Page 40 of Enemy Within
“He’s my assignment,” Scott said softly. “You think I’d turn my back on my duty?”
Ethan smiled and reached out, gripping Scott behind the neck. “No. I know you’ll do the right thing.”
He shouldered the AK-47, slipped the two pistols into the back of his waistband, and hefted the sniper rifle before heading back to the driver’s door.
“Hey.” Scott appeared at the passenger’s window as he shifted the jeep into first.
“Scott—”
“Relax, Prince Charming.” Glaring at Ethan, Scott set a stack of blankets on the passenger seat and a duffel on the floorboard. “The med kit and blankets. You don’t know what you’re driving into.” Scott sighed. “Be fucking careful, Ethan. Be real fucking careful.”
He smiled, holding Scott’s gaze for a long moment. He didn’t need to say thank you. He never did.
“Go,” Scott barked, slamming shut the door. “Hurry your ass back here with those losers. Damn presidents are always causing us trouble.”
Ethan barked out a laugh. The jeep lurched forward as he guided it down the slushy mountain road away from Ust’Ilga, leaving Scott and the rest of the convoy behind. He pointed toward the flames licking into the sky, disappearing into the ridgeline’s gloom and low fog.
Jack, I’m coming. Hang on, love. Hang on.
19
Southern Siberia
IT WAS HOPELESS. Ilya was right.
Sighing, Sasha slumped forward, his forehead hitting the steering wheel. He groaned.
He was a fool. A hopeless, heartsick fool. He should have listened to Ilya.
There was nothing. Nothing on the route Sergey and he had planned. No fresh tracks, no recent travel. No signs of life. Nothing at all. They must have changed their route. Gone a different way.
There was no sign of any escaped prisoners, either.
Siberia was huge. Two hundred escaped murderers could vanish forever. Disappear entirely. What were the chances of one of them running into Sergey’s convoy?
He was buried in Siberia, twisted around the backwoods, halfway up a stunted mountain, and chasing after his broken heart’s ghost. He was an utter fool.
Sasha rolled his head on the steering wheel, pressing his cheek against the cold plastic. He cracked his eyes open and glared out the windshield. What now? Should he slink back to Ilya? Join his attack on Moscow?
Continue to Simushir? Try to catch up with Sergey?
To what end? Desperate stumbling through the tundra had given shape to too many fantasies. Sergey, happy to see him again. Glad he’d survived. Welcoming him back into his life.
Why would Sergey do any such thing?
Emptiness, aching, gnawing emptiness, opened inside Sasha, a black pit of anguish, bottomless in his soul. Nothingness was like a vacuum, atomizing him to a billion tiny pieces. If he closed his eyes, could he blow away? Could he disappear into the snow?
What the hell was he going to do? His life, for the second time, had ended. Everything within it, everything he’d done, had crumbled to dust. He was, once again, rudderless. Wingless. Crashing down to earth in a spinning nosedive, screaming for the ground at Mach 3.
He closed his eyes. He was tired. Exhausted, physically, from everything. How many hours’ sleep had he managed in the past week? Not enough for even a single night. And he was exhausted to his heart, his soul. How many times could a person completely restart their life? Say goodbye to the old and try to find a new way forward?
He didn’t want to. He just didn’t want to do it again.
Instead, he let out a breath and reached for the keys. He’d turn the truck off. Lower the windows. Lie down on the seat and let the snow fall. It would be night soon. Maybe he’d see the stars again. And, when he fell asleep, he’d see Sergey one last time.
His fingers closed over the truck’s key, cold metal stinging his fingers.
In a nearby tree, birds leaped to the sky, screeching. He frowned.
