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    Shadow of Doubt: A Thriller
    Shadow of Doubt: A Thriller
    Shadow of Doubt: A Thriller
    Ebook469 pages6 hours

    Shadow of Doubt: A Thriller

    By Brad Thor

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    About this ebook

    In a world shrouded in shadows, where doubt is the only weapon, can one spy expose the truth? #1 New York Times and #1 Wall Street Journal bestselling author Brad Thor delivers his latest high-octane thriller.

    A mysterious cargo plane, flanked by a squadron of Russia’s most lethal fighters, has just taken off from a remote airbase. Closely monitored by the United States, no one inside the Pentagon has any idea where it’s going or what it’s carrying.

    A high-level Russian defector, a walking vault of secrets that could shatter the West, seeks asylum in Norway. Across the continent, in the heart of Paris, a lone French agent stumbles upon a conspiracy so explosive it could ignite a global firestorm.

    As alarm bells ring in Washington, America’s top spy, Scot Harvath, is forced to choose between his conscience and his country.

    You’ll be left breathless as Harvath is swept into a whirlwind of double agents, international intrigue, and heart-stopping chases.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherAtria/Emily Bestler Books
    Release dateAug 6, 2024
    ISBN9781982182267
    Author

    Brad Thor

    Brad Thor is the #1 New York Times bestselling author of twenty-four thrillers, including Shadow of Doubt, Black Ice (ThrillerFix Best Thriller of the Year), Near Dark (one of Suspense Magazine’s Best Books of the Year), Backlash (nominated for the Barry Award for Best Thriller of the Year), Spymaster (named “One of the all-time best thriller novels” —The Washington Times), The Last Patriot (nominated Best Thriller of the Year by the International Thriller Writers association), and Blowback (one of the “Top 100 Killer Thrillers of All Time” —NPR). Visit his website at BradThor.com and follow him on Facebook @BradThorOfficial, on Instagram @RealBradThor, and on X @BradThor.

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      Shadow of Doubt - Brad Thor

      PROLOGUE

      NATIONAL MILITARY COMMAND CENTER

      THE PENTAGON

      An airman first class peered at the message on her screen and announced, Estonian Air Defense is tracking five Russian military aircraft launched from Soltsy air base, Novgorod Oblast. Currently heading due south.

      The watch commander set his coffee down and sat up straighter in his chair. That’s part of Russia’s 22nd Heavy Bomber Division, he announced. I want a screen up in the next sixty seconds with everything we’ve got on their inventory. Also, grab whatever geospatial is live and feed it to the big board.

      As the first airman got to work on her orders, another chimed in with an update, Latvian Air Defense is confirming the launch. Looks like an Antonov AN-124 cargo aircraft accompanied by four Sukhoi Su-57 fighters. Took off eight minutes ago.

      57s? the watch commander repeated.

      Yes, sir, the second airman replied. That’s what the Latvians are saying.

      Destination?

      Unknown.

      Payload?

      Also unknown, the second airman stated.

      The watch commander looked at the screens. What kind of cargo could that Antonov be carrying that required an escort of Russia’s newest and most sophisticated fighters?

      Ping the National Reconnaissance Office, he ordered. I want all the overhead satellite imagery from Soltsy air base for the last seventy-two hours.

      Yes, sir. Right away.

      Within twenty minutes, the NRO had uploaded the imagery to the DoD’s secure cloud. The watch commander was just about to dig in when he received another update.

      According to the Latvians, all five Russian aircraft have just entered Belarusian airspace, the first airman stated.

      Lithuanian air defense confirms same, said the second airman.

      All right, said the watch commander, let’s see where they go.

      After twenty more minutes, the planes began to make their descent and the Pentagon watch team had their answer.

      The Russian aircraft were on approach for Machulishchy air base, twenty kilometers outside of downtown Minsk.

      Once the planes had touched down, the team watched as the cargo aircraft taxied to a large hangar and disappeared inside. Shortly thereafter, the Su-57 fighter jets took off and headed back to Russia.

