Ford

by Susan May Warren

  “David?”

  “Ford.”

  There might have been a handshake, and Scarlett noticed that Yanna had her eyes on the two. The woman took a deep breath and let it out as if she’d been nervous.

  A waiter came over, and Yanna ordered an orange juice. Scarlett asked for coffee.

  “I’m sorry for the secrecy,” David was saying, “but your sister is mixed up in a chess game of sorts within the CIA. One faction is naming her an assassin, the other calling her a victim—and until they figure it out, she isn’t safe with us. Or them. So I sent her away.”

  “Away where? And with whom?” Ford asked. He had that low rumble to his voice she often heard on ops, and it sent a tremble through her, that familiar sense of him facing danger and bringing her along for the ride. It ignited a strange power inside her, and she realized with a start that this was exactly what she’d feared losing.

  The sense that she was part of something bigger than herself, an important cog in the wheel. She mattered to Ford, mattered to his safety.

  Which meant she mattered to the mission.

  That’s all she wanted, really. She didn’t have to carry a gun or breach doors or even jump from a helicopter into frothing waves to rescue someone. She just wanted to know she was worth him sticking around. Showing up.

  “With a colleague. York Newgate. They left this morning.”

  The waiter came over and set their drinks on the table. “Breakfast?”

  “Minutichka,” Yanna said and waved him away.

  A couple men in black suits walked into the bar and sat at a far table. Sort of reminded Scarlett of Yanna’s men.

  Her radar started to twitch, and she sat up, looked for exits.

  David was talking about the shooting and what they knew. Something about another suspect.

  “His name is Gustov, and your sister seems to think he might be working for General Arkady Petrov…”

  Another man joined the two at a table. Blond hair, black glasses, a gray suit, and thick, clubbed ears, as if they’d been broken one too many times. He positioned himself facing the bar and lifted his glass, dark glassy eyes on the two men.

  Scarlett spoke softly, her voice steady. “Ford, there’s a table of gentlemen on your six taking an interest in you two.”

  Yanna was glancing beyond Scarlett, over her shoulder, and a glance that direction showed a window. Maybe she was looking at their reflection.

  A waiter came over and the blond man ordered, his eyes locked on the men at the bar.

  David was giving Ford a rundown of his contact in Vladivostok, where he’d sent RJ. “His name is Roman. He’s safe—married to an American doctor. He’ll have the contacts to get them out of the country.”

  “And what about Scarlett and myself?”

  “We can get you new visas, get you on a plane back to the US.”

  “I’m not leaving Russia without my sister.”

  “They’re on the train. I don’t even know where they are—”

  “We’ll find them.”

  “Go home, Ford. She’ll be fine. We have a plan. Trust us.”

  Suddenly, Yanna got up. “Stay here,” she said, turned and headed back toward the door.

  Scarlett sat in the chair, watching as the men followed Yanna’s exit with their eyes. The blond’s gaze, however, never moved off Ford. One of the men, however, got up and followed Yanna.

  Oh, this couldn’t be good. She took a breath, then, “They’re going after Yanna. I have to warn her.”

  She heard an intake of breath, Ford’s low growl, but this was what she did. Warned people. Watched their backs.

  She got up and headed out of the room, not looking at the two men. Pushed through the doors to the lobby.

  Two elevators banked each side, one dinging open, and she looked around, not seeing Yanna or the other man. Maybe she’d gone to the ladies’ room. She headed toward the marked door—

  A hand landed on the small of her back, and before she could turn around, or even make a noise, she was pushed into the elevator.

  “Hey!”

  She rounded, but the man who’d followed Yanna crowded in, his hand slamming over her mouth. She grabbed his wrist, trying to wrench it away. The other man in black scooted in, turned, and pushed the door closed button.

  She kicked at her assailant, but he pressed her hard against the wall and grabbed her other hand.

  The door closed just as Yanna entered her view. She spotted Scarlett a second before the doors closed.

