“Is she in danger?” Gerri asked, her voice shaky.
Um, good bet, but he didn’t want to add to her worry. “She’s smart, Ma. Probably smarter than all of us. After all, she did graduate with a minor in Russian. She speaks it fluently.”
“She would never kill anyone…” Gerri pressed her hand to her mouth.
And probably it was precisely that look that had kept his brothers silent.
“Don’t worry. I’m going to find her. I’m going to get her back.” The words just spilled out, but yes, that was exactly his plan. And he’d do it with or without his brothers.
“Ford, let’s be serious. How are you going to do that?” Wyatt said. He walked over to the island, stood behind a stool. “She’s in Russia, for Pete’s sake—”
“Really, Wyatt? Really? What the heck do you think I do for a living? It may come as news to you, but SEALs are often used for hostage recovery.”
“Is she a hostage?” Gerri said.
He turned to his mother. “No—of course not.” Or, he didn’t think so—
“But you don’t know that.”
Now he just wanted to restart his morning, maybe grab Tate for a private powwow in the garage.
“We could ask Isaac White,” Hardwin said quietly. He had slowly worked his way over to Ford’s mother, put his arm around her. “Isaac is a presidential candidate. He’d get access to briefings all over the world, even if he isn’t yet president. We could ask him.”
Ford blinked at him a long moment, then he turned to Tate.
His brother was already tracking with him. “I don’t know, bro. I mean, we could ask Glo’s mother to hook us up—they are running together.”
“Maybe my mother knows something,” Glo said.
“Oh, for cryin’ out loud. I’ll just call him.” Hardwin pulled out his cell phone.
And then, as the family stared at him, the man connected with the candidate for president. “Zac. It’s Hardwin, how are you doing? Say, we have a small family incident and need a favor. I’m cashing in on that fly-fishing trip thing.”
Hardwin listened, chuckled. “Right. What happens in Montana…you got it. My lips are sealed.”
Ford managed to close his mouth.
“Perfect. So, Gerri’s little girl has gone missing, and we need to track her down. Can you help?” A pause. “Super.”
And for the first time in what felt like a week, Ford stopped drowning.
York really didn’t want to like her.
Ruby Jane Marshall had disaster written all over her in big neon I-AM-CIA letters. He should have seen it the moment he’d spotted her. The woman had stood under a stinkin’ streetlamp, for heaven’s sake, dressed like a spook, from her black suit jacket to her sensible black flats.
And it wasn’t just her clothing—Russian women, at least the ones younger than babushka age, knew fashion. Wore clothes that came off the runways of Milan.
At least in Moscow.
Yes, Ruby Jane, CIA analyst, was a tragedy waiting to happen. Probably to him.
From the moment Ruby Jane Marshall had sent him that first email—and yes, she sent it to his private, encrypted account, but it was so obviously from an amateur—he knew he couldn’t close his eyes.
He should have closed that account two years ago. But it kept him alive. He’d tried to wave her off by not responding to her emails. But they kept coming. One after the other, hour by hour, and with her travel plans included for every hacker to discover.
Or just one, as it turned out. The wrong one.
York blamed his stupid curious—and bleeding—heart for getting him into this one.
“How do I look?”
York was leaning against the doorjamb, his arms folded as she came out of the bedroom.
Leather pants hugged her legs, a fuzzy off-the-shoulder black shirt showed off her pale shoulders, and big gold loops hung from her ears.
Oh boy. Okay, so maybe even he wouldn’t recognize her.
She wore her dark hair down, sable brown and shiny, and even without makeup, the woman’s blue eyes felt too big, too probing, like they could take him apart if he connected too long.
Maybe see his demons.
Still. Uh-huh. He held in the deep hum of appreciation that rippled through him and managed a cool nod.
Okay, he liked her. A little.