      The watch commander entered everything in the logbook, wrote up a report, and submitted it to his chain of command.

      Two days later, standing in front of what appeared to be some sort of military storage facility deep in a forest and surrounded by military vehicles, the president of Belarus made the following statement to the Russian state TV channel Rossiya-1 and the Belarusian state news agency’s BelTA Telegram channel: The Republic of Belarus has now received from Russia shipments of both missiles and bombs three times more powerful than those dropped on Hiroshima and Nagasaki.

      With those words, alarm bells began going off around the world.

      If the assertion was true, the nuclear doomsday clock had just clicked one minute closer to midnight.

      CHAPTER 1

      PARIS

      SUNDAY EVENING

      THREE WEEKS LATER

      Jean-Jacques Jadot had spent a rainy weekend at his seaside cottage in Brittany, only venturing outside for a short walk along the windswept coast.

      The remainder of the time, the snowy-haired, sixty-two-year-old French intelligence officer had pored over his files.

      The rot can’t be this widespread, he had thought to himself. The treason this deep. Yet the evidence was all there.

      Not a single agency appeared to have been untouched. Not even his beloved DGSE, France’s equivalent to Britain’s MI6 or the American CIA.

      Worse still, the penetration ran right to the top, compromising a key member of the French president’s cabinet. The gravity of the situation was clear.

      What wasn’t clear, however, was its raison d’être. Russia didn’t need French nuclear technology. Neither did it need France’s submarine technology. It was a rather poorly kept secret that the Russians had already stolen schematics for France’s new Barracuda-class nuclear attack subs.

      So then what was it all about? Why go to such extraordinary lengths? The investment in this kind of espionage operation, not to mention the risks, was almost unfathomable. What intelligence did France have that the Russians wanted so badly?

      That question had spun endlessly in Jadot’s mind over the last two and a half days.

      Rising only occasionally to place fresh logs on the fire or to prepare another mug of tea fortified with cognac, he had sat in his favorite chair, trying to connect the dots and deconstruct the Russian plot.

      But no matter how much of his considerable intellect he had applied, the answers refused to reveal themselves. Before he knew it, the weekend was over and it was time to leave.

      While a local taxi idled in the drive, Jadot closed up the cottage and then made himself comfortable for the twenty-minute drive into Saint-Malo. There he picked up dinner from his favorite brasserie along the Place Chateaubriand, walked the rest of the way to the station, and boarded the last TGV to Paris.

      As the high-speed train raced through the darkened countryside, Jadot ignored his food and stared at his reflection in the window.

      He was no longer a young man. He had been with the Directorate General for External Security for over three decades. His time in the espionage game was coming to a close. This case would be his legacy.

      Exposing the breach of the French intelligence community was not only his duty, it was his chance to leave a deep and indelible mark. It was critical, therefore, that he choose his steps with caution; that he get everything right. There was zero room for error.

      Turning his eyes from the window, he forced himself to eat. It was important to keep up his strength. He was about to step into a minefield. Tomorrow he would meet with a colleague from the CIA’s Paris station—one of the few people he felt he could trust. Then he would put his plan, as ill-conceived as it was, into action.

      Two and a half hours later, his train arrived at the Gare Montparnasse in Paris’s 15th arrondissement.

      The rain, which had lashed the windows of his cottage throughout the weekend, had pushed inland and was now pouring down on the capital. Finding a cab would be impossible, so Jadot opted for the Métro.

      He rode for seven stations, transferred at Châtelet, and then reemerged above ground at the Hôtel de Ville. Turning up the collar of his jacket against the elements, he headed for his apartment in the Marais.

      Even though it was getting late, there were still several establishments doing a brisk business along the Rue Vieille-du-Temple. Under soft lights, patrons laughed over bottles of wine, chatted over cups of coffee, and enjoyed each other’s company over plates of food. Conviviality. Human contact.

