HAVE YOU SEEN SIGNE?”
Ham found Scarlett staring at her cell phone. She looked up at Ham. “What?”
“Signe, have you seen her?”
She nodded. “She went upstairs—I think she’s on the eleventh floor—”
That’s all he heard before he took off out of the hall. Scarlett might have called after him, but he didn’t have time.
He had to find Signe before the Secret Service did. Before they arrested her, before they did exactly what he feared—took her away to a undisclosed location and she spent years trying to untangle herself.
Behind him, in the hall, Jackson was coming on stage with her entourage.
The relative quiet of the hallway shook him for a moment, just Secret Service agents milling around.
Eleventh floor.
He slammed his thumb into the button. C’mon!
The elevator opened and he got in, banged the eleventh-floor button.
Glued his gaze to the numbers as it rose.
When it opened, he wasn’t sure where to turn.
Then, like a miracle, he spotted her. She came out of a room, stood at the door, as if catching her breath. “Signe!”
She turned, and her eyes widened. She shook her head.
What?
He headed down the hall toward her and she backed into the room she’d just come out of.
He followed her inside.
She was standing in the middle of the room, her hand wrapped around her waist.
“What is going on?” He walked over to her, took her by the shoulders. “Where were you? Are you okay?”
She just looked at him.
“Do you know that the Secret Service is looking for you right now? They think you’re a terrorist, Sig! They showed me evidence of websites pulled off my computer. And bank deposits and—”
She had started to hyperventilate. Quick breaths that made her hunch over.
He took her in his arms and pulled her down to the sofa. “Breathe. Slow down. Just breathe . . .”
She grabbed his arms, met his eyes.
And he saw it. Fear. Something unhinged inside Signe he’d never—not once—seen before.
No, wait. He had. The night her grandfather died. The night he’d found her in the barn, completely unraveling.
The first time she’d hyperventilated.
“Signe, it’s okay. You’re going to be okay. I’m not going to let anything happen to you. Just breathe with me, okay?”
She nodded, and he began to slow her down, to breathe with her. “In, out, in . . . out . . . thatta girl.”
Her breaths evened out, her hands on his arms.
It was then he noticed the bracelet. Pretty. But he hadn’t seen it on her earlier, had he?
“What’s—”
“I need some fresh air. Open a window.”
He tried the window behind the sofa. It didn’t budge, so he opened the sliding door.
She got up and came over to the door. He stepped outside, turned.
She closed the door behind him.
What?
“Sig?”
Her gaze met his through the glass, her palm pressed flat.
“You just keep coming after me. And you shouldn’t, Ham. You shouldn’t!”
Tears creased down her cheeks, but a muscle pulsed in her jaw. “You’re too much. You get in the way and . . . I don’t want you in my life. Just stay there and leave me alone!”
The words arrowed right through him, found his soul.
Then she turned and left.
Left.
He stood there in the cold night, unable to move.
What had just happened?
“Signe!” His voice cracked through the air and he slammed his hand on the massive pane, but it only shook.
Shatterproof.
No. This couldn’t be right. She couldn’t have played him this entire time.
“I love you, Hamilton Jones.” She’d said it tonight, looking straight into his eyes, no guile in sight.
She couldn’t, just couldn’t be lying.
“I don’t want you in my life.”
He pressed his hands on the cold glass. “Signe!”
His voice reverberated through the darkness.
Fine. He reached for his cell phone and let out a yell.
He’d checked it in with his coat.
Which meant he was up here alone.
He sank down on the balcony, his face in his hands. Okay, think.
But all he could hear were her words. “You get in the way.”
The past breezed in, darkened his soul. He pressed his hand to his chest, to the pain there.
He might be having a heart attack.
God, what . . . I don’t understand.
And in the chill of the night, he heard nothing. No words of wisdom, no profound truths from deep in his soul.
Simply silence.
No, simply quiet.
Just his heart beating. Him, alone.
Him, alone, in the cellar.
And his mother’s hymns.
“No power of hell . . . no scheme of man . . . can ever pluck me from his hand.”
He didn’t need a voice.
