He didn’t answer, probably existing in the same realm of disbelief at Coco’s words.
But he stayed right there on the floor, albeit rubbing his wrists after Coco freed him.
RJ, for one, felt a little safer with York untied.
“Who is your father?” York said. “The head of the FSB?”
Coco ignored him and turned back to RJ. “I always knew he wasn’t dead, but my mother begged me to keep it quiet, and it wasn’t hard for me to remember why we left Russia in the first place.”
RJ frowned. “I thought your mother wanted to start over.”
“Oh, she did. And hide, of course. Because she knew if people knew who I was, they’d try and kidnap me. Maybe murder me.”
“I take it back. He’s head of the Russian mafia,” York snapped.
Coco gave a huff that sounded like a chuckle. “No. That would be way too easy.” She turned back to RJ. “When I came back, I started working for him, but only from a distance. I run his internet security. When you showed up, I contacted him because I think you need to tell him what happened and why you think he’s still in trouble.”
She stood and held out her hand. “Having the FSB cart you out of the building was the safest way to protect you. Most people won’t say anything if they see FSB.”
RJ was starting to get that feeling—the one she had when Roy called, left a message, and asked for a meet in Prague. The one she had when she’d called her boss for the tenth time and got no answer.
The feeling she’d had as she’d stood under the street lamp and saw Stanislov’s body jerk with the impact of a bullet.
The same feeling she’d had when Ford said, so many years ago, Jump in, the water’s fine!
Brace yourself. Because you’re about to get in over your head.
“For the love of Pete, who is your father?” York practically roared. He was standing now, and Coco reached out her hand to pull RJ to her feet.
She looked at York. “Please, behave yourselves. Don’t turn me into a fool.” Then she turned and headed toward the door. “C’mon. My father, General Boris Stanislov, wants to meet you.”
It took a moment—the name simply hovered in the air, leaving RJ frozen, and next to her, York hadn’t moved either.
“What—?” York said. “No—what?” He started to follow Coco, then turned and grabbed RJ’s hand, holding it so tight she should probably wince.
But she just tightened hers around his and held on as they walked out into the cool summer air. The smell of wild roses that twined up the stone pool house, the freshly cut grass, the rush of wind through the towering pines that edged the property all turned the entire ordeal surreal.
This was not what she thought the gulag would be like.
Coco waited for them by the door to the house. “My father was coming to power when the first kidnapping attempt happened. My mother was working at Moscow University as an English professor at the time. I was coming home from school with my driver—a new guy—and he brought me to an ice cream parlor. I had a bad feeling about it and locked myself in the bathroom. My father and his men finally rescued me, but we knew this was the beginning. My father had just been elected to the duma. Shortly after that my mother and I moved to America.”
She opened the door to the house.
“I’m my father’s only daughter, and he figured if no one knew about me or where I was, I’d be safe.”
York turned to RJ as they entered, met her eyes, his mouth a grim line. “Stay close to me,” he subvocalized.
Clearly, he didn’t believe a word Coco was saying.
And, yes, given the circumstances, everything she knew about Coco was blowing apart in bits and pieces.
But it did make sense. Her sudden appearance in Montana so many years ago. Her name change—from Katya to a more American version, Coco.
Her mother’s reluctance to take photographs. The fact they lived in a secluded area of Montana with little cell reception, at least back then.
They walked through an entryway with tall ceilings, more ornate molding, and into a large room with giant windows that overlooked the courtyard. A large green rug covered the wooden parquet floor, a molded fireplace flickered with flame despite the summer air, and giant pictures of stately politicians from a bygone era stared down from the walls. Overstuffed gold sofas faced each other, separated by a glass coffee table.
A man stood with his back to them, dressed in a maroon bathrobe. Balding, with a ring of gray-white hair slicked back from his face, he wore a scarf around his neck, and what looked like suit pants and slippers.
“Papa?” Coco said in Russian. “She’s here.”
The man nodded, without turning. Silence. Then, “I guess I owe you my life.”
RJ didn’t move. General Boris Stanislov. She recognized his voice.
He had shoved his hands into the pockets of his bathrobe, now took a breath, his barrel chest rising and falling. He turned and met RJ’s eyes.
“I didn’t shoot you,” she said, not sure why.
“I know. I saw you standing under the street lamp. Of course I knew who you were—I recognized you from when Katya lived with you.”
She didn’t know what to say to that. But of course he would know that.
“I have to thank you twice, it seems.” He held out his arm and Coco walked over to his one-armed embrace. “For taking in Katya, and for alerting my guards.”
“But I didn’t—”
“The moment I saw you, I knew something wasn’t right. I turned to Anatoli and told him to get you—and that’s when I was shot. If I hadn’t turned, if I hadn’t seen you, the shot would have hit me dead center.” He touched his chest. “He clipped my arm.”
She noticed now the bulky wrap under the left arm of his bathrobe.
“I didn’t know what to do when I found out about the hit. I thought York could help me. He didn’t shoot you either.”
The general’s gaze fixed on York, who hadn’t moved, hadn’t released her hand. She had no doubt he’d already sized up the room and figured out where the exits were. She tightened her hand in his.
