Page 126 of Tom Clancy Line of Sight
No answer.
No gun. No knife. Nothing but his fists. If there was anyone else inside with a gun, he didn’t stand a chance.
He didn’t care.
Jack dashed inside, sweeping his eyes left, then right.
Nobody.
Just the heavy dining table where he and Aida had eaten dinner last night, an open laptop on top.
He listened.
Nothing.
No, wait.
Sobbing.
Jack ran for Aida’s bedroom, kicking the door open. She lay on the bed, fetal, wrapped in a blanket.
“Aida!”
He rushed to the bed. Knelt down next to her, still sobbing. “Are you hurt?”
He rolled her over, carefully.
Aida’s sobs slowed. Her face was covered in her thick hair.
“Oh, Jack.”
He leaned over her, gently pushing her hair aside.
“Aida.”
Her face broke into an aching smile.
And then a laugh.
“Oh, Jack. My beautiful idiot.”
She jammed a Makarov pistol beneath his jaw, her wide blue eyes bright with mischief.
A pistol racked behind his head.
She laughed again. “You are so fucked.”
Yeah. He was.
Idiot.
—
Jack was duct-taped to one of the low-backed wooden chairs from the dining table, from the middle of his shoulders to his elbows. Even his wrists were taped together, hispalms touching as if in prayer, and his forearms lay helpless in his lap.
Aida sat at the table, tapping keys on the laptop next to a burner phone.
No wonder she never picked up her smartphone, Jack thought.
