ends the call and pockets my phone. “What the hell do you think you’re doing? That’s mine. Give it back.”

“What?” She rolled her eyes. “You get this glowy, guilty look every time you mention him. Spill already. I’m dying here.” I poured coffee with shaking hands. Black. No sugar. Same as always. “Nothing to spill. He’s… complicated.” “Complicated dick is the best dick,” she said sagely, then shoved a spoonful of cereal in her mouth. I almost choked on my first sip. Before I could answer, footsteps on the stairs. Harlan appeared.

The glittering lights of Boston speckle the passenger side's window as Harlan drives me downtown to the hotel that is hosting the event. Harlan is perfectly pleasant during the ride, a step up from his usual brooding self. The man even smiles while I talk, filling me in on his relief of getting the publication sent out, how excited he is to see his colleagues tonight, and how he is happy to finally be sleeping again. It is a relief seeing him like this; any reminders that the man is an actual human are much appreciated.

We hadn’t spoken since he left my room, but I could still feel the ghost of his hand on my thigh and the raw promise in his voice. Coach Harlan sat up front, reviewing notes on his tablet. He’d been unusually quiet all morning—too quiet. I’d always thought he was one of the fair ones, the coach who valued talent over everything. Now I wondered. As the bus pulled into the arena lot, Caleb shifted seats and dropped into the one beside me. The rest of the team was already filing off, giving us a rare moment of near-privacy. “You need to know the full story before you step on the ice,” he said under his breath. His knee brushed mine, a deliberate point of contact that steadied me more than it sh

"Speaking of, any Forbes scoops? Like, 'Dante Ashford: Empire Builder by Day, Pasta Enthusiast by Night'?" I laughed, the sound genuine, easing the last remnants of tension. "Pasta enthusiast? Only if you're cooking. And Forbes? They're digging for the usual—growth strategies, vision stuff. Boring compared to your ethics debates. Tell me more about Harlan's curveball. What'd you counter with?"

Maris sat at her desk in the safe house, listening to the audio file for the fifth time. “…he’s not the one in control. You want to cut off the snake’s head? You have to go higher.” The voice was barely audible. Static-heavy. But it was Harlan. Or rather, Harlan talking to someone else. Someone he feared. “Play it again,” she said. Bastien sighed. “You already heard it—” “Play it again,” she snapped, more forcefully this time. He hit the space bar. As the tape played, she watched the wall behind her computer, where photos and documents were tacked in a wild pattern—Cassian, Anaïs, Harlan, a few unfamiliar faces that kept showing up in surveillance, and a circled name in red: Cerberus.

I was trying to protect him and keep him out of whatever this was turning into but from where he stood, It probably just looked like I didn’t trust him anymore. My gaze drifted briefly to the phone on the table as Kael’s voice echoed faintly in my head. “Has Harlan come to see you again?” My brows pulled slightly. Why would he ask that? Was he starting to suspect Harlan? I huffed quietly under my breath. “That’s a wack suspicion,” I muttered. Harlan was many things—stubborn, entitled, persistent but this? Organizing attacks, using trained wolves, sending people willing to die just to keep quiet? That didn’t just fit.