for Harvath and his team to use one of the Agency’s Citation Longitude business jets.
While Sloane and Chase used the courtesy showers in the Signature building, Harvath unloaded his Tahoe. In addition to the bug-out and overnight bags he always kept loaded and ready to go in his vehicle, he also had a Truck Vault.
The Truck Vault was a strongbox bolted to the cargo area with two lockable sliding drawers, which turned his vehicle into a rolling armory.
Sloane and Chase had flown home clean. The weapons they used in Karachi had stayed in Karachi. If they had been caught trying to get guns out of Pakistan, they would have been arrested, and it wouldn’t have taken long for the ISI to link them to the death of their agents and the kidnapping of Ahmad Yaqub. As they had been working with no official cover or sanction, Sloane and Chase would have been looking at heavy prison time. They left all of their gear with a trusted CIA operative who was happy to have it.
Harvath set an empty Blackhawk load-out bag on top of the Truck Vault and began filling it up. Into the bag went his LaRue 14.5” PredatOBR rifle and his Remington 870 Express tactical shotgun. He grabbed his .45 caliber H&K USP compact pistol, a Glock 21, a Glock 17, and a RONI conversion kit that would turn the 17 into a short-barreled rifle.
He threw in a Taser X26P, a set of night vision goggles, flashlights, walkie-talkies and earpieces, an extra Benchmade folding knife for Sloane and one for Chase, as well as plastic restraints, holsters, ammunition, his Otis cleaning kit, and extra magazines.
With his bug-out bag over one shoulder and his overnight bag over the other, he extended the handle of his load-out bag and wheeled it behind him into the building.
Signature Flight Support was known for always having fruit, fresh-baked muffins, cookies, and popcorn. Harvath grabbed an apple and a bottle of water.
He had just taken his first bite when Sloane Ashby appeared. She was wearing jeans, trail runners, and an Under Armour shirt.
“An apple, huh?” she said. “I guess guys your age really have to watch their weight.”
“Fuck you,” Harvath replied through a smile and a mouth full of apple.
“Gotcha. Listen, about my hostile work environment complaint? How does Tuesday look for a sit-down with HR?”
Harvath gave her the finger and grabbed another apple.
“Allahu Snackbar,” Sloane said, lampooning the terrorist battle cry of Allahu Akbar, as she studied the counter full of treats. She made a show of picking the two biggest cookies and then filled up a bag with popcorn.
Harvath shook his head. Ashby was a wiseass and it was one of the many things he liked about her. Despite the difference in their ages, they had a lot in common—the same healthy disrespect for authority, the same determination to succeed at any cost, and the same wise-guy sense of humor. They were two peas in a pod. So much so that Carlton had given Harvath a very stern warning—no dating. The last thing the Old Man wanted was a romance to develop between them. He had been perfectly clear what the repercussions would be if that happened.
Even though Harvath thought Sloane was “cute”—a word he used continually because he knew she hated it and it got under her skin—he kept their relationship platonic.
He admired her skills and saw her as a teammate; someone he could mentor. In fact, he believed she’d probably end up being an even better operator than he was. She was born for the work and everything about her made her perfect for it. The Old Man had always been a scary-good judge of talent.
Chase Palmer was the other operator Harvath figured would outpace him. General George Johnson, the Director of National Intelligence, had uncovered Chase while heading the Army’s Intelligence Support division, also known as “The Activity.”
Johnson had a career full of experience with clandestine operations. He had seen men rise and fall, come and go, but he had never seen an operator like Chase. There was a row of locked file cabinets at the Pentagon stuffed with accounts of his exploits at the Unit. There was also a coterie of career soldiers, or Chairborne Rangers as they were derogatorily referred to, who resented not only Chase’s talent and meteoric rise but also his above-average intelligence.
His star was burning white-hot right about the time he ran afoul of a drunk two-star general and knocked him out. It didn’t matter