She was tougher than he’d given her credit for when he’d chased her down the street. She’d been acting more on impulse than smarts after seeing General Stanislov go down. York didn’t have to connect the dots to figure out she’d been set up, given her expression when Stanislov was shot. But when she hit the dirt, responding to the shouts of the general’s security, when he saw the gun bounce out of her purse, York took off running.
He hadn’t been exactly sure what he was going to do, really, if the FSB got their hands on her, but he hoped to intercept her before that happened.
The woman possessed legs. And not just for running, because those leather pants slid like a second skin over her and—
Okay. Stop. He clearly hadn’t been around an American woman for a while. He hadn’t meant to sound annoyed, or even belittling, earlier. He was simply still trying to unsnarl his brain, figure out who might have set her—them?—up.
And how was he going to get them out of the city?
Them? No, her.
He had reasons to stay.
“That’ll do,” York said now in response to her question and ignored the tiny frown, the dip of disappointment on her face.
He wasn’t here to make friends.
“Let’s get going.” He held out her black jacket and she slid it on. Then she stood up and slipped on those ugly flats. But he couldn’t really make her wear heels—not if they ended up running.
“Ready,” she said. “Where are we going?”
“Lots of places,” he said. “But I’m hoping to end up at my friend Kat’s place.”
“Why? Can she make fake passports?”
He frowned at her. “No. This isn’t a James Bond movie. I’m not scoring you a fake passport.”
Yet.
Okay, that might be a good idea.
“Sorry. I just thought…how are you going to get us out of the country?”
“You, sweetheart.” He reached for the door. “I’m getting you out. I’m not leaving. And, I’m working on it.”
She touched his arm.
He looked up.
“You call me sweetheart again,” she said with a smile that looked friendly enough, but—“and I’ll start referring to you as Sugar Pie. Maybe even Pumpkin. So, RJ is good. Not toots. Not even honey. Are we clear, shug?”
Wow. “Fine.” He shrugged off her touch. “Stay behind me, and don’t talk. We’re going to take the metro, get off a couple places, get back on, circle around, and end up on the north side of the city.”
Then she shocked the life out of him by responding with a “Nyet problemo, tovarish.”
He frowned.
“Ya gavaroo pa-ruski, svo ravno.”
She spoke Russian? And clearly knew the vernacular.
“Hatleechnya,” he said. Terrific. “Paidyom.” Let’s go.
He wanted to add a bweestra, as in Keep up, but it felt a little petty.
“I’m not sure why you saved me if you’re so angry with me.”
Him either. He softened his voice. “I’m not angry. I’m just…just stay with me.”
She was on him like glue as they left the flat. A light buzzed, flickering in the darkness. She gripped the back of his jacket and followed him down the stairs.
They entered the street, the smells of Moscow rising up to fill his senses—garbage from the nearby dumpster, dust that layered the streets, and the finest hint of late-blooming lilacs. He took her hand to keep her from stumbling, gripped it hard, and strode into the darkness.
She kept up, no words spoken.
They walked out of the courtyard, down the sidewalk, passing ancient buildings with ornate cornices—orange plas
tered Stalin-built apartments, and the squatty cement flats of the Brezhnev years. As they neared the subway, the new Russian buildings, with gated entrances and high-tech designs revealed the new money flowing into the city.
He led them into the subway, scanned his ticket, waited as RJ scanned hers, and stepped through the turnstile. He took her hand again, and they rode the massive escalator down to the tunnels.
Built as bomb shelters, the tunnels—with statues of laborers, famous Russian icons, elaborate murals, and fancy chandeliers—always felt to York like he was entering the Cold War. And of course, echoing through the chambers of the underground caverns, he always heard Tasha’s voice. It’s like heaven underground.
Hardly, but she’d been a dreamer.
The kind of dreams that got people killed.
No, murdered.
“Vso normalna?” RJ asked, her voice soft next to his ear, her breath light on his skin. He glanced at her.
Nothing would ever be normal again, but he didn’t say that. Just nodded.