  The man let her go and she pushed him away. “What do you want?”

  He looked her up and down, and she resisted the desire to close her arms over herself. She pushed past him to hit the emergency button, but he pulled her back, and the other man clamped his arms around her from behind.

  No, no, she didn’t know what was happening, but it certainly wasn’t this. Her being attacked in an elevator in Russia. She made a fist and swung it down hard into her attacker’s leg, searching for a soft spot. He dodged her, and she reacted with her elbow, slamming it hard into his ribs.

  He cursed in Russian—what she guessed may be a curse—called her a name and shoved her hard into the other man, who grabbed her wrists.

  They’d gone to the bottom floor, to the basement, and she knew it—just knew that she’d die in that clammy parking ramp.

  No. Sorry, but she might not know what to do with the rest of her life, but she planned on having the rest of her life. She slammed her head back. It met the jaw of the man behind her. He roared, and she hoped she’d split his lip. Then she lifted her knee into the other man, finally meeting the soft parts.

  The doors opened. She kicked him again, fighting to wrench her wrists free. “Yeah, see, Americans are harder to kill than you think!”

  The man behind her grabbed her around the waist, and she brought her foot down hard on his instep, jerked her head back, and again met his face.

  Another curse.

  The doors closed.

  “No!”

  Especially since they’d had enough.

  The first man grabbed her by the neck, his hands digging into her flesh, cutting off her air.

  She didn’t bother to translate his word. But she read his expression as he shook his head, his eyes still clouded with pain, pulled back his fist and—

  The doors opened, and Ford exploded into the compartment, grabbing the man around the neck.

  A second man separated her from the attacker behind her with a fist that flew past her.

  She wrenched herself free, scrambling out of the elevator into Yanna’s embrace.

  Scarlett turned, watching as Ford dispatched the first man with a couple body shots, a knee to the face.

  The second man—David?—a tall blond who filled out his suit, had her other captor turned, his face against the elevator wall, his arm in a submission hold.

  Steps from the hallway above told her that reinforcements were coming—for whom, she didn’t know.

  “Hotel security,” Yanna said, still holding her. But Yanna looked like she might want to have at them too, her dark eyes blazing.

  Ford’s man dropped, bleeding, onto the floor of the elevator, and Ford stepped out over the body just as two security officers dressed in gray suits appeared.

  His expression, fierce and dangerous, said everything as he stalked straight for Scarlett and pulled her against himself. He was breathing hard—probably from his run down the stairs, although maybe from the adrenaline-laced dispatch of her attacker—and his body shook. “Are you okay?”

  He leaned back, caught her head in his hands, his pale green eyes searching hers. Not a scratch on him, of course, whereas she felt like she’d been dragged down the street. But she nodded.

  Ford stared at her a long moment, then abruptly let her go and turned, his hand to his mouth. He walked away from her, leaned over and braced his hand on the cement.

  “Ford?”

  “Give him a minute.” This from David who’d left the apprehen
sion of the two attackers to the hotel security. He was good looking, with blue eyes and a gray suit, and he radiated some kind of military aura. He glanced at Ford. “I’ve never seen anyone move so fast.” He looked at Yanna. “You okay, babe?”

  “I think this was my fault. I wanted to get a look at the men without them watching me—especially the blond. I think he was—”

  “Gustov. Yeah. That’s my guess too.” David sighed as one of the guards pulled Ford’s victim from the elevator. David turned and put his hand to the assailant’s chest. Then he took the man’s shirt and ripped it open. The buttons broke off, and he yanked open the collar all the way to his shoulder.

  A black-and-white tattoo of an eight-pointed star inked his skin, just at the base of his neck.

  Next to her, Yanna stiffened. “That’s a Bratva star.”

  David let him go, and the security dragged the men away.

  “The Russian mafia.” Ford had returned, looking just a little pale. “What would the Bratva want with Scarlett?”

  “I don’t know,” David said.