      He thought about popping into Robert et Louise—the little restaurant across the street from his apartment—just for a nightcap. The glow from its wood-fired oven, the rumble of the dumbwaiter as it shunted up and down, the heavy neighbor’s pour the barman treated regulars to—all of it had a way of putting him at ease. There was, however, an additional, more professional reason the idea appealed to him.

      Ever since stepping off the train in Montparnasse, he had felt eyes on him, as if he were being watched.

      Per his training, he had conducted multiple surveillance detection routes. He covertly scanned the faces he saw on the Métro, changed carriages several times, and literally took the long way home once he had exited the subway system. Still, he hadn’t seen anything.

      Either he was being followed by someone exceptionally skilled, or his mind—and maybe even the rain—were playing tricks on him. A stiff calvados and a perch on a barstool with a view of the street would help him sort it all out.

      Inside Robert et Louise, he hung his wet coat on the rack. The air was redolent with the scent of roasted pork, chicken, lamb, beef, and veal. He could practically hear the sizzling of fat as it dripped from the spits in the open kitchen.

      Grabbing a seat at the end of the scarred comptoir, he didn’t even need to place his drink order.

      Within seconds of his sitting down, the barman was busy uncorking a bottle filled with gold-colored liquid.

      Quel putain de temps, the man said as he set a generously filled snifter of apple brandy in front of Jadot. Pretty shitty weather, eh?

      Plus mal demain, the intelligence officer replied. Worse tomorrow.

      They made small talk for a few moments before a waitress signaled that she needed the barman to make a round of drinks for her.

      Sipping his calvados, Jadot kept his eyes on the front door of his building across the street.

      Beyond a few cars and a person or two with an umbrella, no one passed. No one stopped. No one came into Robert et Louise. It was simply a rainy Sunday night in Paris. Nothing more.

      When he got to the bottom of his snifter, the barman asked him if he wanted a refill. Jadot politely waved him off. If he had a second, he’d probably have a third. That wouldn’t be good. He needed to be sharp and fully focused tomorrow.

      Laying a bill on the comptoir, he thanked the barman and told him to keep the change.

      As he put on his coat, a waiter offered him a Styrofoam to-go box of food—roast potatoes and meats they would only be throwing out when they closed in twenty minutes.

      Jadot didn’t have much of an appetite, but he was a good man, a good neighbor, and so he graciously accepted.

      Stepping outside, back into the rain, he paused briefly on the sidewalk to scan up and down the street. Still nothing.

      He tucked the to-go container under his arm and fished for his keys as he crossed to his front door.

      Inside, he ignored his mailbox. There was nothing in it that couldn’t wait another day.

      He ignored the elevator as well.

      Stairs helped keep him in shape. He had spent most of his life as a rugged outdoorsman, a committed alpinist. Nothing crazy. No Kangchenjunga, no Nanga Parbat. And definitely no K2 and no Everest. Jadot was a sub-25,000 man.

      Summits such as Baintha Brakk in Pakistan, Cerro Torre in Argentina, and the Eiger in Switzerland were much more his style. An intelligent, technical athlete’s climbs—with far fewer fame-seeking Instagram assholes to contend with. He had yet to see any dead bodies on his summits.

      To that end, he had nothing but disdain for those who chased the biggest mountains only for the bragging rights. Climbing, in his book, was like making love. You didn’t become an expert overnight. It was something you got better at with practice.

      When he reached his apartment, he kicked off his boots and hung his coat on a peg in the vestibule to drip-dry. His was the sole unit at the top of the five-story building.

      Inside, the centuries-old dwelling was complete with hand-hewn wooden beams, three antique fireplaces, and original tiles. The portes-fenêtres in the living room gave onto the Rue Vieille-du-Temple, while the smaller windows in the back looked out over a hidden courtyard and a slice of the expansive National Archives complex.

      The walls were covered with framed photographs from his adventures abroad—both his climbing trips as well as the far-flung locations where he had carried out assignments on behalf of the DGSE. There was no evidence to indicate the presence of a spouse or any sort of romantic partner in Jadot’s life. By all appearances, the man was unattached.

