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Back Point of Contact Save as PDF
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
  16. 13
  17. 14
  18. 15
  19. 16
  20. 17
  21. 18
  22. 19
  23. 20
  24. 21
  25. 22
  26. 23
  27. 24
  28. 25
  29. 26
  30. 27
  31. 28
  32. 29
  33. 30
  34. 31
  35. 32
  36. 33
  37. 34
  38. 35
  39. 36
  40. 37
  41. 38
  42. 39
  43. 40
  44. 41
  45. 42
  46. 43
  47. 44
  48. 45
  49. 46
  50. 47
  51. 48
  52. 49
  53. 50
  54. 51
  55. 52
  56. 53
  57. 54
  58. 55
  59. 56
  60. 57
  61. 58
  62. 59
  63. 60
  64. 61
  65. 62
  66. 63
  67. 64
  68. 65
  69. 66
  70. 67
  71. 68
  72. 69
  73. 70
  74. 71
  75. 72
  76. 73
  77. 74
  78. 75
  79. 76
  80. 77
  81. 78
  82. 79
  83. What’s next onyour reading list?

By the time Jack finally made it to the guesthouse, the driveway was covered with an inch of water. His boots splashed as he dashed for the front door. He fumbled with his key but finally unlocked it and stepped into the tiled hallway, where he shook off his raincoat and hung it up. He thought about calling out to Paul, but if he was sick he might be asleep and Jack didn’t want to wake him. Paul seemed a little rough around the edges this morning; Jack assumed it was another hangover, but maybe he was wrong and Paul had picked up a bug.

Jack kicked off his soaking-wet boots before planting his feet on the carpet and heading upstairs, not quite jogging, but at least he wasn’t limping. He was still stiff and sore as hell, though. When he got back downstairs to the kitchen he’d scarf down some more Advil.

He walked down the hall to Paul’s room. The door was open. The bed was made and the room empty.

No Paul.

Jack sped back downstairs to the kitchen, calling out, “Hey, Paul! You around?” as he yanked open the drawer with the Advil. Jack tossed a couple tablets into his mouth and took another swig out of the kitchen faucet to wash them down.

“Paul?” Still no answer.

Where the hell was he?

57

Jack headed for the living room, searching for Paul. Maybe he was passed out on the couch.

Jack turned the corner and stopped in his tracks.

The glass coffee table, lamps, mirrors—all smashed. Pictures were knocked off the walls, sofa pillows scattered everywhere, chairs overturned.

It must have been one helluva fight.

“PAUL!”

Jack dashed through the living room and back into the kitchen, then out the back door and into the pouring rain toward the garage. He kept calling out Paul’s name, but there wasn’t any response.

Jack ran back into the kitchen, socks soaking wet, water dripping onto the floor from his jacket. He pulled out his cell phone. No texts from Paul, no e-mails, no voice mails, no missed calls.

Jack punched the speed dial for Paul. The phone rang. It went to voice mail.

“Paul, where the hell are you? Call me as soon as you get this. You all right, buddy? I’m worried.” Jack hung up.

What to do? His phone rang.

“Paul?”

“Sorry, just me,” Gavin said. “You want me to call back?”

“No, Gav. Sorry. What’s up?”

“Those photos you sent? The fingerprints? Man, what have you got yourself into?”

“What did you find out?”

“Three of the guys came up zilch. I think I know why. The fourth I found—but it wasn’t easy. In fact, it was a real bitch. I don’t know how many DoD alarms I might have tripped getting it, either.”

“If it wasn’t easy for you, Gav, it would’ve been impossible for anybody else.”