Page 107 of Enemy of My Enemy
“Hold!” Scott raised his fist. Everyone dropped down on both sides of the road.
Standing in the middle of the street, facing them, a man stood in the shadows, his dark outline barely visible.
He had a hostage, gripping someone in a tight headlock with a heavy blade to their throat. The hostage had a black hood over their head and wore a bulky jumpsuit.
“American president!” the man shouted in a thickly accented voice. “I know you’re out there! I—”
Rising from the riverbank, Ethan fired. His bullet flew slammed into the center of the man’s forehead and cut off whatever he was about to say.
He fell backward, dead. His blade clattered to the ground.
His hostage collapsed, unmoving.
“Go,” Scott ordered the team forward. Ethan held back with Jack, creeping ahead only when one of the agents kicked the blade far out of reach and patted down the hostage, ripping open the jumpsuit to check for explosives.
Scott ripped the hood off the hostage.
He froze. Whirled back to Ethan and Jack.
Jack peered at the crowd of agents, squinting, trying to see.
Agent Beech turned his flashlight down into the hostage’s face for a better look. Beside him, other agents frowned, casting confused looks back toward Ethan and Jack.
Legs in dark suit pants blocked their view.
Finally, Ethan’s gaze landed on the hostage’s face.
His heart stopped.
Beneath Agent Beech’s flashlight, Leslie Spiers winced and shied away from the light.
Jack took off with a strangled gasp, running at top speed toward her. Cursing, Ethan followed, shouting at him to wait.
Jack ignored him, sliding to a stop on his knees on the asphalt next to his long-dead wife, suddenly not dead, suddenly breathing fast and panicking and trying to fight off the agents patting her down and working to restrain her. She kicked, shrieking, and swung her fists.
“Les! Les!” Jack reached for her, grabbing her shoulders and turning her toward him. “Les, it’s me. It’s Jack.”
Leslie froze. Beneath her matted hair, sticky with mud and dried blood, her gaze flicked up. A filthy face turned to Jack, trembling. Her hands—one curled and disfigured, burned and blackened—reached for him.
“Jack?” she breathed. Her eyes darted over Jack’s face. “Jack? How— What—”
“Mr. President, we have to move!” Scott tugged on Jack’s arm, trying to get him to stand.
Jack shook him off. His gaze was fixed on Leslie, his eyes filling with tears. “How are you alive?” he whispered. “I thought you were dead.”
“President?” she gasped. “Jack?”
“Mr. President!” Scott snapped. “We have to go!Now!”
Overhead, a V-22 Osprey circled Olympic Stadium and started its descent on the street, yards away from their position. A floodlight lit up their huddle. The Osprey’s gunner sprayed bullets at Russian soldiers taking shots at them. Farther down the road, a Russian jeep burst into flames.
Scott and the other agents ducked over Jack and Leslie, shielding them from the Osprey’s rotors and its VSTOL jet engines. Road grit flew, peppering their faces. Ethan spat out asphalt and tried to shield his eyes.
“Go, now, now!” Scott waved his men forward as the Osprey touched down and the crew piled off, covering for the agents.
“Jack—” Ethan leaned in and tried to reach for Leslie.
“I’ve got her!” Jack snapped. “I’ve fucking got her!” He wrapped his arms under Leslie and stood, cradling her close to his chest. Scott ran Jack to the Osprey with Irwin, leaving Ethan behind.