      Entering the kitchen, he dropped his keys on the counter, placed the to-go container in the fridge, then pulled out his cell phone and plugged it in to charge.

      As he did, he heard a noise. It sounded like it had come from the master bedroom. Jadot froze. He wasn’t alone. Someone was in the apartment.

      Being careful not to make a sound, he opened the cupboard beneath the sink and retrieved the old Manurhin double-action revolver he had taped inside.

      His first instinct was that maybe he was being robbed. Over the last six months, multiple apartments across the Marais had been hit. But none of them, to his recollection, were late on a Sunday night. The thieves had preferred to strike during the day—while people were at work. That could only mean one thing: someone had come for him, specifically.

      Quietly cocking the pistol, he brought the weapon to the ready position and crept toward his bedroom.

      He placed his steps carefully, avoiding the handful of floorboards that were guaranteed to groan and give his approach away.

      At the door, he took a deep breath, applied pressure to his trigger, and then peeked around the frame. The room was empty.

      Not only was it empty, but he believed he might have discovered the source of the sound he’d heard.

      Lying on the floor next to his book-strewn nightstand was a large tome on European history. Could it have fallen by itself?

      Anything was possible, but just to make sure, Jadot checked under the bed, and inside his closet and the master bath. They were all clear. Picking up the book, he returned it to the nightstand. Then he heard something that stopped him dead in his tracks. Out in the hall, one of the floorboards creaked.

      For a fraction of a second, he was tempted to fire right through the wall. But not knowing who was on the other side made such an act incredibly reckless.

      If it did turn out to be some poor kid forced to steal or some junkie just trying to support a habit, those weren’t the kinds of deaths he was prepared to have on his conscience. And if it wasn’t a thief but someone sent to attack him, he needed that person alive. Dead men were somewhat difficult to interrogate.

      Taking another deep breath, he steadied his pistol and prepared to peek into the hall.

      He counted down from three and then leaned out only far enough to steal the quickest of glimpses before pulling back. He didn’t see anything. There was no one there. His hands slick with sweat, he gripped the pistol tighter.

      Stepping into the hall, he swung his gun toward the kitchen, but it appeared just as he had left it—empty—and he headed toward the living room, carefully clearing each of the rooms he passed.

      By the time he reached the front of the apartment, adrenaline was wreaking havoc on his body. His heart was pounding so hard that all he could hear was the sound of blood thrumming in his ears. His breath came in short, shallow snatches and his hands had developed a tremor. But there was a good sign—the front door was ajar.

      Whoever had been in the apartment must have made the smart decision to flee. Jadot felt his pulse begin to slow.

      He wiped each of his palms on his trousers, before reacclimating his grip on his weapon. There was one last thing he needed to do.

      Opening the door the rest of the way with his foot, he cautiously stepped out onto the landing. There was no one there.

      He strained his ears but heard no sound of footfalls on the stairs. He then glanced over the railing, gun first, but couldn’t see anyone. Perhaps the intruder was hugging the walls on the way down or had heard him coming and paused on a lower floor. All he could be certain of was that whatever the threat had been, it had passed.

      Retreating into the apartment, he closed the door behind him and made sure it was locked.

      Inhaling, he filled his lungs with air and stood there for a moment, willing his body to reset, before exhaling it all out.

      He needed to do a thorough, top-to-bottom search of the place to make sure nothing had been taken. But because his hands were still shaking, the first thing he was going to do was pour himself a drink.

      Padding down the hallway in his stocking feet, he tucked the pistol into his waistband as he entered the kitchen.

      From a cabinet above the sink, he took down a bottle of bourbon and placed it, along with a glass from the dish rack, on the countertop.

      He had just opened the freezer for some ice when he heard it again—a floorboard had creaked. This time right behind him.

      In one fluid motion, Jadot spun while pulling his pistol, but he was a fraction of a second too late.

      The last thing he saw was the tip of a climbing axe as it came crashing down into his skull.

