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Chapters (83)
  1. Cover
  2. ALSO BY TOM CLANCY
  3. PRINCIPAL CHARACTERS
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  83. What’s next onyour reading list?

Lian taped Paul’s last finger. “You must stay here and rest. If you go into shock, you can die.”

“Try and stop me, Ms. Fairchild.” Paul started to rise.

Jack laid a hand on his chest. “I’ve got this.”

Paul batted his hand away. “Forget that. You aren’t the one that got played like a ten-cent kazoo. Besides, look at you.”

Jack’s upper right shirtsleeve was bloody where he’d been hit.

“Let me see that,” Lian said. She pulled a razor-sharp blade out of the medical kit and cut away Jack’s shirtsleeve.

“Not too bad,” she said. “Just a graze. Your skin is torn, but there isn’t any muscle or bone damage. Does it hurt?”

Jack’s adrenaline had worn off. “Feels like someone hit me with a branding iron.”

“Give me a minute.”

Lian swiftly cleaned and dressed Jack’s wound. “Besides the antibiotics, I’m applying a topical analgesic. Hopefully that will help with the pain.”

“It already does. Thanks.”

“We’ll have to keep an eye on it, but I don’t think it will be a problem.” She held up the cut-away sleeve. “Sorry about that.”

Paul handed Jack his coat as he sat up with a grunt. “You’ll need this.”

“I wish you’d stay put,” Jack said, as he helped Paul to his feet.

“I wish a lot of things, Jack.” Paul examined his bandaged fingers. “And right now I wish I had a cup of tea.”

“We don’t have a vehicle,” Lian said.

“Their van was out front. One of these guys must have the keys.”

“I’m gonna find my pistol,” Paul said, referring to the pistol Jack had given him earlier, as he reached into the coat pocket of his torturer. He found the pint-sized Makarov and a diplomatic passport—Bulgarian. It said the man’s name was Petrov. Paul doubted it. He shoved it into his pants pocket anyway. He saw a smart leather satchel standing in the corner but didn’t think to check it. He didn’t know that after he had passed out from the pain, Wolz had made a call on a satellite phone to Zvezdev, and when he finished, put the sat phone back in the satchel.

Jack and Lian searched pockets, too. Jack traded his Makarov for the nine-mil Glock Lian’s man had carried. He checked the mag. Thirteen rounds. Luckily, the man carried a second, fully loaded magazine with another fifteen rounds.

“Found them!” Lian shouted, holding the key ring high.

“Let’s roll.”

66

SOFIA, BULGARIA

Worry was Zvezdev’s best friend.

He hadn’t survived KGB handlers, CSS purges, or criminal syndicate killers by being overly optimistic. He always assumed everybody at all times was trying to fuck him.

Because they usually were.

Which was why Zvezdev sat in his private office in his expansive estate, drumming his fingers on the gilded desk, worrying.