“I hope so,” Ford said as they left the hotel.
A linden tree had dropped tiny white flowers on the cobblestones, and a slight breeze reaped the scent from a bush of wild roses.
No romance.
It was hard not to imagine herself hand in hand with Ford as they strolled through the narrow streets past souvenir vendors, mulled-wine stands, and the occasional pastry shop. They meandered the winding streets of Old Town, following a hand-sketched map Ford had procured from the hotel manager, finally turning down a narrow street with an old-world-style hanging sign over the door of a café. The Hog’s Head. The scent of roasted pork seasoned the air as they drew closer.
Scarlett followed Ford inside, through the time warp to a century earlier, where ancient tables hosted intricately carved chairs. A candled chandelier hung from an arched plastered ceiling, and at a long polished bar, a man was filling up steins from a tap.
The café wasn’t heavily populated this time of day—early afternoon. A middle-aged man read a newspaper at a far table. Another man sat with his back to the door—clearly not their target—and a couple huddled over what looked like a— “Is that a hoof?”
“Pig’s foot. It’s a specialty here in Prague.”
“Maybe I’ll just get a coffee.”
Ford glanced at her, smiled, so much warmth in his eyes that for a second, yes, it felt like a date.
Not. A. Date. Sheesh, why did her brain always track that direction?
“I’ll sit at the bar,” she said, but he took her hand and brought her through the place to a back table. “Here. You can see the whole place, and you’re right by the exit if something should go south.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a Bluetooth earpiece, so small as to be hidden in her ear. Then he retrieved one for himself. “Call me. Just sit on the phone quietly so you can hear everything. And if I say I’d prefer a burger, that’s your cue to leave.”
“You’d prefer a burger?”
He shrugged.
“Okay, James.”
“Just…sit down. And listen.”
She rolled her eyes, but sat down at the table, her back to the wall. Ford walked up to the bar and ordered something—a couple of beers by the movements of the bartender. She would have preferred coffee, but she could pretend.
He brought the beer over to her. “I’m going up to the front.”
“I’m dialing right now.”
By the time he sat down, they’d connected, and he slipped his phone into his pocket.
Now, to wait.
She pulled out her phone and pretended to be scrolling.
Watched the man with the paper leave.
Saw the couple laughing as they ate the hoof over fake candlelight.
She’d like to be eating a hoof over candlelight—
Head in the game!
“Here’s our guy,” Ford said quietly as a man entered the threshold. Big guy, yeah, he radiated former military off him in the way he scanned the room, spotted Ford, then walked over to the bar.
He had his shirt sleeves pushed up.
“See the bone frog tattoo?” she asked. Ford had told her about the tat he’d seen on the Skype video.
“I can’t, not from here.”
“Let me see…”
“Red.”
She got up and walked to the bar. Stood next to the man but addressed the bartender. “Can I have a glass of water?”
She glanced over at their target, smiled. “Parched.”
“Red, what are you doing?” Ford hissed into her ear.
The bartender handed her a glass of tap water, warm. She thanked him, casting a surreptitious look at the man’s arm.
Green outline of a frog from his wrist to his elbow.
She walked back to the table. “Confirmed.”
But as she turned to sit down, she startled.
The man had followed her.
“Um…can I help you?”
He stood an easy six foot three, had nearly black hair cut short and dark brown eyes. She placed him in his early thirties.
He wasn’t smiling. “I think I’m here to help you.” He sat down opposite her.
Oh. Um.
“What’s he doing?” Ford said, but she couldn’t exactly answer him back.
“Roy?” she said instead.
“I have to admit, I don’t know why Randall keeps sending the rookies. She’s going to get you all killed.”
Who was Randall? A couple of quick words of panic flashed into Scarlett’s brain. But, hello, she’d spent years rehearsing roles with her mother.
She could do this. Really. Scarlett folded her arms and leaned back, looked at the former SEAL. She knew how to talk to operators. Straight up. No punches pulled. “I’m not quite as fresh as you think. You can’t judge someone by what you see. You should know that. Roy.”
One brow flickered down, then he sighed and nodded. “Whatever. But your friend—Ruby Jane—wasn’t prepared to go in-country. I told her to stay put, let York handle the issue. Now she’s on the run, and she’s not going to make it out of Russia alive.”
Through the comms, Ford drew in his breath.
“You leave that to us. We just need to know how to find her.”
“She’s not with York?”
Oh boy. Stay calm. “We haven’t heard from him.”
Roy looked away. “Fine. I’ll see if I can track him down. But he’s probably in one of his safe houses in Moscow—if he’s found her. And that’s a big if. Do you know what went wrong?”
She shook her head.
He leaned forward. “And what about the general? Is he alive? If he is, he’s still in danger. And so is your operative. Because if she did step in the middle of the hit, and if she saw the shooter, then she’s a target too.”
She nodded as if, of course. And then, because she just, well…okay it might have been a stupid question but, “How do you know that RJ wasn’t the assassin?”
The question lay there on the table, between them, and she could nearly feel Ford’s eyes burning into her.
