Page 6 of Enemy Within
Because of their love? Because he and Jack were together? Because Sergey had been loved by a gay man? Was this some kind of reaction, a fear that falling in love with another man “was contagious”, as he’d hurled at Jack?
“He’s pulled back before.” Jack sat forward, slipped the balaclava over his head. He tugged it down around his neck. “I want to do the right thing by him. I don’t want to piss him off.” He frowned, deep lines furrowing his brow. “But, no matter what else is going on, he’s devastated about losing Sasha. I remember what it felt like when I thought you were dead. I can at least try to talk to him about that.”
Ethan’s chest constricted, and his heart almost seized. Was it only a week ago that he’d thought Jack was dead as well? Never, ever, again. He’d do everything in his power to keep Jack safe, keep him from ever coming to harm. And, he’d never lose faith like that again, either. The darkness that had swallowed him on his race from Saudi Arabia to Russia. The emptiness, the silent scream within his soul. The way he had wanted to die, had begged the world to kill him.
Together. They’d face everything together from now on. No matter what.
Adjusting the balaclava, Jack leaned over and pressed a chaste kiss to Ethan’s lips. “Time to face the music, love.”
Ethan pulled out his own balaclava, tugged it down around his neck, and gripped the door handle. They piled out of the back of the jeep, and Ethan caught the smothered grins and barks of laughter sent their way. Scott raised a dented metal mug toward them both. Jack headed for him, and for the small fire where Vasily was cooking.
One of the Russians who went out with Scott every morning, Aleksey, slid up to Ethan. Middle-aged, Aleksey had been a federal police officer in Sochi and had fought with Sergey against Moroshkin and Madigan’s forces the night of the coup. Now, he was one of Sergey’s officers in the insurgency. He had a small beer gut and a thick salt-and-pepper mustache beneath ruddy, pockmarked cheeks, a sharp smile, and perpetually messy hair.
His eyes glittered as he clapped Ethan on the back. “You are good Russian lover!” he crowed. “Quick!”
Others laughed, and Ethan spied Jack smothering his grin and rolling his eyes as he took the coffee Scott offered. Scott shrugged and hid his smile in his next sip.
Ethan clapped Aleksey on the upper arm, smiling along with the others. When he and Jack had first met the men in Sergey’s insurgency, they’d worried about how they would be received. Two men in love in a country where only months before, Sasha had almost been killed for being gay. Another man, Evgeni Konnikov,hadbeen murdered.
Sergey’s men, however, had been nothing but accepting. They were believers in Sergey’s government, after all, and Sergey had made equality a foundational platform of his politics and administration.
They just showed that acceptance through good Russian ribbing and teasing. The more ribald, the better.
“If we had actually got going,” Ethan began, first winking at Jack and then sending Aleksey a grin, “we’d be here fordays.”
More laughter. Aleksey wagged his finger in Ethan’s face and squeezed his elbow before handing him a cup of bitter, sludgy coffee. Vasily waved him and Jack over, and he scooped the last of the eggs into a scavenged plastic bowl they shared. “I save for you,” Vasily said, pointing to them both.
Jack thanked him. As they ate, Ethan spotted Sergey standing in front of his jeep, his hands resting flat on a spread-out map of Russia draped over the hood with his head bowed low. He looked up, and his piercing gaze fell on Jack. There was a moment where his face flickered, something dark passing through his eyes, but it was gone before Ethan could catch it.
And then Sergey folded up his map and climbed into the driver’s side of his jeep. He kept his eyes downcast, not once looking at Jack again.
3
Northern Siberian Permafrost
WHOMP WHOMP WHOMP.
The helicopter was still out there, tracking over the taiga.
Sasha ran through the dense alpine forest, the trunks only feet apart, and stumbled through knee-deep snow. He dragged a pine bough behind him, hoping it would obscure his footsteps. Anything to cover his tracks.
The forest cover above thickened, branches overhead tangling together, coated in massive clumps of snow and ice. He hesitated, crouching next to a fat pine trunk, and tried to catch his breath. Chest heaving, he closed his eyes, listening.
The helicopter’s rotors slowly faded.
It was veering off.
Perfect.
He ditched his pine bough and dropped to his knees, digging frantically in the deep snow. The day before, the fragile, ice-crusted snow he’d been walking on had collapsed, plunging him into a snow drift over seven feet tall. He’d been a shivering mess when he finally managed to climb out, hours later.
The ice crust on this snow, however, was thicker and refused to break.
The rotors sounded again, grinding over the trees. The rumble grew, growling in the sky. The helicopter was coming back his way.
Grunting, Sasha kicked at the ice, slamming the heel of his boot into the crunchy snow, over and over.
Whomp whomp whomp