      CHAPTER 2

      MONDAY

      FLIGHT 337

      KRAKÓW TO OSLO

      Scot Harvath hadn’t thought twice about splurging on a first-class ticket. He’d been through hell.

      After fighting his way into an active war zone in Ukraine, rescuing an American hostage from behind enemy lines, and fighting his way back out, all he wanted was a nice, long chunk of uninterrupted recovery time. The more luxurious, the better. He had earned it.

      Boarding his flight to Norway, he’d been accompanied to his seat by a flight attendant who asked what she could bring her handsome passenger before takeoff. His answer—three Ziplocs packed full of ice and a glass of bourbon.

      He’d had the shit kicked out of him and could feel it from the crown of his head to the soles of his feet. His body was tattooed with bruises, his left shoulder felt like somebody had driven an ice pick through it, and his ears were still ringing. He probably needed to see a doctor.

      Making himself as comfortable as possible, he placed the bags of ice where he had the most pain and then sipped his drink while the rest of the passengers boarded.

      He hadn’t told anyone back at the Carlton Group where he was going. It wasn’t any of their business. If the world suddenly caught fire over the next week, he was content to let it burn. For the time being, he was out of the spy business.

      Closing his eyes, he envisioned what awaited him in Norway.

      Sølvi Kolstad had appeared at the lowest moment in his life and had given him a reason to live, something he hadn’t imagined would ever again be possible.

      They were two shattered vessels—he broken by the murder of his wife, she abandoned by her husband because she couldn’t bear children. Yet what had felt like the end was actually the beginning, a form of kintsugi, the Japanese art of putting pieces of pottery back together with gold. They had merged their flaws, their loneliness, and their pain to create something beautiful, something stronger. And despite their age difference, with Sølvi several years his junior, they shared a lot in common.

      Harvath had been a U.S. Navy SEAL, first with the cold-weather specialists of SEAL Team Two, and then with the storied SEAL Team Six. Sølvi had also served with an elite Special Forces unit—Norway’s all-female Jegertroppen. Both of them had eventually wound up in the espionage game.

      Like him, she was a highly skilled operative and had made an exceptionally good spy. In fact, Harvath was willing to admit that she was smarter and even better at it than he was. His only advantage over her was that he had been at it for longer.

      Unlike him, however, when a plum leadership position had become available inside the Norwegian Intelligence Service, she had jumped at the chance.

      Promoted to deputy director status, Sølvi had been placed in charge of a top-secret program critical to Norway’s survival. If the Russians ever overran their shared border, her covert unit was responsible for standing up a shadow intelligence service.

      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 had aged 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 what his American dream looked like. Once he was ready to lay down his sword and remove his armor, what would life be like? What was there for him to 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.

      Before he could get to the galley, another flight attendant, this time a male, was struck with a devastating punch to the head and knocked to the floor.

      Two passengers decided it was finally time to do something and, leaping from their seats, charged the tattooed combatant… with blankets.

      Blankets? For what? To tie him up? To throw them over his head so he couldn’t see?

      The only thing Harvath knew was that as brave as these paunchy, middle-aged guys were, they were going to get their asses kicked. Bad.

      And he was right.

      As soon as they entered the galley, the giant shoved the remaining flight attendants aside and kicked the first of the middle-aged men square in the chest. The blow knocked the wind out of the man, cracked his sternum, and dropped him right there.

      The second man received one of the worst headbutts Harvath had ever seen. The blood gushed from his nose like a hydrant. As he blacked out and fell backward, he hit his head on the way down, hard.

      It was at that moment, scanning for additional threats, that the monster locked eyes with Harvath. He paused, sizing him up.

      Harvath stood five foot ten and a muscular 175 pounds. Though the giant outweighed and towered over him, he radiated the unnerving, icy calm of a man conversant with violence.

      He put his left hand up and attempted to deescalate the situation. Hey, it’s okay. Let’s just take a breath. Nobody else needs to get hurt.

      With his nostrils flaring and the whites of his eyes exposed, the giant resembled some sort of enraged bull. His chest heaved as he sucked in air.

