Page 36 of Enemy Within

How had they lost everything they’d gained?

Like coming full circle, he was back at the prison that had broken so many Russian dreams.

Debris covered the atrium, the foyer. Broken benches, shattered glass, and animal carcasses. Something had lived in the foyer for a while, and had died there, too. He wrinkled his nose and turned left, down the officers’ hallway. Jogging, he passed the warden’s office and kept going, to the officers’ quarters. The first door was broken, and the room was marred with black scorch marks, everything in it ash and twisted metal. The second door was locked.

“Govno!” He kept on, to the third set of quarters, and shoved his shoulder against the door.

It popped open. A dusty, frigid room appeared, like a time capsule from decades past. Two bunk beds in disarray. A closet toppled over, clothes and uniforms spilling every which way.

Perfect.

He set Jack down on the first bed, ripping back the covers and carefully sliding him from his shoulders to the mattress.

Jack didn’t move.

No!He tore at Jack’s jacket, his sweatshirt, his shirt, and his pants. Everything, until Jack was naked, and his pale, blue-tinged body lay still on the bed. Ice crusted and cracked as he removed Jack’s clothes, a thin coating that had frozen around him on their escape. He flung the clothes across the room, as far as he could.

Faintly, barely, Jack’s chest rose and fell.

Still breathing.

Relief crashed into Sergey, a physical blow that almost had him falling to the floor. A sob burst from him as he lunged for the old officers’ clothes, the heavy, discarded jackets and sweaters on the ground. He grabbed everything he could, bringing it back to Jack and piling it around him, over his head and around his feet. He stripped the other bunks, four beds worth of sheets and heavy Siberian blankets, and laid them one on top of the other.

“Hang on. You are going to be all right. I swear it.” He reached for his own jacket and pulled it off, then shrugged out of his sweater. Undid his pants. Slid out of his briefs.

He climbed into the bed beside Jack. Naked skin touched naked skin, and Sergey fought not to leap back, jump away from Jack’s body. His friend was cold, cold enough to steal his breath away.

Sergey wrapped his arms and legs around Jack and turned him on his side until they were pressed together from shoulders to toes. He tucked Jack’s head against his neck, briskly rubbed his hands over Jack’s back. “Jack, Jack… Come back to me. Come back. Ethan is waiting for you.”

Jack keened, almost wailed, and rolled against Sergey. He tried to speak, but his body started to shake, tremble almost uncontrollably. “E-E-Ethan…” he stammered. “T-tell h-h-him—”

“No! You will tell him yourself!” He squeezed Jack, pulling him closer, holding Jack as tight as he could.

Jack rested his cheek on Sergey’s shoulder, exhaled, and went still.

“Jack!” Sergey shook him, grabbed his cheeks. Forced open his eyes. White stared back at him. “No!” He rolled them over, covering Jack’s body with his, and pressed his lips to Jack’s, breathing air into his icy mouth. “Not you too,” he whispered, in between breathing into Jack. “Not you too. Jack!”

16

Ust’Ilga - Southern Siberia

ETHAN STARED AT THE snow-and-dirt-covered road leading to Ust’Ilga. His fingers drummed on the steering wheel, over and over. Beside him, Scott sat, also watching the road, still and silent. The rest of the convoy waited, parked on the side of the road, smoking and bullshitting as they waited for Jack and Sergey’s return.

He lifted the radio to his lips, the one-hundredth time. “Jack, come back.”

Like every time before, static was his only reply.

Exhaling slowly, Ethan closed his hand around the steering wheel, a tight fist that made the leather creak and the dashboard shake.

“It was a long drive after they got across the river. They could still be working their way here.” Scott spoke softly.

“I know.” He purposely unclenched his fingers, lifting them into the air and spreading them wide. “We’ve been down this road before. It’s going to be okay.” He didn’t know who he was speaking to: Scott or himself. Who was he trying to convince?

But they hadn’t seen or heard from their mysterious shooter since leaving the river. Not once had they been fired upon. Not once had they been attacked. Had it just been the river? A local obsessive about his privacy, his space?

Or had the shooter gone after Jack and Sergey instead?

What if it was Moroshkin’s forces?