Page 113 of Enemy of My Enemy
It felt worse than death. Like dying would be an improvement.
“I understand. I won’t interfere,” he whispered. “I won’t cause any problems.”
“I’m so sorry. I’m so, so sorry.” Jack’s voice shook, but he still wouldn’t look at Ethan. He headed for the door, his eyes fixed to the blue carpet.
Jack was going to leave, going to walk out that door and not look back, and that would be it. That would be the end. There wasn’t anything he could say; no magic words would fix this, would undo the impact of Jack’s wife coming back from the dead.
He couldn’t watch. Ethan turned away, and through the roar of blood screaming through his veins, through the wails of his frozen heart, he heard the slide of Jack’s door open and then shut again.
The next moments passed in a blur. One breath, and he was in their cabin, pulling his ratty duffel out from the valet. Tugging free his dress shirts from the hangers the stewards had arranged for him. Grabbing his toothbrush, his razor, his deodorant. Piling everything on top of each other, a mess of wrinkled clothes and smeared soap. In moments, it looked like he’d never been there, had never been a part of Jack’s life.
The slide of the cabin door as he left was too loud. The lights in the hallway too bright.
He made it to the Secret Service compartment in the forward cabin, lured by Scott’s baritone and the voices of the other agents speaking softly about the attack and their fallen comrades.
He shouldn’t intrude. He shouldn’t be there, shouldn’t be interrupting. He hung back and squeezed the strap of his duffel in his fist.
“Clear the room,” Scott said. “Everyone go get some rest. Charlie team, you’re lead when we land.” Nods and murmurs rose, and the agents filed out, heading for the sleepers with worn and weary faces.
Scott was in front of him, suddenly, his face haggard and wan. Crow’s feet lined with dried mud and hair that stuck up every which way. “Ethan?”
He shook his head, slow jerks back and forth that built until his body was shaking, and he couldn’t hold Scott’s gaze any longer. “It’s over,” he grunted, staring down at Scott’s ruined dress shoes and his mud-splattered suit pants. “We’re over.”
Scott exhaled, and strong hands guided him into Scott’s—once Ethan’s—onboard office. It wasn’t fancy, but there was a simple desk with Scott’s open laptop and two chairs sitting before it. Scott guided him toward one, a hand on his elbow.
And then it all came out, Ethan’s legs buckling like he didn’t have bones, and he crashed to the deck on his knees. His hands rose, covering his face as he pitched forward, a soundless scream caught in the hollows of his chest. Scott went to the deck with him and pulled Ethan against his filthy shirt. His arms wrapped around Ethan’s shoulders, holding him tight as Ethan screamed into Scott’s chest, wailed into his friend’s body. A nuke had gone off in his chest, in the center of his heart, and he was dying. He knew he was dying.
He kept his face hidden, clinging to Scott. His world had just upended and his soul felt like it was peeling away and all he wanted was to disappear. Fade away into nothing, silence the screaming in his mind.
If he let go of Scott, maybe he would. Maybe he’d collapse into pieces, shatter apart, like his life had just collapsed.
Scott held on to him for the entire flight.
* * *
Ethan stayedwith Scott on Air Force One until the plane touched down at Andrews, and Charlie team got the president, Leslie, and the staff into the convoy and back to the White House.
Daniels wandered back to Scott’s office when the plane was empty. “Everyone’s gone. I’ve got a car outside.”
Dried salt tracks cracked on Ethan’s cheeks when he sat up. Scott groaned as he stood, but he kept hold of Ethan, one hand on his elbow. They made their way off the plane, Daniels and Scott bracketing Ethan all the way to the waiting SUV at the base of the stairs. Daniels took the driver’s seat, and Scott and Ethan slid into the back.
Numb, Ethan collapsed against the black leather. Scott wordlessly buckled him in, reaching around and pulling the seatbelt over his shoulder.
He closed his eyes, fighting against the rising agony. Damn it, he didn’t want to cry again. He’d cried more than he ever had before, until it felt like his soul had come undone.
And Scott had stayed through every tear. Was still there, right beside him.
Tears still leaked from his clenched eyes and slid down his cheeks, dripping from his jaw.
Scott mumbled something to Daniels, giving directions, and then leaned back again with a heavy sigh. His body pressed against Ethan from shoulder to knee, a solid wall of support.
Except, his thigh pressed on the velvet box Ethan still had in his pocket. Ethan pulled it out, turning it over and over in his hands. The velvet was muddy and one corner was torn and frayed. Salt lines had dried over the dark fabric, the Black Sea leaving its mark.
Scott hissed as he saw what Ethan was playing with. “Jesus, Ethan.”
Ethan flicked open the lid.
Dirty water stained the white silk and the neat folds were rumpled and pulled out of place. But, still tucked in the center, still gleaming, were the two rings Ethan had designed. Rings he’d dreamed would one day rest on both his and Jack’s left hands.
