Page 44 of Enemy Within
Fuck, he had to make this shot. Had to save Sergey. He breathed in, sighted the center of Milos’s back, and—
A blast roared through the yard, through the whole prison. The boom of a shotgun.
Jack jerked, looking up.
Striding across the yard, coming from the front gate, a man in a dark jacket, his hood pulled up, moved fast, holding a pump-action shotgun in front of him. Another rifle was slung over his shoulder. He pumped the shotgun once and took aim, his long legs spread wide as the stock rose to his chest.
Milos shouted as the second shot struck him, something harsh and guttural even in Russian. Blood wept from his shoulder, pouring down his left arm, hanging uselessly at his side. Gritting his teeth, he charged the hooded man, brandishing his knife as he ran.
The unknown man threw his shotgun in the snow, unslung the rifle from his shoulder, lifted it, and fired, emptying the magazine into Milos. Milos’s charge stuttered, and he stumbled, falling to his knees as the bullets slammed into him, over and over. Finally, he pitched forward, face-first in his own bloody snow.
Jack didn’t move. Who was this? He wanted it to be Ethan, God, he wanted it to be Ethan more than he’d ever wanted anything before. Ethan was his hero, he always had been, and of course he’d show up, save them both, kill Milos. Of course he would, he’d always be there, always.
But this man didn’t move like Ethan.
He could pick Ethan out from a thousand people all dressed the same, all looking the same. The way he moved, the shape of his body. The way he stood, how he braced. The width of his shoulders, his back. The curve of his waist.
This wasn’t Ethan.
Who was he?
The man moved toward Sergey, his rifle held at the ready, searching and scanning the yard for anyone else. Jack stayed down, hidden, and raised his own rifle.
Sergey lay on his side in the snow, propped up on his elbow. He stared at the man, his mouth hanging open.
Silence had once again fallen over the yard, a silence so complete Jack heard each of the man’s footfalls, the crunch and slide of his boots. Heard him sling his rifle over his shoulder and crouch down beside Sergey.
And then, he heard Sergey’s choked, breathless whisper: “Sasha?”
Impossible.
But… He watched Sergey push himself up and reach for the man. His hands shook as they neared the man’s face, hidden by the hood.
The hood fell back.
Blond hair. Ice-blue eyes, staring down at Sergey, traveling over his body. Hands, reaching for Sergey’s leg, where he was bleeding.
ItwasSasha.
How the hell…
God, what now? After the emotional anguish, the self-torture Sergey had inflicted upon his heart, Sasha appeared out of the snow? How had he survived?
What the hell would happen now?
Jack stood and jogged to their sides, kneeling beside Sergey. Sasha’s eyes flicked to him as he ran, but dropped back to Sergey. He snorted to himself. He was the third wheel, suddenly. Utterly inconsequential. Sasha hadn’t even twitched as he approached, he was so entirely focused on Sergey.
Sergey didn’t notice when he plopped down beside him, either. He just kept staring at Sasha, his jaw hanging open as his lips tried to form words that never came. One of Sergey’s hands rested on Sasha’s cheek. Touched him as if he weren’t truly there.
Sasha’s hands stuttered as he reached for Sergey. He froze, staring into Sergey’s gaze. He, too, seemed to be struggling to find the right words, any words. And, Jack caught the edges of fear in his eyes, apprehension that he buried in the back of his gaze.
Jack leaned in, tugging at Sergey’s pants on his lower leg, exposing his wound. A single gunshot, through his calf. Still bleeding, but slowing down. He pulled off his jacket and pressed it on Sergey’s leg, leaning with all his weight.
Sergey’s hand fell from Sasha’s cheek, and he grimaced, groaning aloud. “Govno!Damn it, Jack! Thathurt!”
“Of course it hurt. You’re shot.”
“Not that bad,” Sergey growled. “Is just a nick on my leg.” He scooted up, leaning back on his elbows. Looked at the snow. Finally, turned back to Sasha, still kneeling beside him, silent. “Sasha? How—” His lips moved, but nothing came out. “I heard you die,” he whispered.
