Page 157 of Enemy Within
Ethan nodded. He looked up at Jack.
“Lieutenant Adam Cooper.” Jack smiled. “I accept your resignation from the United States Marine Corps, and I thank you for your exceptional service to our country.”
Adam’s face crumpled, and he turned into Faisal’s neck, hiding as he gasped, as he sniffed, as tears streamed down his cheeks. Faisal held him through it, pulling him close. He mouthed two words to Jack and Ethan over Adam’s trembling body:Thank you.
Jack’s fingers slipped through Ethan’s hair, until Ethan’s eyes closed and exhausted snores fell from his lips.
No matter what, he and Ethan would be together. Married now, bound together for the rest of their lives. His wedding ring gleamed, diamonds shining in the dark titanium channel, a promise that looped around his finger. Eternity. Forever. Perfection.
AFTER JACK AND THE others left, Sergey became a whirlwind, slipping right back into the presidency and working side by side with Ilya. Moroshkin’s men were taken into custody, as were Madigan’s.
“Where is Moroshkin?”
Ilya’s expression turned sour. “We haven’t found him. I will interrogate Moroshkin’s senior leaders when we are back in Moscow. We will find the bastard.”
“He brought his men back when we needed them, Ilya. He came home in the end.”
Ilya snorted and shook his head. He’d never shared Sergey’s more idealistic ideas.
Finally, it was time for Sergey to fly back to Moscow, take the reins of his government back and make a statement to Russia and to the world. Begin the process of unifying the country and healing the wounds of the coup. But he wasn’t going back alone.
He found Sasha helping Anton and Aleksey as they processed Moroshkin’s men and prepped them for transport back to Moscow and to Lubyanka Prison.
“Time to go, Sasha. Ilya has a chopper for us.”
Sasha stared at him, not saying a word. His eyes traced Sergey’s features, the long lines of his body.
Finally, he spoke. “Let me help Anton and Aleksey a little more. I will fly back with them later.”
Ilya shouted to Sergey, waving him over to the helicopter waiting to ferry him away. The engines were warm, the blades already whirling at full blast.
“Hurry.” Sergey smiled, and he reached for Sasha’s bandaged hand. “I want you with me in the Kremlin. I have been dreaming of it.”
Sasha nodded and gave him a thin, weak smile. “You must focus on what you need to do. You are the president, Sergey. Your duty is to the Russian people. They need you now, more than ever.”
“Together.” Sergey squeezed Sasha’s hand. “We will do it all together. You and me. The way it should be.”
“Ya lyublyu tyeba,” Sasha breathed.I love you. He squeezed once and then let go of Sergey’s hand. He looked down. “Go. Before Ilya has an aneurysm.”
Sergey’s smile almost split his face. “Zvezda moya, I will see you soon.”My star.
He jogged away, to Ilya and the helicopter waiting for him. He climbed on board, slipped a headset on, and turned back to Sasha.
Sasha watched him rise, their gazes locked until Sergey disappeared into the clouds.
70
Moscow
THE KREMLIN WAS A war zone.
A horde of barbarians had moved in, it seemed. Carpets had been torn up, golden chandeliers lay in ruins on the floor, paintings had been ripped down and their canvases torn. Statues had been lined up in the grand halls and used as target practice. Not a single room had escaped some form of wild destruction. The parliament buildings, too, had suffered. The council chambers and inner offices had been torched. Sergey’s private office had been ransacked and burned.
Power had been cut to the Kremlin as part of Ilya’s attack plan. Nothing worked. It would take months to repair the damage.
The presidential apartments were no better. Bullet holes ringed the walls, gouged through paintings and sculptures. One leg on his hideous, gaudy gold dining table had snapped, and the table had toppled over like a dead golden cow, legs stretched straight in the air. His bed, an ornate four-poster that had been luxurious even for the czars of old, had been sliced and diced, the mattress shredded, the velvet curtains around the bed torn down. Carpets had been burned. The red couches he, Sasha, and Ilya had lounged on for so many nights had been broken, stuffing thrown around the sitting room, their wooden legs used as fuel in the fireplace.
He did what he could, pushing debris to the side and rolling up the burned Turkish rug. Blankets and sheets in a tucked-away linen closet were, thankfully, unscathed. He pulled them down, and the few pillows that had escaped destruction. Sergey laid everything out in front of the fireplace in the sitting room before starting a roaring fire, the only source of light.
