Page 169 of Enemy Within

HE STOMPED THROUGH THE snow and trees, cursing Sasha with every breath. Sasha had to bury himself in the woods and in the snow. Wasn’t he sick of snow? He had to disappear in one of the most inaccessible parts of the country. He had to be difficult, always.

And then, he stumbled into the clearing.

Ahead, a tiny wooden cabin squatted between the trees in front of a small clearing. A fire pit and a spit, unused, lay covered in snow next to a slushy parking area marred with tire tracks.

Sasha wasn’t home.

He headed for the cabin anyway.

It was old, ancient even, without a door lock. Who would be traipsing through the woods outside of Shipunovskaya, anyway? Not much risk of a robbery there. And, from the looks of it, any potential robbers would go right on by. The only thing valuable about the cabin was the wood it was made of.

He shouldered open the creaking door and ducked into the cramped, one-room shack.

No power, no running water. No kitchen. No doors signaling a toilet. Sasha had a wooden table, hand-carved by Cossacks from the rough look of it, a sagging, broken couch, and a thin mattress on the floor in the corner. A fire lay banked in a stone fireplace opposite the couch. Beside the hearth was a stack of newspapers.

The cabin was bone-crunchingly cold, and he went to the fireplace, grabbing a poker and balling up newspaper to rekindle the flame. He reached for another sheet—

A picture had been cut out, an empty square in the newsprint, beneath a headline he recognized. A headline about him, from a week prior, opening the Duma, the parliament, for the first time after the coup.

Sasha cut out my picture.

His hand hovered over the newspaper, not touching, not moving, as he struggled to process the fact.Sasha cut out my picture.Why? What would Sasha want with his picture? He was the one who had left. He was the one whoalwaysleft.

Sergey tipped his head back, sighing—

He froze, his jaw dropping as he spotted the wall beyond the fireplace, hidden from view by the bulky river rock mantel.

Hundreds of photos and headlines were tacked to the wall. Photos of him, headlines of him, from the day he’d returned to Moscow until just days before. Everything he’d done. Opening the Duma. Addressing the nation. Rebuilding the Kremlin. Visiting towns and cities devastated by Moroshkin and the coup. Working with his legal team on charges for the traitors, and a path forward for the nation. Commending the FSB and the federal police for their staunch support of his government throughout the coup.

Everything he’d done, every moment, Sasha had cut out and kept and had tacked to his wall. Headlines that shouted his deeds. Pictures of him, like a parade, or a shrine.

Why? Why would Sasha track his every move? Cut out his every picture? The stack of newspapers by the fireplace had been cut apart, every item of him taken from the pages and put on the wall.

Sasha was the one who had left. Why would he want to know anything about Sergey, when he was the one who had walked out?

An engine rumbled, drawing closer. Tires slid on snow. Brakes squealed.

Sergey jumped up, running his palms down his coat, nervous energy propelling him. He shifted his weight back and forth across his heels. He didn’t know what to do with his shaking hands.

A truck door slammed outside. Boots crunched through the snow, up the wooden steps of the cabin.

Sergey shoved his hands in his pockets. He took a breath, trying to harden his heart.

Sasha shouldered open the door of the cabin, took two steps in, and stopped in his tracks. Snow slid off his boots and puddled on the roughhewn floor.

He stared at Sergey, his inscrutable expression hard and unreadable. If he was shocked to see Sergey standing in his cabin in the middle of the bitter Russian north, he didn’t show it. He carried a small paper bag in one hand and a paper cup of coffee in the other. Three newspapers were stuffed under his arm.

Seeing Sasha again was like taking a cannon blast to his chest. Sergey blinked, and then nodded to the newspapers. “More pictures for your collection?” He breathed in sharply after he spoke, trying to contain his wince.

Sasha dropped the newspapers, his coffee, and the paper bag on the table and turned, striding out of the cabin.

Fuck. Sergey raced after him, down the uneven wood steps, and out to Sasha’s mangled truck. It looked like a salvage yard reject. Sasha hauled open the tailgate and dragged out a bundle of firewood.

He ignored Sergey completely.

“Sasha… Look at me.”

Nothing. Sasha strode by him, back to the cabin.