  “You said that someone might mistake us for RJ and—”

  “York,” David said. “Yes. Although if our research is correct, Gustov already knew you weren’t Ruby Jane.”

  “How’s that?” Ford asked.

  “Because he’s the one who set her up. And we think he’s good for the assassination attempt.”

  “Then why attack us?”

  “I don’t know. To hold you hostage?” Yanna said. “Maybe to get to Ford? And then RJ?”

  “But how did he find us?”

  “The Bratva has connections all over the world. Even in the FSB, and I wouldn’t be surprised if they had people in the CIA. If the CIA was tracking your sister, a good bet is that they also flagged you.”

  “But we used a different passport coming into—”

  Scarlett stopped him, her hand on his arm. “No. You did. But we traveled together going to Prague on our regular passports. If they flagged you in Prague, they could have flagged me. And I used my real passport coming into Russia.” She met his eyes. “I’m so sorry.”

  Ford turned to David. “I’m sorry. I’m not waiting for Vladivostok. I want to find my sister. Now.”

  David drew in a breath. Looked at Yanna. “Okay. Let’s figure out where the train is, issue Ford and Scarlett new documents, and get them on a flight to meet the train.”

  Yanna nodded. “You two come with me,” she said quietly. Then she walked over to David and grabbed his lapels. Pulled him down for a kiss. “You make sure to pick up the kids from detski-sod. I’ll be late.”

  Scarlett could barely catch up, but Ford had his arm around her waist as he pulled her toward Yanna’s car, through the parking garage. He opened the door, and Scarlett got into the back seat.

  She was still shaking.

  Even when Ford slid in beside her and pulled her against himself.

  “You’re okay,” he said softly, and she guessed it was as much for him as it was for her.

  Yanna got in. Sat in the quiet for a moment.

  “You’re married to him? An American?” Scarlett asked. “How—I mean—”

  “We love each other. We make it work. I don’t betray state secrets, and neither does he. And we’re only married by the church.” She turned. “But you do what you must for love, da?”

  She looked at Ford, and one side of her mouth lifted up. Then she turned back around and started the car.

  8

  York really was a handsome man. Dark blond hair, his long lashes whispering against his cheeks as he slept, sort of, propped up on one impressive shoulder, his arms folded. He was too tall for his bunk, of course, and drew his legs up to fit on the bench. A thatch of dark whiskers hued his face, and he wore an almost perpetual frown, as if even in sleep, his brain was working out how to keep them safe. He wore a black button-down shirt, now untucked, and slept with his hiking boots on, just in case, for example, they needed to leap from a moving train.

  A real-life action hero.

  Clearly RJ had been locked in this train compartment too long because York was hard-edged, crabby, sarcastic, humorless…

  Sacrificial, honest, fierce, protective, and he got her stupid jokes. At least enough to crack a smile.

  She could not—could not—fall for a man she’d only known a week. And would say goodbye to forever in another six days.

  No, five, if her watch was correct because in an hour, they’d be passing into day three, headed toward Yekaterinburg.

  She rolled over onto her back, tired of the swaying train, the endless hours of gin rummy they’d played after York had gotten off at one of the stops and scored a deck of playing cards. He’d also purchased boiled potatoes, cutlets, peroshke, and napoleon cake that had her licking the plastic wrap it came in.

  Coco had filled her in on her life in Russia—and when York stepped out for the bathroom and to grab some tea from the conductor, she’d filled RJ in on Tasha.

  “She was the daughter of an oligarch. One of the Russian oil billionaires. Grew up in private schools in Switzerland and got a taste of free speech. Brought it over here. Used Daddy’s money to make a platform for herself, but got in over her head.”

  Over her head.

  RJ wondered—and feared—that she reminded York too much of Tasha. Note to self: no more crazy stunts. She didn’t want to end up in a snowbank somewhere, bleeding to death.

  Which, apparently, was how Tasha died.