Swallowed against his tightening throat.
Clearly the woman didn’t have to look into his eyes to dismantle him.
He led her through the tunnels to the purple line that dissected the city east to west, and when the doors opened to the mostly-empty-at-this-time-of-night car, he pulled her in and stood with her at a pole.
Maybe he should have opted for rush hour to travel through the city, when they could blend into the crowd. Then again, with RJ’s picture still flashing on screens, that meant more eyes on her.
He turned to her. She was holding the pole, facing him, and he had this crazy urge to wrap his arm around her, tuck her in a little closer.
Old habits rising to haunt him.
The doors closed, and the car lurched forward, gathering speed, the velocity shaking the compartment. An elderly woman held her dog on her lap. A young couple sat on a bench, reading their phones. No cell reception down here, but maybe that didn’t matter.
When he turned back to her, RJ was watching him. Smiled.
“Don’t,” he whispered.
She frowned.
“Don’t smile. You look like an American.”
She nodded and looked away, and he felt like a jerk.
They got out three stops later, and he pulled her onto a semi-crowded platform in the center of the city. They took the escalator up, then crossed tunnels and descended again, getting on the orange line.
She kept her head down, not even glancing at a couple of militia officers standing guard near one of the elaborate pillars. But she wove her fingers through his, hanging on, the barest evidence of her fear.
They rode the orange line to the ring around the city, changed trains, took that west, got off, and took the red line north, back to the center.
That’s when he noticed them. A couple of guys in black jackets, close-clipped haircuts, and the look of thugs, who got on at Octoberskaya, rode to Park Culturi with them, then followed them through the station.
“We have a tail,” he whispered, leaning close as if they might be a couple. “We’re going to wait until the last moment, then get off at the next stop.”
She nodded. And when the car stopped, acted like she might be staying put.
A business man got on. York glanced at the men standing at the end of the car. Watched the timer click down.
The doors started to close, and he tugged her hand.
She was already on his heels, barely darting through before the doors slammed shut.
He didn’t stop, but turned and headed through the station. Arbotskaya. White arches, red marble wainscoting, and beautiful chandeliers from the 1930s. One of Tasha’s favorite stations.
He ascended the escalator, walking instead of riding, stopping, nearly out of breath, when he reached a woman toting a wire grocery basket.
RJ stepped up next to him, curling her hand over his shoulder, leaning in to share a space meant for one.
“Kto?” she whispered, asking who the tail might have been.
“I don’t know,” he answered in Russian.
She stayed quiet then until they reached the surface and he popped them out into the street.
The streetlights of the Arbat shopping district cast a beauty upon the ancient cobblestones that he once loved to stroll. By day, the street became a tourist haven, with mime artists, watercolorists, caricaturists, troubadours, and dancers performing for rubles. Souvenir vendors sold everything from matryoshka dolls to prints of the Kremlin. What he wouldn’t do for a fresh chebureki, but the food vendors had closed for the night.
Now, York quick walked them down the street, finally ducking into a side road, then back the opposite direction.
“Where are we going?”
He wasn’t exactly sure, his gut guiding him. They emerged out to a park, and he recognized a monument to one of Russia’s literary figures, Nikolai Gogol.
He stopped at the fence cordoning off the marble statue. In the distance, St. Basil’s Cathedral rose in its onion-domed glory, lit up by the lights from Red Square.
“Is that the Kremlin?” RJ asked, nodding to the also brightly lit red-walled fortress near the cathedral.
“Yes.”
“I’ve heard stories, but never…well, it’s different to be here.”
He turned and sat down on the fence. “Stories from where? School?”
“No, actually. My foster sister, Coco. She’s half Russian and lived the first ten years of her life in Moscow. Her mother was a friend of my mother’s, and when she left her husband—a Russian—she moved to Montana. She died when Coco was fourteen, so she moved in with us for a few years. We all consider her a sister. She moved back to Russia a few years ago and we’ve sorta lost touch. I think she lives here, in Moscow, but I’m not sure.”
