Page 142 of Enemy of My Enemy

Ethan’s stomach clenched. He’d seen those before, long ago. A way to force someone’s eyes to remain open. A prisoner, or someone under enhanced interrogation.

He crept closer to one of the whiteboards before a chair, pictures of the sunk Russian destroyer and the ship’s captain tacked together. Maps of Europe and highlighted routes heading into Russia. Pictures of Sergey and the closest members of his government. Sasha, walking next to Sergey, caught in a sidelong glance toward Sergey. Ethan could see the devotion in Sasha’s eyes as Sergey smiled at someone out of the frame.

His heart stopped when his gaze fell on another board. Pictures of Jack. Pictures of him. Pictures of the two of them in the White House. Sitting on the steps of the Residence, watching the Marines practice for Sergey’s state dinner. The two of them laughing in the Rose Garden, side by side. Sharing a secret kiss in the shadows of the West Wing. Holding hands as they walked up the stairs to the Residence.

Photos only someone deep within the White House could have taken.

There were more infiltrators. More of Madigan’s men still right beside Jack.

Behind him, a deep voice rumbled.

He whirled, rifle raised, his blood rushing through him, freezing as he half squeezed the trigger.

He stilled, though, when his eyes landed on a monitor, and the video that had started to play.

* * *

Jeddah, Saudi Arabia

“Hmm.”

“Hmm?” Doc poked his head up from where he was washing Noah’s stomach and running the gut, flushing his intestines into a pan balanced over the sink. “Hmm, what?” He stared at the Saudi pathologist, eyebrows arched high over his medical mask.

On the tarp on the counter, Noah’s naked body was cut open from neck to groin, a Y-incision at his collarbone spreading his skin wide. His rib cage had been sawed in half, the top part removed, and his internal organs taken out one by one. Doc whistled Disney songs softly and washed each organ in the kitchen sink.

Adam leaned back against the fridge, close enough to see everything—and smell everything—but far enough back to be out of the way. His fingers drummed over his crossed arms, one foot bouncing against the marble floor.

Faisal hovered far away at the door, pale.

“His teeth are so strange.” The pathologist was knuckles-deep in Noah’s mouth, headlamp shining into his throat. “What was his diet? Did he consume liquids his whole life?”

“He was a red-blooded American. Steak, burgers, and fries.”

“Then his teeth should show more signs of wear, especially along the molars. For a man in his late thirties, I would expect to see much more wear and use. These are the teeth of an adult with the wear pattern of a toddler.”

“He’s supposed to have a tattoo as well.” Adam barely kept his voice from shaking, barely held back the fury coursing through him. “He’s supposed to have a big tattoo, right there.” He pointed to Noah’s bicep, unadorned and skin smooth. “He showed it off when he came back home. I remember it. Perfectly.”

The pathologist frowned.

Doc stared at Adam. Even he didn’t have anything smart to say.

“He didn’t say anything. I thought—” Adam shook his head. “Now I’m wondering if he even knew who I was at all.” He glared at the doctor. “Are there any war injuries? Bullet wounds? Shrapnel? Any scars at all? I know he was fucked-up over there.” Adam braced himself against the counter and stared down at Noah’s cut-open body.

The pathologist shook his head. The autopsy had begun with a full body examination. Other than the bullet hole in his head and two shots to his knees, there was nothing wrong with his body. No scars of any kind. No tattoos.

“L-T?” Doc cocked his head to one side. “Is this the guy you knew? Is this even Noah Williams?”

* * *

Saudi Arabian Coast

“State your name.”

“Leslie. Christina. Spiers.” Leslie spoke slowly, deliberately. Ethan recognized the touch of sedatives in her voice. He crept closer to the screen, watching as a man on the video, his back to the camera, talked to Leslie, seated and restrained in one of the chairs.

“State your age.”

“Forty-five years old.”