  York hadn’t told her much more about himself—that one reveal about his military background was about all he seemed to want to give her. But it only stirred up questions. Like, how were his parents killed? What made him leave the military? And why hadn’t he gone back to America?

  From her perspective, he seemed deeply broken, scarred, but bravely soldiering on.

  Oh, how well she understood.

  Weirdly, around him, however, she felt less at loose ends. Less out of control, less naked and afraid. Braver. Wittier. This isn’t funny, Bristow.

  She liked it when he smiled.

  Okay, enough.

  RJ sat up.

  Coco rolled over, propped her head on her folded arms.

  “I wish I had a book to read,” RJ said quietly.

  “Did you ever finish the Outlander series?” Coco whispered.

  “Took me a year to finish book eight.”

  “I’m still on book five. But oh, Jamie, right?”

  RJ glanced at York, back to Coco. Nodded.

  Coco’s eyes widened, and she leaned down, casting a look at York. “I see.”

  “There’s nothin—”

  “It’s okay, sis. You can’t help who you love.”

  RJ frowned. Then, “Wait…you’re talking about Wyatt.” Phew.

  Coco sighed, pocketing her chin into her hands. “Maybe.” She sighed. “Okay, yes. And I know he’s moved on. But I just…I miss him. He could make me laugh. And he’d sing to me sometimes.”

  “Wyatt sang to you?”

  “He has a great voice. And sometimes he’d make me shoot tennis balls at him. He’d get all geared up in his goalie stuff and tell me to take my best shot.” She caught her bottom lip between her teeth. “He’d catch them every time.”

  “Please don’t start talking about his muscles…”

  Coco laughed. “Okay. But…he has them.”

  “I’m sure.”

  “Do you think…” She shook her head. “It doesn’t matter.”

  “He still thinks about you.”

  One side of Coco’s mouth shifted up. “I told you that we saw each other a couple years ago in Moscow. I think…I think I might have hurt him.”

  RJ frowned. “How?”

  “I sort of…so, I left without telling him why.”

  “Left…?” RJ frowned. “What are you talking about?”

  Coco made a face. Looked away.

  Something in it sent a shadow across RJ’s heart. “Coco, what happened between you two? Did you�
��um…”

  Coco looked at her. “Wyatt and I made a mistake. And I left before we could make it worse.”

  Huh.

  Maybe that was why her brother was still pining for her. He didn’t do well with mistakes, always wanting to be the golden boy, the one who saved the day.

  It probably came with his hockey persona.

  “I do miss him, though,” Coco said and rolled back onto her bunk.

  RJ glanced at York.

  Five days, and then she’d leave him too.

  She wasn’t going to make any mistakes, thank you, the kind that would leave her pining.

  “I need some air.” RJ slipped on her shoes and headed out into the hallway.

  They’d opened the windows, and she hung on the railing and let the breeze wash over her. Outside in the darkness, thousands of kilometers, tiny villages, and untamed forest stretched out around them. So far their trek reminded her of the wilderness of Washington State and western Montana—lots of pine, rocky terrain, and in the distance, far-off mountains.

  A wan light glowed down the hallway and spilled out into the doorway between cars. She walked down the hallway and stood at the entrance.

  What she wouldn’t give for ice water.

  She opened the door to the car and stepped outside.

  The world turned, the rails chinging by in a bright rhythm. She held onto the railing, suddenly aware of how fast they were going.

  Probably she should go back inside.

  She turned to open the door, but it was yanked from her grip.

  A man filled the doorway. For a second she startled, but then he stepped outside with her.

  York.

  The wind flapped his shirt, ran fingers through his hair. “Hey,” he said. “What are you doing out here?”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “I was hot. And I’ve never been on a train before.”

  He nodded but made no move to enter their compartment. “It is hot in there.” He closed his eyes. “The breeze feels good.” He lifted his face to it.

  She had the strangest urge to touch him, right in the well of his neck. It seemed such a vulnerable place on such a powerful man.

  She swallowed, gripped the railing behind her.