Page 5 of Shadow of Doubt

She loved her new job. Her career was taking off and her future was filled with nothing but possibility.

Harvath, on the other hand, couldn’t bear the thought of ever coming out of the field only to ride a desk. He had been handpicked by the Carlton Group’s founder to run the organization after his passing, but had repeatedly turned the position down.

It wasn’t just the corporate bullshit and office politics he couldn’t stand—it was the fact that hanging up his cleats would mean that he hadaged out. And as far as he was concerned, he wasn’t there yet. He could still do his job better than any of the younger operatives.

Did it require increasingly tougher workouts and a mix of performance-enhancing drugs in order to keep his edge? Sure, but in his world, there was no Marquess of Queensberry, no rulebook.

In fact, the Carlton Group had been created to level the playing field. It was a private intelligence agency—operating beyond the gaze of Congress—empowered to hunt down enemies of the United States who refused to respect the international order.

The idea was that if bad actors were going to choose to ignore the Geneva and Hague Conventions, then America needed a way to defend itself. Fighting with both your arms and legs tied behind your back wasn’t a winning strategy. That’s where Harvath came in.

The powers that be could let him off the chain, look in the other direction, and know that the job would get done.

It wasn’t a calling for a sadist or a maladjusted personality. You couldn’t have someone in the role who took pleasure in inflicting pain on others or who enjoyed breaking the rules simply for the sake of breaking them. The position required a person with a strong moral compass who only broke the rules when necessary. That was Harvath.

He lived by the SEAL maxims that the only easy day was yesterday and that when tasked with an assignment, success was the only option.

His personal motto was that there was no American dream without those willing to protect it.

More and more, however, he had begun to ask himself whathisAmerican dream looked like. Once he was ready to lay down his sword and remove his armor, what would life be like? What was there forhimto look forward to?

The obvious answer, as the plane pushed back from the gate and taxied out to the runway, was Sølvi. Over oysters, a fabulous bottle of champagne, and a terrific view of the Oslofjord, he had proposed and she had accepted.

Yes, things had moved fast. But having known excruciating heartbreak, neither of them wanted to risk letting something so good slip away.

Since her job required that she work at NIS headquarters in person,he had spent the summer with her, burning through all of his vacation and sick days. It wasn’t until the Carlton Group had threatened to fire him that he had gotten serious about returning to work himself. And no sooner had he made that decision than his operations tempo had been pushed into overdrive.

Assignment after assignment rained down. In less than two months, he had been to Tajikistan, Afghanistan, India, Romania, Poland, and Ukraine. During that time, he had been unable to see Sølvi. And therein lay the biggest problem in their relationship—the intense demands of their careers. Something had to give.

Right now, though, he didn’t want to think about it. All he wanted was to see her, to touch her, to quiet their busy lives long enough to reconnect and reassure each other that they were doing the right thing and that what they had was worth making any sacrifice for.

As the plane roared down the runway, Harvath felt the familiar feeling of the stress leaving his body. It was like this every time he finished an assignment. Lifting off instantly helped him relax.

Within minutes, his exhaustion overcame him and he fell into a dark, dreamless sleep. But it didn’t last.

About an hour later, somewhere over the Baltic Sea, he was jolted awake by the sound of screaming coming from the rear of the aircraft.

CHAPTER 3

Harvath leaned into the aisle to get a look at what was going on back in the economy section. Flight attendants were trying to get control of an unruly passenger.

The man, who was in the rear galley, was largely obscured from view. But when Harvath caught a flash of one of his beefy, heavily inked arms, that flash was enough to identify him. He had seen him downing drinks in the airport bar before the flight.

Standing about six foot eight and weighing upwards of 275 pounds, the guy was a monster. He was also extremely agitated. Maybe someone had made the mistake of cutting him off. Maybe they had run out of peanuts. Or maybe the man was having some sort of a mental breakdown. None of that, however, was Harvath’s problem.

At least it wasn’t until the not-so-gentle giant punched one of the female flight attendants in the face and sent her crashing to the floor in a spray of blood.

The passengers screamed again.

If there had been any security officers on board, it was now officially time for them to get involved. Harvath waited, but when no one did, he knew he was going to have to serve as the cavalry.

Unbuckling his seat belt, he scanned the space around him for a weapon—anything that might help even up the odds.

He grabbed an in-flight magazine, which could be rolled up into a baton, and began twisting it as he stepped into the aisle.

As he did, he saw the other flight attendants in the back wrestling with the monster as they called out for help. He didn’t relish what lay ahead.

Knowing that this could be the beginning of a hijacking, with sleepers lying in wait to take out any passengers attempting heroics, he kept his guard up and scanned every face and every pair of hands as he moved toward the rear of the plane.

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