Because he had the truth. “It sounds like you’re being sifted, Ham. The enemy wants to win this one. Don’t let him. God calls you to be a warrior. To train, to wait for his command. And that’s why you have to lean hard into him. Fill your mind with prayer, with Scripture, with truth.”
He fisted his hands, then pressed his forehead down on them, breathing hard. “I don’t know what’s going on, Lord, but I know I have you. Fix this, please. I’m here, whatever you need me to do.”
He looked up at the stars, barely visible against the lights of the city, but there, named, winking down at him. And if he knows the stars, he knows us too.
“What if this is about you, Ham?” Orion’s words from the cabin came back to him.
No . . . what? Except, Signe had to know he’d try to find her.
Which meant, so did everyone else. Like Isaac White. And by proxy Jackson, who knew who Ham was to White.
“I’m nobody.”
“Not to me.” Oh boy.
He didn’t know what they had on her, but in his gut, he knew Signe’s worst fears were somehow playing out—that Jackson was using her.
She had to be. He refused to believe the alternative.
His eyes had adjusted to the darkness, lights from the street below illuminating the building.
He got up. Stared down.
Yeah, his hands got a little slick at the thought of trying to climb down. But he might be able to get to the next balcony. All he had to do was find an open door.
He stood at the edge of the metal balcony and measured the distance to the next one. In the darkness, he couldn’t be sure, but it looked about six feet.
Ho-kay.
He climbed up on the metal railing, holding on to the building, digging his fingers into the chips in the granite.
This wasn’t all that different from climbing Mount Huntington. He just had to hold on.
No, he had to jump. Leap six little feet. The length of his body.
Not a problem.
The wind whipped at his legs and his fingers were starting to numb.
Now. Go—
“What are you doing? Have you lost your mind?”
The voice jerked him, his foot slipped, and just like that, he was falling—
“Whoa!” Hands grabbed him and he somehow caught the railing, his feet kicking midair. The man pulled him up and over the balcony. “Holy cow, you’re heavy.”
Holy cow? Ham set his feet on solid ground, then looked up.
Ford Marshall stood there looking at him like he’d lost his mind. “It’s not that bad, dude. Life is worth—”
“I wasn’t jumping.”
“Looked like it.”
“You—okay, what are you doing here?”
“Scarlett said you were in trouble. She sent me up here.”
“What—how?”
“She’s got the entire thing on video. Just come with me. Signe is on the run.”
“Yeah she is. She trapped me—”
“I know. C’mon!” Ford took off out of the room, and Ham followed him, trying to wrap his brain around what was happening. “How did you find me?”
Ford was jamming his thumb into the elevator button. “Signe is wearing one of those contact cameras. Scarlett got it for her.”
“Contact cameras?”
The doors opened. “I don’t know, man. It’s for a dog?”
Ham had nothing as they got in.
“Signe came to Scarlett today after the ceremony and asked her to get one of them. Apparently, they have a camera and are used with K9 SAR dogs.”
Right. “Yes. We got trained in that before Italy.”
“So, Signe is wearing one. Scarlett got the entire thing on video. Apparently, she met with VP Jackson, and then this other guy—Scarlett said he’s Middle Eastern.”
“Chechen?” Ham looked at the floor numbers. Must go faster.
“Maybe. He’s disfigured. And he gave Signe a gift.”
Disfigured.
The man at the Ferris wheel. Ham couldn’t breathe. Aggie had been right and the fact that Tsarnaev had been that close to her . . .
He wanted his hands around the man’s throat.
But then, “Wait, a gift? Was it a bracelet?”
“Yeah. We’re not sure what it is, but when she locked you on the balcony, we figured it wasn’t good.”
“Where is she now?”
“A storage closet on the main floor.”
“A storage closet?”
The doors dinged open and Ford led them out into the hallway.
Logan Thorne stood in the center of the lobby, his back to Ham.
Ham grabbed Ford and slipped down the hall. “Don’t tell anyone where she is. We can’t let the Secret Service find her.”
Ford frowned but nodded. “Down this hall.” He took off in a run to a quiet hallway behind the ballroom, now rocking with songs by country singer Benjamin King.
