Page 167 of Enemy of My Enemy
He didn’t quite make it to Hell.
It could have been an hour or a day, but the next thing Ethan knew, the door of his crumpled vehicle was ripped off and the barrel of a rifle was shoved into his face. Russians shouted at him, bellowing. He was dragged out and thrown to the ground. The rifle ended up on the back of his neck.
Cook was right.
Clinging to the dirt, his fingers digging into pine needles and black earth and patches of snow on the side of the mountain, Ethan had an epiphany.Cook was right about what I wanted most.
He closed his eyes.Jack.
One of the Russians kicked him in the ribs. Pain flared, agony roaring through him like he’d been kicked in half. Searing heat spiraled through his body. He heaved, struggling to breathe, his face pressed into the cold, damp dirt. He didn’t try to move.
“Get up!” One of the Russians shouted in heavily accented English. “Get the fuck up!”
Two soldiers hauled him to his feet. The world spun. He nearly vomited.
“You are American?” The Russian in charge advanced, pulling out his handgun and pressing it to Ethan’s forehead. “You are American spy?”
Ethan didn’t blink. He stared into the Russian’s eyes as blood dripped down his forehead.
The Russian hissed, shoving the barrel of his handgun harder against Ethan’s forehead. “Why you are here? An attack is coming? You are scouting targets for air strikes, yes?”
Ethan spat into his face, hocking a thick wad of blood-specked spit into his eyes.
Barks in Russian all around him. The leader snarled, murder in his spit-soaked gaze.
Dead is dead. Here or there, dead is gone.Ethan closed his eyes.
Something heavy hit him on the side of the head. He slumped to the ground. Rainbows burst in his mind behind his eyelids, and then white noise, and finally, a freeze-frame image of Jack, smiling as he sat at his desk in the Oval Office.
* * *
Chapter 56
Washington DC
Russian Embassy
“In here.Make no noise. Others here work for Moroshkin. If they find out you are in the basement, we will all die.” The Russian ambassador glared at them both before slamming shut the van’s heavy door.
Jack and Scott had been shoved into the back of an anonymous white van in the Russian embassy’s underground parking garage, tucked between classified packages and parcels addressed to Moscow. They lay down, huddled close together, and a tarp went over their bodies.
The van drove through Washington, and Jack felt Scott’s heartbeat race, felt his blood pressure skyrocket as they lay silently side by side.
The Russian ambassador himself pulled them from the van at the airport, helping them stand inside a private hangar next to an executive jet. He nodded to Jack and handed him an envelope. “For Sergey. Now go. This plane will take you to him.”
He and Scott jogged up the stairs, settling in behind two stern-faced Russian pilots.
Scott fell asleep right after takeoff. Jack glared at him for hours, envious. Every time he closed his eyes, thoughts of Ethan filled his mind. Was Ethan all right? Where was he? Had Sergey found him yet? Was he in danger?
What would he do if Ethan was gone?
He couldn’t think of that. Instead, he stared out the window, watching the impenetrable midnight sky and puffs of impossibly soft clouds float by.
Hours later, after he’d finally nodded off, a wailing alarm jerked him awake.
Scott grabbed him, holding him back in his seat as the plane bucked, bouncing in the air.
“Get your seat belts on,” the pilot barked over his shoulder.
