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Chapters (83)
  1. Cover
  2. ALSO BY TOM CLANCY
  3. PRINCIPAL CHARACTERS
  4. 1
  5. 2
  6. 3
  7. 4
  8. 5
  9. 6
  10. 7
  11. 8
  12. 9
  13. 10
  14. 11
  15. 12
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  34. 31
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  37. 34
  38. 35
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  40. 37
  41. 38
  42. 39
  43. 40
  44. 41
  45. 42
  46. 43
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  48. 45
  49. 46
  50. 47
  51. 48
  52. 49
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  55. 52
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  76. 73
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  78. 75
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  80. 77
  81. 78
  82. 79
  83. What’s next onyour reading list?

The CAPTURE COMPLETE dialogue box appeared. Paul clicked it away just as Bai came through the door. He’d have to wait to try and load the encryption code onto the CIA drive until later. Not a problem. He still had more than twenty-four hours to meet the deadline.

Easy as pie.

—

Jack and Paul drove the short distance back to their guesthouse in silence, the Dalfan security team that Jack had ditched earlier clearly in tow.

“Something wrong?” Jack finally asked as he turned onto their street.

“No. Why?”

“You’re awfully quiet. I figured something was bothering you.”

“Just thinking, that’s all.”

Something was bothering him, but Paul didn’t want to share. When he was finishing up his work at Dalfan he suddenly realized he had messed up his calendar.

Because they had flown halfway around the globe, they were technically on a different day in Singapore at the moment than they would’ve been back home. But home was really his reference point, and that meant today was his wedding anniversary.

The icy grip around his heart was tightening fast.

“Anything you want for dinner?”

Paul hardly heard him. “What? Oh, no. Not really.”

“I might just fix a sandwich, then. You can eat when you’re hungry.”

“Works for me.”

Jack parked the car as the electric gate swung closed behind them, and they headed for the house. The Dalfan security team parked at the curb, determined to not let Jack shake them loose again.

—

Jack wound up boiling water and making himself a bowl of ramen noodles—a flashback to his college days. As terrible for his body as they were—nothing but processed carbs and powdered chicken broth loaded with who knows what chemical compounds—the flavor was comfortingly familiar and he could use the carb boost for what he had planned tonight.

While Jack was pouring himself a glass of cold unsweetened tea from the fridge, Paul fetched a bottle of Bushmills from the pantry. He tossed the first glass down and poured a second.

Jack wanted to say something but held off. Paul’s soft eyes had turned to dark wounds in the last few minutes, and he shuffled around the kitchen as if Jack weren’t even there—or maybe it was Paul who was somewhere else. Jack needed to talk to him at some point about the drinking. Paul could definitely hold his liquor, but in the last few days he’d increased his intake considerably. It couldn’t be from stress—what the hell was there for him to be stressed about? So he must be battling an addiction, Jack reasoned, or a demon—a battle he was clearly losing at the moment. He’d talk to him tomorrow. Tonight he had other plans.