She swallowed, nodded.
He worked them over to the arm, his body trembling. Now to get her up—
A hand snaked down over his shoulder. “Reach up and grab my hand, Aggie.”
Orion. Ham looked up and his buddy was leaning down over him, his legs hooked into the girder.
“I . . .” Aggie met Ham’s eyes, hers pleading.
“I got ya,” Ham said and pulled his legs up.
Orion grabbed her wrist, then the other. Suddenly she was swinging free, being hauled up by Orion to the metal arm of the wheel.
Ham hooked his leg on the edge and pulled himself over onto his stomach. His breaths gusted out, hard. He found her ankle and wrapped his hand around it, holding on.
“You’re okay, kiddo,” Orion said. She was crying, Orion’s arms wrapped around her as he held her on his lap.
Ham pushed himself up, not wanting to look down, then trying not to lose it at the distance to the ground. A fist in his chest cut off his breathing.
In the night, sirens blared.
“Here,” said Orion, untangling Aggie from his waist. He turned her toward Ham. “I’m going to check on the kids in the car above, see if they’re okay. Their car didn’t tip as much, but—”
“Go.” Ham pulled Aggie to him.
She hung on, still weeping.
He wanted to cry too. “I got you, honey. Don’t worry. Daddy’s not going to let anything happen to you. You’re safe.”
He closed his eyes and heard the rest of the last conversation he had with Signe.
“She’s safe. I got her.”
“Thank God. Please keep her that way, Hamburglar.”
Yes. No matter what it cost him, he’d keep his daughter safe.
Below, a fire truck had set up, was disengaging the ladder.
“You did good hanging on.”
Aggie sucked in a breath, leaned back, and looked up at him, those big eyes in his, holding him captive. “I was trying to be brave, like Mama always told me to be. She’ll be really proud of me, won’t she?”
And shoot, he couldn’t help but nod.
He wiped her cheek with his thumb and looked out to the lights of the homes that glowed against the darkness. To the horizon and the milky white moon.
To where, somewhere, he just knew Signe was in trouble.
Signe didn’t want to get dramatic, but the fate of the free world was at stake.
But first, she had to finish her cup of coffee.
Quietly. Deliberately. Nothing to see here.
Just a woman sitting in a cafe off the center square of Bad Rappenau, a tiny town southeast of Heidelberg, watching the sun gild the cobblestones and the massive Lutheran church that overlooked the cafe. A nondescript woman in a pair of leggings, boots, a rain jacket, and a hat, her blonde hair tucked up in back. She was wearing sunglasses, but she didn’t look any more like a spy than the man sitting across from her, with short dark hair and a blue jacket, black dress pants. He read a German paper.
Or the man who’d parked his bicycle, wearing skinny jeans and a sweater, a scarf knotted around his neck.
Or even the girl at the counter—short black hair, wearing a dress, leggings, and boots.
See, no spy here.
No dangerous information tucked away in her inside pocket, like a grenade should it make it out into the open.
No deep undercover CIA agent holding the world’s secrets in her jacket. The NOC list. The list of nonofficial covers of operatives around the world.
She glanced toward the center fountain, the four arched cherubs that shot water out of their mouths. The spray caught the sun, arched it into a rainbow.
The old story about Noah hung in her mind, just for a second. Forgiveness. Fresh starts.
Nursery rhymes and stories that had nothing to do with reality.
The bells on the church rang, scattering a grouping of pigeons, and the scent of fresh apple kuchen from the nearby bakery could make her weep if she hadn’t just breakfasted with her old Doctors Without Borders friend, pediatrician Zara Mueller, and her husband, Felix.
Probably she shouldn’t have landed on their front step two weeks ago, but she’d run out of options.
Run out of safe houses.
Run out of hope, really.
Because, according to the latest news on CNN, she was also running out of time.
The man with the paper folded it and picked up his coffee. Looked at her and smiled.
She gave him a quick smile back, then focused again on her phone, not looking at anything but her peripheral surroundings. She sat with her back to the wall, in an outside chair, one ear on the conversation inside the cafe, one eye on the fountain.
Roy was late.
No tall, former SEAL who now worked as . . . well, she didn’t know his job description, really. Just that he was the one guy she could trust to bring an end to this mess.
Probably there was one other former SEAL she could trust too, but she couldn’t involve him.
Roy was supposed to be sitting on the edge of the fountain by the time the last bell tolled, feeding the pigeons. Then, he’d roll up his sleeves so she could identify him by a tattoo of a bonefrog, one of the universal Navy SEAL tats.
She finished her coffee. Glanced at the clock.
Five minutes late.
Yeah, this didn’t feel right. She got up and tucked her jacket around her, not sure what to do. But if Roy was late then—
“It’s a beautiful day.”
The voice, in English, turned her. The dark-haired man who’d sat across from her had also risen.
She stilled, not sure she wanted to speak in English.
He stepped out beside her, close enough to touch her. She closed her hand around a tiny 9mm Luger she’d borrowed from Felix.
Because Felix was on the list. And he had just as much at stake in this meet as she did.
