Page 23 of Tom Clancy Line of Sight
The bench seat was wet, but Jack was wearing waterproof pants. He swept away a tiny puddle of rainwater and pine needles before sitting as the woman unzipped her pack.
She pulled out a bottle of white wine and handed Jack a corkscrew. “If you don’t mind?”
“No, happy to.” Jack jammed the bottle between his thighsand grabbed the corkscrew as she set a styrofoam cup on the tabletop.
“I only have one cup. Is that okay?”
“That issookay,” Jack said as he stripped away the foil from the top of the bottle, his eyes focused intently on the task.
The woman reached into her pack again, and out of the corner of his eye Jack saw her pull out a finely hammered blade, no doubt to cut the cheese and sausage. She drew the knife out in a singular, deliberate motion, the muted sunlight glinting on the highly polished steel.
The gleaming blade flashed high in his peripheral vision. Jack twisted his upper body just as the razor-sharp tip sped past his left shoulder, the right-handed strike clearly aimed for his heart. Before Elena could draw it back for a reverse slashing cut across his throat, Jack seized her wrist in his right hand and yanked it back across the table, throwing her off balance despite her surprising strength. That didn’t keep her from launching a punch at his face with her left hand, but there was no leverage behind it and she managed only a harmless glancing blow to his temple.
Jack drove all of his weight onto her trapped arm, hyperextending her elbow with a sickening crunch and twisting her wrist with both of his hands, snapping ligaments and separating the carpal bones from the ulna. Her hand released the knife and it fell into the wet grass.
Elena’s face was close to his, and her wounded yelp barked in his ear. But the yelp morphed into a raging snarl and she lunged at him with an open mouth to bite his face. Jack swung a heavy elbow into her jaw that snapped her head back, giving him enough time to raise the same arm up and drop a crushinghammer blow to the side of her skull with his fist, slamming her head into the mossy wood, knocking her out instantly.
He leaped to his feet, gasping for breath, his body surging with adrenaline and fury.
What the fuck just happened?
14
THE MONTENEGRO–BOSNIA BORDER
The Happy Times! eight-passenger van pulled to a stop a few meters in front of the one-lane trestle bridge to let the southbound Volkswagen coupe with German plates exit, its tires thumping on the wooden planks. The white-haired driver snarled in aggravation, raising a withered hand to shield his eyes from Emir’s headlights. Without so much as a thank-you, the old man gunned the engine and sped away.
Emir ignored the insulting lack of courtesy and bit his tongue, knowing his passengers were paying close attention now that they were about to cross the border. He assured them it was a quick and painless process that involved little more than waving them through or, at most, stamping their passport pages and driving on.
This was a little-traveled crossing, especially at this time of night, and Emir had done it a hundred times if he’d done it once. More important, he knew the customs officer stationedhere on this shift very well, and the man was on the organization’s payroll. He was a good Muslim brother as well. No worries.
But Emir was a cautious man and thumped across the bridge a few kilometers slower than the speed limit permitted, then pulled to an easy stop in front of the barrier arm, which, to his surprise, was in the down position.
What surprised him even more was the customs officer who approached his van. He didn’t recognize the pinched, officious face or the crisp uniform. The fact he was carrying a clipboard was worrisome as well.
“Passports.”
“Is there a problem, sir?”
The man glanced at the rear passenger window. “How many passengers?”
“Six tourists, and myself. Is there a problem?”
“Not if you hand me your passports for scanning.”
“Normally, we just get stamped.”
The man’s eyes narrowed. “Really?”
“Sorry, my mistake. Just give me a moment.”
Emir turned around in his seat and the six passengers passed their passports forward, two sleepy American teenagers in the near bench, two Germans behind them, and two nervous Greeks in the back, a hard-sided Pelican case wedged between them.
While Emir was gathering passports, the customs agent circled the van, casting an inspector’s eye on the vehicle and scratching notes on his clipboard. He circled back around a few moments later, greeted by Emir’s forced, impatient smile.
“Passports,” the man repeated.
Emir handed the stack of them over.