Roy considered her. “Just how wide is this rogue arm? Seriously—you’re looking at your own operatives?”
She didn’t blink. “Always.”
He gave her a hard look. Finally, “Okay. Listen, like I said, I’ll reach out to York, see if he’s with her. Same number?”
Oh. “No. Burner phone.” She rattled off her cell number, making a mental note to delete her voicemail message.
He seemed to be committing it to memory. Then he reached across the table, took her beer, and swallowed a long draft. Set it down. “I’ll be in touch.”
“Don’t make me wait too long.”
He nodded, then walked out.
The silence on the other end of the phone was nearly deafening. Finally, Ford got up and walked over to the table. Slid out the chair Roy had just vacated.
“You scare me a little.”
“Good.” She smiled at him. “I think I’m ready to try a hoof.”
5
If Damien Gustov had set RJ up, then he wasn’t finished with her.
Which meant that every moment she was in the country was a moment Gustov could run her down, grab her from a crowd, or simply walk up behind her and put a knife into her gut.
And then York would get to watch another woman he promised to protect die under his care.
“You don’t have to hold my hand,” RJ said as he pulled her up from the bowels of the metro out onto Novinsky Boulevard. The rush hour had appeased some as he’d crisscrossed them around town, this time using the crowd to hide her.
The sun had begun to settle beyond the skyline of western Moscow, a brilliant fire that sent streaks of pale orange and pink shooting across the horizon. The smog in the city sometimes combined with the low-lying clouds to create a bruised effect, but tonight it was all smoke and fire along the horizon.
Kat had done well. Put makeup on RJ, hid her hair in a beret, dressed her in a jean skirt, black tights, a pair of boots,
and an oversized sweater. She looked downright European.
He liked the leather better, but he didn’t care what she wore as long as it got her safely to the American Center where his contact would be waiting.
York would get her into the embassy from there, arrange for her transport out of the country.
“What do you mean I shouldn’t trust you?”
She said it low, in English, and he glanced at her. But they were out of the crowd now, walking by storefronts and gated apartments. This part of town was rich with elegant Renaissance-style architecture, groomed sidewalks, and curbside greenery. They passed a newsstand, and he hustled her by.
The last thing she needed was a glimpse of her picture on one of the daily rags.
“I thought you said I should do what you say.”
“You should. I just meant—I’m not a hero, and I don’t want you thinking that.”
“I don’t know. A guy runs me down, drags me to safety, feeds me, and makes sure I get home safely. You’re right. Not a hero at all.”
He rounded on her, and she just stared at him, her eyes hard in his.
A beat passed between them. “I just don’t want you to depend on me, okay? Start thinking I’m going to come to your rescue. I’m not that guy.”
“Why not? Because it seems like you’re exactly that guy, whether you like it or not—”
“No, I’m not.” He glanced around her, then caught her arm and pushed her into an alcove between buildings. “Listen. You need to watch your back. Pay attention to things around you. Something looks suspicious, you take precautions. Cross the street. Detour. Expect danger.” He drew a breath. “You never know when something is going to come out of nowhere and…and—”
“Kill the woman you love?”
He sucked in a breath. What? He was turning away, but she grabbed his jacket sleeve. “York. I know about Tasha. I know Gustov killed her. And that you think he’s after me too.”
Kat had been talking.
“Tasha wasn’t careful. I kept telling her to stop stirring up stories, that if she went sniffing too deep, someone was going to bite back. But she didn’t listen.” He yanked his arm away from her grip. “And you didn’t listen. You just had to come to Russia, just had to show up at the scene of a political assassination. What were you thinking?”
Her jaw tightened. “I was thinking that I didn’t want someone to die if I could stop it. That maybe I had information vital to the safety of the world, and that someone had to do something about it. Because apparently, you weren’t going to.”
His mouth closed, and he shook his head.
“Except…wait.” Her eyes widened. “You were, weren’t you? That’s why you were there. Because…because you knew it was going down, and you wanted to stop it too.”
He looked away.
“See?”
She had a hold of his jacket again, and he glanced over at her, wanting very much to stalk away and leave her here, but…but…shoot.
She was right. He was that guy, and he didn’t like it. “Whatever.”
A tiny smile drifted up one side of her face.
“What?”
“I’m an analyst. It’s what I do.”
She stood there, now grinning at him, and if he thought she was pretty without makeup, he’d underestimated her impact when she added a little glitz. Her pretty blue eyes seemed bigger, brighter, her mouth intriguing with the outline of lipstick. He found himself staring at her lips. Remembering…
Yeah, he needed to get her out of the country—away from him—as soon as he could because he had one goal when he dropped her off.
Find Damien.
Finish what Damien started.
RJ’s smile fell. She let go of his jacket, smoothed it. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry about Tasha.”
He clenched his jaw, a little unnerved by the sudden rush of heat in his throat. “It’s been a long time.”
“I lost my father five years ago. Sometimes it feels as fresh as yesterday. Grief never loses its sting, it just recedes until suddenly, it’s right there, taking you out, right?”
“We need to get going.”