“It seems he did help,” Boris said. He appraised York, then gave him a nod and looked again at RJ. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you for another favor.”
RJ frowned.
“I need you to take Katya with you when you leave Russia.”
“Papa!” Coco turned to him. “You know I can’t leave! You said you had a mission for them. Something about national secrets.”
“You are my national secret, my lapichka.” Boris turned to her, and although RJ had seen him dozens of times on television, she’d never imagined the softness that appeared on his face. “Just until I know we’ve found the person responsible for the shooting. Please.”
Coco was shaking her head. “I can’t—you know I can’t—”
“Everything will be fine. I will see to it.”
But RJ had to agree with Coco. “We’re fugitives. And if the FSB finds us—do they know Katya is your daughter?”
“No one knows. But I can clear passage for you out of the country. The FSB will back off, I promise.”
Because they were under his control?
“The CIA is after her too,” York said quietly. “We can’t fly out.”
“I know about the plan to take you by train to Siberia.”
Siberia? No one had mentioned Siberia.
“I’m not leaving,” Coco said. “No.”
“Yes. For me, Katoosha. I can’t bear to have you hurt.” So much earnestness in his eyes, it reminded RJ of her own father. “And it’s safer for everyone.”
“We’ll do it,” York said quietly.
RJ stared at York. “What?”
“We’ll do it. We’ll take Kat with us.” York directed a dark look at Coco. “As long as she doesn’t lie to me again.”
Coco bristled. “York—”
He held up his free hand, still gripping RJ’s. “No lies. No games. And when it’s done, I
get to help you track down Gustov.” This he addressed to the general.
Who nodded, slowly.
“Perfect,” York said. “We leave on the first train out of town.”
She was the freaking weak link.
Scarlett stood outside the train compartment—inside felt like she might be suffocating—and watched the Ukrainian countryside lurch by. With everything inside her, she wanted to leap screaming from the train. Hide in the tall grasses and lush fields filled with barley, oats, and corn. She’d read that on the Wikipedia page about Ukraine. Apparently, Russia used Ukraine as their breadbasket to feed the giant, snow-covered motherland.
The Cold. Unforgiving. Brutal. Motherland.
And they were heading straight for it, unarmed.
Scarlett leaned her forehead to the window. First rule of travel—don’t let go of your bag. She knew that. Had it burned into her bones by the Navy during one of their travel briefings. There might have even been a PowerPoint presentation on it.
She’d nearly gotten her hands on the thief—one split second away from—okay, from being slammed into the doors of the metro. If Ford hadn’t grabbed her to pull her back…
Whatever happens, I will show up for you, Red.
Ford’s words thrummed in her head, and she wanted to wrench them away. He should not have made that promise. She didn’t want him to make that promise.
It only held him hostage. Made him derail a perfectly successful rescue operation.
He should have let her stay in Ukraine and taken Ham with him. Guess what—she was a grown woman and she could babysit herself all the way back to America, thank you.
The door slid open behind her, and she didn’t look as Ford stepped out of the compartment. “We’re coming up to border control,” he said as he stood beside her. “Any ideas?”
“Let them arrest me.”
“Red.”
She gritted her teeth. “You should have left me behind.”
“No. And it’s done, so get over it.”
She glanced at him. “I’m sorry.”
“You said that. About a dozen times, and again I’m going to say the same thing. It wasn’t your fault.”
“It was.” Oh her stupid heart. Why did it fall for the dangerous type, with the thick arms and piercing pale green eyes? She had a type—the type destined to break her heart.
She didn’t know which was worse, the fact that she’d lost her bag, or the fact that she’d let herself believe—even if she knew the danger, even if she had decided not to walk into his arms—that Ford had wanted her.
Instead, she’d heard him, in his very own words tell Ham that she meant, well not nothing, but…okay, nothing.
She’d been standing outside the door, trying to figure out which way to go to find the bathroom, when Ham’s voice came through the crack.
The last thing we need is some kind of lovers’ quarrel, or…something else—
There is nothing else. She was my FOB radio contact, that’s all.
That’s all.
And now she’d destroyed his entire mission.
Ford met her eyes and folded his arms, his dark blue T-shirt stretching over his thick shoulders. He wore a pair of faded jeans and hiking boots, hadn’t shaved in three days, and looked very much like a warrior on leave, unsuccessfully trying to hide among the rest of the world.
Shoot, the man even smelled good. He’d cleaned up once they got on the train—brushed his teeth, changed into clean clothes.
Whereas she was unkempt, tired, crabby, and…
Stupid.
“Don’t be nice to me, Ford. I was naive. I got caught up in the moment, and suddenly I was a tourist, buying a gift for my brother. We both know I jeopardized this op.”
“It’s all going to work out.”
“How—you have some secret Doctor Who gadget in there that will make the border guards think we’re Russian?”
He frowned at her.
“Doctor Who? His magic identity card—forget it. I don’t know why you’re so calm. By this time tomorrow we’re going to be sitting in Siberia eating watered-down borscht and making birch bark shoes.”
He smiled, and she glared at him.
