The Carlton Group's G650ER touched down and taxied to a revetment area on the far side of the airfield.  There, a Black Hawk helicopter - rotors hot - sat waiting to take the private jet's passengers on the next leg of their journey.

Testifying to how fast the team had moved to get down to Key West, the aircraft hadn't been catered.  The only food in the galley were shelf-stable items like granola bars, bags of chips, and beef jerky.  That didn't matter to Harvath. He hadn't been interested in eating.  Only drinking.

There was plenty of bottled water and energy drinks in the fridge.  The bar area, though, had looked like a grocery store an hour before a hurricane was scheduled to hit.  Every shelf was bare, all the booze having been consumed on the flight home from their last assignment.  "Work hard.  Celebrate harder," was one of the group's many maxims.  Harvath, therefore, prided himself on always having a Plan B.

Tucked away in the crew closet was the plane's "bribe box," a locked, hard-sided Pelican case that contained luxury items the team might need overseas in order to secure cooperation from foreign customs, passport control, military, or police officials.  Inside were envelopes of cash, sleeves of gold coins, cartons of cigarettes, boxes of high-end cigars, and bottles of exceptional booze.

Opening it up, he had withdrawn a bottle of Jack Daniel's Sinatra Select Tennessee Whiskey, discarded the gift box, and headed back to his seat, pausing only long enough at the bar to grab a glass, a few cubes of ice, and a bottle of water.  His plan was to continue keeping reality at bay for as long as possible.  After all, he hadn't asked to be scooped up and he'd be damned if he was going to stop drinking.  They could force a rescue on him.  They couldn't force sobriety.

Positioning himself in the very back of the plane, he made it clear he wasn't interested in interacting with anyone.  He simply wanted to be by himself.  There'd be plenty of time for talking once they got to wherever it was they were going.

If they had been headed to The Carlton Group, they would have landed at Dulles International.  If the White House, Harvath's house, or some other D.C.-area location had been their final destination, the closest airport would have been Reagan.  You chose Andrews Air Force Base for secrecy or security.  Considering that they were carrying a dead body, he supposed both probably applied.

He had no idea how they were going to move the body bag, out in the open, and honestly, he didn't care.  This was not his op and, therefore, not his problem.

Stopping by the bar on his way off the plane, he dumped his drink into a plastic roadie cup and followed the team down the air stairs.  Sloane, who had always had a soft spot for Harvath, walked with him toward the helo.

When she had been brought on board, the Old Man had made it clear to Harvath that he didn't want him dating her.  It hadn't been necessary.  She was good-looking, yes, but he was a good twenty years older.  That wasn't his thing.

Not that the bedroom concerned him.  It was finding common interests outside of it that would have been the problem.

Some men might have been able to make it work, but he wasn't one of them.  The age gap was just too wide.

It was all for the best anyway.  She was a hell of an operator and he had nothing but respect for her.  What's more, he understood her.

To a certain degree, she was the female version of him - especially in the "using humor to diffuse dark situations" department.