The wind caught RJ’s dark hair, twined it around her face. York resisted the urge to reach up and tuck it behind her ear. She had pretty lips and a determined set to her expression as she stared out toward Red Square.
She was pretty, in a natural, not-forced sort of way. The kind of pretty that seemed easy, the girl next door. As if she didn’t have to try.
Maybe that’s why she stood out. Russian women were breathtaking, but they spent hours on their makeup, their clothing, their appearance. And sure, that was a generalization, but he had firsthand experience.
Tasha never left the flat without her face and heels on, and he’d always felt a little low-class next to her. Then again, when a kid grew up in Siberia on the edge of poverty, a woman like Tasha was out of his reach.
And maybe RJ was too, in a different kind of way.
RJ was innocent. Sweet.
And hello, definitely out of his reach because what was he thinking?
“Let’s go,” he said and started to get up.
But she put her hand on his chest, pushed him back down. And then, in a second that had him blindsided, she stepped close to him, grabbed his face and…kissed him?
He couldn’t move, the action so crazy he didn’t know what to think. But there she was, her arms sliding around his neck, deepening her kiss like they might be lovers out for a moonlight stroll.
He wanted to push her away. Wanted to unwrap her arms. Wanted to ignore the softness of her lips, the sweet way she coaxed his mouth to submit.
Wanted to…kiss her back. The thought rose inside him, crested over him, and swept away the walls of resistance. He found his hands coming up to wrap around her waist, to pull her closer, and surrendered to the urgency of her mouth.
He hadn’t realized he was so thirsty, but he drank in the unexpected nourishment, the camaraderie of her kiss. She smelled of the night, rich with the thrill of danger and the sense of the unknown, and tasted a little of the tea she’d drunk, tangy. He wanted to weave his fingers through her silky hair…and really, he didn’t care why she was kissing him. Just that…
Why was she kissing him?
He was coming back to himself with that thought when she leaned back and met his
eyes.
He was breathing a little too hard for his own taste.
She smiled, something of triumph in her eyes, and leaned into his ear, as if she might be trailing kisses down his neck. “Are they gone?”
His skin tingled at the whisper touch of her lips. But, are who…what? He pulled away from her, looked around.
Two militia officers had strolled by, their backs now to him as they continued down the park.
She glanced their direction, then back to him. Stepped away. “Sorry. I didn’t know what else to do.”
Uh huh.
“I figured it was what Sydney Bristow would do.”
He stared at her, not sure if she was making a joke. Words, he needed… “Good job.”
Oh, he felt like a klutz. Especially when she took his hand again. “Back to the metro?”
Please. Preferably at a full-out run.
They walked in silence back to Arbatskaya, got on the metro, and took it back out to the ring, then around to the purple line.
He couldn’t look at her, not with the taste of her still on his lips, the memory of her molding her body to his.
She kissed like she’d meant it.
And it had all been a lie.
He didn’t know what to do with his emotions, the ones that had him both wanting to dump her as quickly as possible and…
And okay, maybe kiss her again. This time in a place where he didn’t have to wonder why she was kissing him back.
That thought unnerved him most of all.
Yes, this woman was danger.
His hand started to sweat in hers. Miraculously, she still held on.
By the time they got off at Street 1905, the night had deepened, the stars crystalline overhead. Where they were outside the city, the traffic felt less hurried, the danger a low hum. He debated letting go of her hand, then decided against it, in case they needed to run.
Kat lived in a four-story Stalin-era flat with high ceilings. Someone had installed security, and now he buzzed for her.
“Da?”
“It’s York,” he said in Russian, and the door buzzed.
He took the stairs up by memory in the darkness, and RJ returned to holding his jacket.
She didn’t take his hand again as he stopped in front of a metal door, not unlike prison bars, and rang the bell.
Ford Page 6