Page 151 of Enemy of My Enemy

“What is your name?”

“Leslie. Christina. Spiers,” she ground out. “My husband is Jack Sp—”

Flynn kept going, rapid-fire questions on full blast, never letting Leslie have a moment to think, to maneuver.

“How many others are in your operation? Who else is a part of this mission?”

“There is no mission—”

“Where is Madigan’s current operational location?”

“I don’t kn—”

“How do you communicate with Madigan?”

She leaned forward, snarling. “Fuck yo—”

“What is your name?”

Her hand slammed down on the table, metal jumping. “Leslie! Christina! Spiers!” she bellowed. “Leslie! Christina! Spiers!”

* * *

Next to Jack,Irwin let out a shaky breath.

“Jesus,” Director Mori mumbled, sharing a long, uncertain look with Director Campbell of the FBI.

Jack glared into the interrogation room. She was good. He had to give her that. She had Leslie’s behaviors down, her mannerisms, all the tiny little things she did that made her her. All her imperfections, all her quirks. Her frustration, the quick snap to anger. The tightening of her eyes, the way her fingernails scraped over the skin around her nails. How she bit her lip until her skin frayed.

But she wasn’t Leslie. She wasn’t his wife. No matter how closely she acted, how perfect her behaviors were, she was something else. Something that was trying to steal Leslie’s memory, remake her and use her in some sick, twisted way. He clung to that with both hands.

He kept watching, even as Campbell turned away.

* * *

“Where and whenare you supposed to attack?” Flynn repeated.

“I’m not a murderer,” Leslie hissed through clenched teeth. “But maybe I’ll make an exception for you.”

“You believe you’re her,” Flynn said, leaning back and crossing his legs. “You really do.”

Leslie froze, her eyes going saucer wide as her jaw dropped. She even stopped breathing. Jack counted the seconds until her shoulders rose again. “What?”

“Where and when are you supposed to attack?”

“My name is Leslie. Christina. Spiers,” she repeated.

“Where and when are you supposed to attack?”

“I am forty-five years old—”

“Where and when are you supposed to attack?”

“My husband is Jack Spiers—”

Flynn burst to his feet, flipping the table and sending it flying across the room in one motion. It slammed into the concrete wall with a clang. Leslie jumped, her good hand grasping the arm of her chair as her dead arm flopped uselessly to the side. Flynn caught her, pressing hard on her wrist, grinding it into the metal frame of the chair until she screamed.

“Captain Leslie Spiers died sixteen years ago in Iraq! She died a national hero! You arenothingcompared to her memory!” Flynn shouted in Leslie’s face. The two-way mirror vibrated.