She hoped he was still watching as she ignored the man and stepped into the square, intending to take a walk around the block and maybe through the gardens of the nearby castle as she figured out her next move.
Felix and Zara were probably growing tired of her bunking in their spare room.
“Why didn’t you just destroy the list?” Zara’s question lingered in Signe’s mind as Zara made spätzle and sausage last night, her hair tied back in a handkerchief, so much like the days when they served in the refugee camp together.
Well, actually, Signe was there for other reasons, using the organization to position herself to be in the right place, right time.
Zara was supposed to be her in-country contact, a plan that Signe had talked the pediatrician into.
Signe never planned on staying ten years.
But then again, back then she didn’t look too far ahead. Because she’d learned that you simply couldn’t trust plans.
The only one you could really count on was yourself.
Well, and maybe Hamilton Jones, but . . . yeah, she’d burned that bridge one too many times.
Love versus her country. Oh, her misplaced ideals had cost her—and Ham—so much. And for what? So she could spend ten years waiting for a warlord to hatch a terrorist attack she hadn’t been able to stop anyway.
She should have escaped years ago, but, well, Aggie.
Pavel never let Aggie too far out of his eyesight.
She’d simply gotten lucky, and maybe brave, that night three months ago on his yacht in the Ionian Sea.
“I can’t destroy it,” she’d said to Zara last night, running her thumb over the edge of her teacup. Felix was out, securing her a fresh German passport. She had her American version, and a Russian Federation version, but it would be easier to travel in the EU with something from the European states. “The NOC list isn’t just a Word doc that anyone can open. It comes with layers of encryption, and each copy comes with a master key that is unique to the user authorized to open it. Which means the file contains metadata that can tell us who sold the list out of US hands.” And prove her theories abo
ut a traitor at the helm of the US government.
“How did you get it away from Tsarnaev?”
Oh, that was a story she didn’t want to detail. The short of it, however, was, “I blew up his yacht. Stole a dinghy, dropped my daughter on shore, and ran.”
It was just as terrible as it sounded and she looked away, outside, across the red-clay roofed buildings.
Zara had paused then, turning to look at her. “Hamilton’s child.”
She’d only been barely pregnant when they’d been attacked, but even before that, Zara had been there when Ham reappeared in her life and nearly wrecked Signe’s big plans.
Nearly made her abandon her vision, her ideals, and run into his arms.
She’d been strong for her country.
No, she’d been a fool. And clearly was still a fool. Because what if she’d stayed with Aggie and returned home, with Ham?
Well, really, maybe they’d all be dead.
“Did he know about her?” Zara asked.
“Not a clue.”
Zara raised an eyebrow.
“I couldn’t jeopardize my cover with Tsarnaev. So . . .”
“So you raised your daughter in a terrorist camp.”
Signe’s mouth tightened, and she looked away. “It wasn’t like that.” But yes, it felt like it. “When I realized I was pregnant, it was too late.” She looked back at Zara. “At least she’s safe now.”
“With that SEAL.”
“He’s not a SEAL anymore, but yes. Hamilton has her. Nothing is going to happen to her on his watch, I guarantee it. He’s like a Doberman about the people he loves.”
About her, really.
Oh, he hadn’t deserved the way she treated him.
“Which is a good thing because I’ve got a target on my head. If I step foot in the US, they’ll either label me a terrorist, because of my years with Tsarnaev, or the company will grab me and . . . well, you’ve heard the rumors, right?”
Zara had gone back to stirring. “About a rogue faction in the CIA who have aligned with Russia and are trying to derail the election?”
Uh, yeah?
Zara glanced over her shoulder. “I also heard some rumors that there might be a contract out on you.”
Signe stilled. But she should have expected that.
Zara had lost weight after her escape from Chechnya, but then again, being nearly kidnapped by a warlord probably sent her into some kind of PTSD. The fact that she met and married Felix made Signe wonder what kind of counseling Zara had received. Felix had been in the KSK, German special forces, but now sold books at a local used bookstore.
Right.
Now, with the meet a bust, the last thing they needed was trouble invading their lives. She’d have to figure out somewhere else to lie low—
“Signe.”
Her name on the man’s lips stilled her, and she cringed, painfully aware of her stupidity. She kept walking.
“Roy sent me.”
No, no—she didn’t stop. Because he’d have to say—
“The sparrows don’t fall without someone watching.”
She stopped, glanced over her shoulder. The man was a few steps behind, his hands out where she could see them. Okay, so maybe . . .
He gestured into a walkway between the buildings that led out through a park.
Stores had begun to open, a bus stopped nearby and let out passengers. A few wandered through the square.
And from the churchyard, Felix was watching. Please, follow me . . .
Except, maybe not. Because people who followed her usually ended up getting hurt. The last thing she wanted was to see one of her oldest friends get burned, or worse.
But maybe, if this wasn’t a setup, and she played the game right, they’d all be safe.
She could stop running.
And maybe, someday, go home.
“Don’t try to find me.”
Her words to Ham still burned her throat.
So she slowed and let the man catch up.
“Where’s Roy?”
“Something came up. He sent me.”
“Who are you?”
“The name’s Martin. Do you have it?”