She slid her hand into his. “Why didn’t you just go home after Tasha died?”
“I don’t have a home. My parents were killed when I was a kid, and I grew up with my grandparents. They passed away over ten years ago, so…” He lifted a shoulder. “This is home now.”
“No it’s not. It’s…a safe house. It’s survival.”
He didn’t look at her. “I can’t go anywhere until Damien Gustov is dead.”
She was silent.
He finally met her gaze.
“You blame yourself for Tasha’s death.”
Well, duh. “Let’s go.”
He pulled her out of the alcove and down the street.
“What’s your plan for getting me into the consulate?”
“Remember the part where I used to work in security? We had ways of getting out of the consulate if we were attacked.”
“Really?”
He made a face. “I hate to say this, but—”
“Trust you?”
“Just this once.”
She nodded, smirking. “See?”
Oh brother.
They crossed at a light, and he continued down the sidewalk, the ornate white and gold American Center building on his right, two buildings down. He tugged her toward a two-story apartment building, opened the door, pulled her toward a gated entrance. When he pressed a four-digit code into the keypad, the metal door clicked open.
He led her through and closed it behind him, then knocked at the inside door.
It opened. A bouncer stood in the threshold and York pushed past him, turning to check on her.
Of course RJ stayed practically glued to him.
David Curtiss, Chief of Station, was waiting for him in the anterior room, looking out onto the gated complex of the consulate. Another coded metal door led out into the compound. Mid-forties, short blond hair, military background, David had worked for the embassy for the better part of a decade, but before that he’d worked undercover for various three-letter agencies. He’d taken the embassy job to be near the love of his life, a Russian woman named Yanna. They had two children, married in a church but not by the state according to rumor.
York had never met his wife.
“David.”
The man turned. His gaze cast past York to settle on RJ. He drew in a breath, shaking his head. “You really know how to get into trouble, don’t you, York?”
“She didn’t do it.”
David glanced at RJ, who didn’t move, fierce in her innocence. She opened her mouth as if to speak, but York cut back in.
“I was there. I saw the entire thing go down—she was framed. And my hunch is that Damien Gustov is behind it all. Kat tracked down the emails he intercepted in the communication between Miss Marshall and myself, and Gustov set her up. She needs to get home as soon as possible.”
David held up his hand. “I’ll stop you there. First, Kat emailed me, so I’m aware of your findings. She even sent proof, so I’m inclined to believe you.”
“Inclined? Take a look at the woman. Do you seriously think she’s an assassin?”
“Hey!”
Aw, shoot. “RJ, don’t—”
“No, really. Why couldn’t I be an assassin?”
David raised an eyebrow.
“She’s not, David. Really.”
“I can handle a gun.”
“RJ! Stop talking!” York rounded on her.
She recoiled. Folded her arms. “Yeah, okay. I didn’t do it. But, I…okay, I probably couldn’t, either, but I was there because I was trying to stop the general from getting assassinated, so that counts.”
“Yes, it does,” David said quietly, and it seemed he was trying not to smile. “Listen. I believe you. And the whole thing came about so quickly—the cell phone picture, the sketch—it felt fabricated. But that’s not the problem.”
He walked over to a table and pulled out a chair. “Sit down, Miss Marshall.”
“Why?” York said. “What—”
“You too, pal. Because I want you to listen to me the whole way through.”
RJ sank into the chair. She suddenly looked very frail, as if her bravado had deflated with his words.
York sat down beside her but refrained from doing something too invasive, like taking her hand.
David took the final chair, leaning forward, his elbows on his knees, his hands pressed together. “There’s a kill order out for RJ.”
“No surprise—”
“From the CIA.”
RJ gasped.
York froze. “What—?”
“We’re not sure if it’s legitimate or not—our people are checking into it, but apparently there’s been—”
“A rogue group inside the CIA who is working to move America and Russia back to a cold war,” RJ finished.
York looked at her.
“Analyst. I didn’t just come here on a whim, York. My boss got a tip from one of my sources—”
“Roy, I know.”
“Not just Roy but yes, tips about a group who want more arms, more spies—”
“More jobs, more defense spending,” David said.
“Maybe. But in order to create a cold war, Russia would have to put into power a hard-liner in the highest levels of Russian government—”
“Someone like Arkady Petrov,” David said.
“Exactly. Last month my boss and I traveled twice to Prague to meet with agents who suggested that General Stanislov’s life was in danger, and when I was contacted by one of our black operatives, I knew I couldn’t sit on the sidelines.”
David was nodding. “So, the problem is that we can’t get you out through normal channels. We don’t know who might be part of this rogue faction, and until we do, I can’t let her into the embassy.”
“What?” York popped to his feet. “What is she supposed to do? Hang out in my safe house?”
“For starters—”
“No. I’m going after Gustov. There’s no way—”
“I do have another way out if you’ll just take a breath and listen.” David had found his feet too. “I have a contact in Khabarovsk, in Far East Russia. A buddy of mine who is married to an American doctor. He used to be FSB, but now he’s with the military, does spec ops training. He’ll get you out via Vladivostok.”
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