“This isn’t funny. I should have never said yes to this. I’m sorry.”
“There’s nothing wrong with thinking about your brother.”
“There is when we’re on a mission. I totally screwed up. Which is probably why I need to leave the military.” She ran her hand over her forehead. “It’s probably naive of me to think I could make it as a Rescue Swimmer anyway. Who am I kidding—”
He made to touch her, then dropped his hands. Good, because if he came near her with that pity smile…
And how much of a mess was she that she longed for him to reach out and take her hand. To wrap his fingers through hers like he’d done when they’d sprinted for the train.
Now, he looked at her, his gaze so intense, she felt it again—that need to hold onto him. “Who are you kidding? You passed your PRT. You’re one of the bravest women I know—”
“Oh, please, Ford. Stop being nice to me. I know I screwed up. And you’re paying the cost for it.”
“Fine. Okay, yeah, you screwed up.”
She tried not to flinch.
“It’ll still work out.”
“In what world—you don’t speak Russian. I don’t speak Russian—”
“Stop. This is not the first time an op has gone south.”
“I’m supposed to be far, far away watching from overhead, warning you—” She shook her head. “But I can’t even do that right.”
He frowned.
“I’m just…I don’t know what I was thinking. Sure, Ford, I’ll hop on a plane with you, be your wing man. Like I’m actually someone who could help—”
“You can help. You did help in Prague.”
“No. Roy would have never followed me to my table if I hadn’t asked for a glass of water. And then I had to pretend to be Lara Croft, or some international spy—”
“You were fabulous.”
“Yeah. I’m amazing at pretending. I’ve been pretending my entire life. All things to all people so they won’t leave me behind. Until I completely let them down.”
“You think you let me down—?”
“I know I let you down.”
She gritted her jaw and turned away. “I’m just playing a game here. On all your adventures, I’m just along for the ride. Pretending like I might make a difference.”
He touched her arm, something friendly, but of course she had to feel it all the way to the core of her body. The softness in his voice didn’t help either.
“You did make a difference. A couple months ago, when I was nearly ambushed, you saved my life.”
Her voice cut low, almost a growl. “You mean when I screamed? In the middle of the Center of Operations? And then when you were safely on the chopper, when I nearly lost it in the bathroom?”
His mouth opened slightly. “You did?”
Oh, she shouldn’t have told him that because he looked just a little vulnerable, like he hadn’t realized—shoot. It didn’t matter what he realized.
They were teammates, and for the love of Pete, she had to get that through her hard noggin.
His voice lowered then, and oh my, if he didn’t possess all the charming, deep, husky tones of danger. “You still saved my life, Red.”
“Hardly. You had it all under control. I probably distracted you, at best.”
He frowned, but before he could argue, she shook her head. “You would have been much better off without me.” She turned back to the compartment. “I don’t know. Maybe Gunnar would be too.”
Inside, Ford had set up a little lunch, complete with coffee and bread and cheese he’d purchased onboard somewhere. Spread it all out on a tablecloth.
Like they might be on a date or something.
Probably trying to make her forget that if they didn’t get across the border—with Ham’s visa papers, no less—t
hey weren’t getting into Russia.
Really, she wanted to keep all her fingernails.
That was a bit melodramatic, but she didn’t have a clue what she planned to say when some gray-coated Russian official asked her why she had Trevor Benson’s visa papers.
She hadn’t gone to SERE—Survival, Evasion, Resistance and Escape—training. She hadn’t a clue how to withstand torture.
Ford obviously wasn’t worried, because he charged into the compartment after her, more focused on her meltdown statements of self-pity than their imminent arrest.
“What are you talking about? How on earth would Gunnar be better off without you?”
At least he didn’t ask the obvious—how would he have been better off without her. Hello.
She rounded on him. “I don’t know the first thing about being a caregiver! I spent my entire life—”
“Taking care of your mother!”
She blinked at him. “No, I…I spent my entire life wanting to escape her. To be nothing like her. To…”
She pressed her hand to her mouth. “To matter to her.” She sank down on the bunk. Looked up at him, not sure where all this emotion might be coming from. “I so desperately wanted my mother to…to like me. To tell me that I was hers and that she wanted me around.”
“That she was proud of you.”
“It would have been enough to be wanted.” Oh, had she really said that? She wrapped her hands around her waist.
“You are wanted, Scarlett.”
She looked away, but he came near her, touched her face, nudged it back to his to meet his eyes. “If you only knew…”
She closed her eyes, unable to take the way he was looking at her, a sort of sad, nearly pity—
He kissed her.
Just wrapped his hand around her neck and pulled her face to his and kissed her.
Oh. And it wasn’t an exploratory, sweet kiss, one that asked a question, but one of surety and focus and…
Huh. Maybe he did want her. Because he moved his other hand around her waist, drawing her up against himself, all hard planes and firm foundations, and she so wanted to give in, to hang on to this amazing man who kept showing up in her life.
Who kept so many promises it took her out at her knees.
Oh no. He wasn’t in the least like any other man she’d known. And that made her want to weep because regardless of what he’d said, here he was, kissing her as if…
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