It was the way he said it. Not the words as much as the tone. Reminded her way too much of Pavel, of the way he’d get when he was annoyed.
And then people got hurt.
She had learned how to handle him. “No. But it’s close.”
“Didn’t trust Roy, huh?” He ended with a chuckle, as if the lives of two hundred people working as nonofficial CIA operatives undercover around the globe was something to be dismissed.
Yeah, it irked her.
“There’s a lot at stake,” she said calmly, as they came out to the street. Across the street, a cafe hosted breakfasters under red umbrellas. Cars slowed as they drove by on the cobblestone. “The security of our government.”
“Which is why we need to get it into safe hands.”
Right.
“I’ll get it, and meet you back here in an hour.”
He grabbed her wrist. “Or, you could take me with you.” His fingers bore into her bones. She wanted to twist out of his hold, but here they were, in the middle of the street.
And that’s exactly what Pavel would do. Get her in public where she couldn’t run and start the threats. Threats that became reality in private.
“Let go of me,” she said softly.
“Give me the list,” he said, closing the gap between them.
She pressed the nose of the Luger into his gut. “Step back.”
He raised an eyebrow, and for the first time, she got a good look at him. A scar across his right eyebrow shadowed dark brown eyes, and pockmarks on his face betrayed an acned youth. Maybe six foot, he bore the brawn of a thug in his shoulders and eyes.
He smiled. “I walk away, and your friend dies.”
She drew in a breath.
He pulled his phone from his pocket. Showed her a snapshot.
Felix, blindfolded, wearing the clothes he’d had on when she’d left his flat. Clearly, he’d been taken from the churchyard, and now a gun was held to his head. It looked like . . . yes, he was in his flat, in his kitchen, which meant—
“Don’t make us kill him with the wife watching.”
Oh—see, this was why she couldn’t go home. Because no matter where she went, trouble followed.
People died.
She swallowed hard. “You work for her, don’t you?”
Martin cocked his head. “We both work for her.”
She shook her head as he put the phone away. “I never wanted this. This was not the plan—”
“I’ll count, if that makes it easier. One—”
“This is treason, you know. People who gave their entire lives for their country—”
“Two.” His hand went around her gun and drew it out of her grip. Smiled.
A car drove by. Pigeons scattered.
“Three—”
A shot cracked the air and Martin jerked back, away from her.
Signe spun, not looking to see if he was wounded, and took off. Back through the alleyway, into the square, up the hill toward the church, past it, along a footpath to a restaurant. Up the back stairs, three flights.
The apartment door hung open. A whistle shrilled the air.
“Zara!”
Her friend’s body lay in the foyer, the blood sticky, drying from the wound across her neck, her eyes glassy.
No—no— “Felix!”
She edged past Zara toward the tiny kitchen.
The teakettle sounded from the stove, the steam sweating the cupboards.
The kitchen had been destroyed, the table overturned, chairs broken.
Felix lay on the floor, bruises covering his face, his hands over his gut where blood streamed out between his fingers. The blindfold had been ripped off.
She grabbed a rag and shoved it against the wound. Deep, his intestines spilling out—he’d been gutted. “Felix—I’m here—”
/> He opened his eyes, seeing her, gasping, and let out a moan. “Go—”
“No, I’m staying—”
“Run!” His voice died, breaths coming fast. “Can’t . . . they can’t . . . find—”
Footsteps up the stairwell made him grab her shirt with his bloody hand. “Out the window—”
She was on her feet, pushing open the tiny window that led out to the clay-tiled roof. The red tiles broke off as she scampered across them.
She ran to the edge. The house dropped away into a thin alleyway, three stories down.
The next roof was six feet away.
She backed up, glanced behind her.
A man was coming out Felix’s window.
She turned around and sprinted off the roof. Bit back a scream as her arms windmilled, her legs running—
She landed hard, kicking off tiles, scrambling for purchase.
Found her feet.
The man had cleared the window, was running across the roof.
She jackrabbited across the top, the tiles sliding out beneath her feet. She fell and slid down the slanted roof, tiles flying off the top like dominos.
She stopped just as she careened over the side, her fingers digging into the sharp lip at the edge of the roof.
Kicking, she tried to hook her ankle on the edge of the roof. It slipped and she fell, one grip dislodging.
She pawed at the top, her left hand straining to hold her.
Footsteps ran across the roof, the man having also jumped the gap.
She looked down, her hold disintegrating.
A balcony jutted from below her, maybe ten feet down.
And if she missed it . . . the ground, another forty feet.
Jump, just be brave—
“Gotcha!”
A hand closed around her left wrist.
She looked up at her captor. She’d seen him at the cafe, the bicyclist in the skinny jeans.
Zara’s words from last night stabbed at her—“I also heard some rumors that there might be a contract out on you.”
This was not over.
Because the fate of the free world was at stake.
She lifted her leg and drew out her Ka-Bar from her boot, ran her blade across his knuckles.
He shouted, let her go.
She pushed off the edge.
Fell.
Dropped hard onto the balcony. Pain streaked up her ankle and maybe she’d twisted it.
The Price of Valor Page 2