Page 137 of Tom Clancy Line of Sight

“Good work, son. Gavin will take it from here,” President Ryan said.

Jack hung up, relieved that the launcher and rockets were taken off his plate. Now he could focus on finding Aida and Brkic and make them pay for their crimes.

—

Jack sped over to the front of the house and climbed the porch as quietly as possible, the big chromed Colt in his hand. He listened again. Thought he heard some noise inside, but he couldn’t tell what. No voices, though. If it was Aida, she was likely by herself.

Jack carefully turned the unlocked door handle and gently pushed the door open, trying not to make a sound as he slipped inside.

He stood in a living room. There were two doors on the left, both open. One was an empty bedroom with bunk beds, the other a bathroom.

To his right was a staircase leading to the second story.

A closed, swinging door was on the wall opposite him. A kitchen, he guessed.

The living room was strangely familiar. He’d seen it before in the video Gavin had pulled of Brkic. A giant black AQAB flag was nailed to a wall, and the video camera Brkic used to record himself was still on its tripod in front of the folding chair he was sitting in when he made it. The only thing that was missing was the rifle—and Brkic.

The noise was louder now, coming from the other side of the swinging door in front of him.

Thumping. Zipping. Footsteps.

Jack stepped forward as softly as possible.

Right onto a squeaking board.

Shit.

Jack froze. Listened. Nothing.

Wait. In the distance. A sound, muffled. Music. Singing? He wasn’t sure. Not in the house. Where? The shed, maybe? If so, it must have been loud as hell for him to hear it all the way in here.

A loose floorboard creaked on the other side of the swinging door.

Jack cocked his head, listening.

Suddenly, heavy footfalls stomped and crashed. Aida was running away.

Jack charged for the kitchen.

Three gunshots blasted through the door as he reached it, forcing him back.

He counted three, then kicked the door open. He charged in, gun up, ready to fire.

Nobody there.

Just an old farm table with a few stacks of bundled euros on it, left behind in a rush.

Feet thundered down a flight of stairs on his right. An open door, leading to a stairwell.

He dashed to the open door, stopped. Cool, musty air rose up from the dank basement below. He ducked his head around the corner, pulled it back—

Three more shots rang out from the bottom of the stairs. Jack felt the overpressure brush against his face like an invisible hand. The rounds crashed into the wall to his left. He reached his hand around the corner and fired off three shots down into the dark, expecting to hit nothing.

He didn’t. But they did the job. Reconnaissance by fire. Nobody fired back.

Five shots left in his eight-shot magazine.

He dropped down low and took another quick look. Nothing. Not even a sound.