      It was hard to tell if he spoke English or if he even understood what Harvath was saying. Right now, though, he wasn’t attacking anyone. He was standing completely still. That was the right start.

      Do you want to sit down? Harvath asked. I’ll sit with you. Any place you want. How does that sound?

      There was a grunt from the heavily tattooed man as he balled his massive hands into fists. Things were going in the wrong direction.

      Harvath remained calm and continued to try to dial down the situation. This wasn’t a hijacking. It was a troubled individual having some sort of a psychotic break. Is there someone waiting for you in Oslo? he inquired. Someone you’d like to talk to? Your wife? Girlfriend?

      The man’s eyes narrowed and before he had even started moving, Harvath knew that he had crossed some sort of line. He had screwed up and triggered the guy into action. It was on.

      Exploding across the galley, the giant charged. And when he did, Harvath was already two steps ahead.

      Pivoting out of the way, he used the makeshift baton to deliver a strike to the man’s kidney.

      The giant roared in pain. His knees buckled and he almost went down. Almost. Breaking his fall with his right hand, he pushed off the floor and lunged again.

      Harvath waited until he got in close, threw his left hand toward the man’s eyes, and then drove the baton into his solar plexus. The giant stumbled.

      Sidestepping out of his path, Harvath was certain the tattooed man was going all the way down this time, but he was mistaken. The giant regrouped and came at him again.

      Even for a wide-body jet, the galley made for one of the world’s narrowest cage matches. Harvath wasn’t going to be able to keep slipping out of the man’s grasp like this. If the giant took him down to the ground, things were going to get ugly.

      He had no choice but to increase the pain he was subjecting the man to; to deliver a blow that wasn’t fatal, but that was serious enough to take him out of the fight, at least until they could get the plane safely on the ground. With a guy this big, that usually meant one thing—going for his knees.

      To do that, however, he was going to have to square up with him; stand face-to-face as he charged, which was exactly what Harvath did.

      The giant thundered across the galley. Harvath held his hands up, palms out, as if signaling he didn’t want any trouble. Simultaneously, he focused on the man’s left knee and got ready to deliver a kick so hard, the man wouldn’t be able to walk without assistance for a long time.

      But just as the giant got in range, he changed his attack. He lowered his head and bent over at the waist, as if to tackle his opponent, making it impossible to take out his knee. Harvath barely had time to react.

      He knew he had to be ready to shoot his hips forward and drive his legs backward, out of the way, in order to prevent being taken down to the ground. It was a defensive technique known as a sprawl. The only problem was, Harvath had totally misread what his attacker was planning.

      The giant wasn’t interested in taking out his legs. Instead, he wanted to use his upper body to hit Harvath, as hard as he could, right in his midsection. Which was exactly what he did.

      It was like being struck by a freight train. Harvath was lifted off his feet and driven full-force into the emergency exit. But the giant didn’t stop there.

      Using his meaty palm, he slammed Harvath’s head against the door. Harvath saw stars.

      In response, he delivered a series of blistering punches to the giant’s ribs, one after another. None of them seemed to have any effect.

      The giant again slammed his head into the door and this time, his vision began to dim. Harvath was in serious trouble. If he didn’t get out from under this guy, it was going to be game over.

      Planting his feet, he tried to thrust upward and knock the giant off balance, but the beast didn’t budge.

      Instead the man pulled Harvath’s head back once more and was preparing to pound it against the door when there was a loud, metallic thud.

      Dazed, the giant paused. One of the flight attendants had bashed him with a coffeepot. Harvath knew it was now or never.

      Using all his strength, he exploded, pushing his attacker off him and sending the man tumbling over backward into the middle of the galley.

      Harvath leapt to his feet, but he’d had his bell rung to such a degree that his balance was temporarily off. He needed to place his hand against the wall to steady himself.

      Shaking his head, he tried to clear his vision. He could see the flight attendant, but the giant was no longer where he had thrown him. He was on the other side of the

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