“Down here.” Ford turned another corner, and Ham spotted them—Jenny, Aria, and Scarlett standing around a door.
Scarlett looked up. “She’s not saying anything.”
“Maybe she can’t,” Jenny said quietly.
Ham frowned at her. “Why?”
“Because, if she could, why didn’t she tell you what was going on?”
Because she’s a terrorist? The thought pinged through him, but he pushed it away.
No. No she wasn’t.
“Signe. Open the door.”
Nothing.
“Okay.” He turned to Ford. “Find Logan Thorne and tell him I told you to evacuate the building. I don’t know what’s going down, but we don’t need to take any chances with this many people here. And that’s an order.”
“He’s not under your command anymore, Senior Chief.”
“No. But he’ll understand.”
Ford took off.
“What are you thinking?” Jenny said.
“I think Signe has been right this entire time and now she’s in trouble. And I’ve got to figure out a way to help her.”
Jenny looked at Ham. “For whatever it’s worth, Signe loves you. I know she does.”
Ham drew in her words like a fresh wind. “Yeah. Now, you three . . . get out of here. But don’t go out the front. Go out through the kitchen—maybe the loading docks.” He looked at Scarlett. “Especially you. I need you to keep that video footage safe, okay?”
She nodded. Jenny and Aria followed her down the hall to the stairwell.
Then he sat down beside the door.
“Shorty, it’s just you and me now. And I’m not going anywhere. I’m staying right here until you come out.”
She said nothing.
“Signe.”
“Go away, Ham. I have to do this. Alone.”
“Do what?” Oh Signe. “Do what?”
Again, she said nothing.
So, he stuck his fingers under the door.
And when she wound hers through his, he just about started to weep.
This time, evil would not win.
Orion had stalked down the hallway outside the ballroom, that one thought pinging through his head. He’d seen Martin, dressed like a waiter, head toward the elevators, and now he stood, watching the numbers flicker on to the eleventh floor.
What went up had to come down.
He’d thought he’d seen a ghost, really, when he spotted the man, and for a second, he couldn’t move, the recognition was so strong. Then, just like that, it came back to him. “Take them in the back and kill them.” Martin had said it in Russian, to his thugs, but Orion understood it, or most of it, words he’d picked up while in the service.
And sure, maybe he’d gotten that wrong, but as he stared at the waiter, he knew in his bones it was his second chance.
He’d grabbed Jake, his gaze on his prey as he left the room. “I see Martin, the guy from Italy. Tell Ham.”
Then he’d taken off after the guy.
Just missed him as he stepped onto the elevator.
Orion debated taking all eleven flights up, but maybe he’d just park here and wait for the next elevator.
Shoot—no, he hated waiting.
He hit the elevator button. C’mon!
The other elevator opened, and he got in.
But a man and woman got in with him, and then held the doors for two more people, and he tried to push out, but they blocked the doors and they closed on him.
He leaned back, folding his arms, staring at the numbers, calling himself all sorts of stupid.
One couple got off on the third floor. Really, they couldn’t have walked up?
Worse, they held the door as they chatted with their friends, making plans to meet up in the bar later.
Orion nearly kicked them out, unfolding his arms, taking a breath.
They laughed at a joke and then the other couple came back inside and let the door go. The man wore a suit, the woman was in a thick wool coat over a dress and boots. She turned to the man and said something in his ear. The man smiled.
For a second, Orion was back in the car, kissing Jenny, his heart breaking for her terrible secret.
Once he took care of business with Martin, he wouldn’t mind hunting down this Brendan fellow . . . But he knew about mistakes and regret and maybe the guy hadn’t walked away intact.
So instead, Orion would just help Jenny heal, show her every day that she wasn’t the sum of her mistakes. “We’re in this together.”
The other couple got off at eight and Orion’s nerves buzzed under his skin as he stepped up to the door, watching the numbers light up.
Ten . . . eleven.
Please, let Martin be here, somewhere—how he was going to find him, Orion didn’t have a clue, but—
The doors opened. And, as if God had heard him, Martin stood right there.
For a second, they simply stared at each other, Martin still dressed in his waiter disguise.
Orion smiled. “Miss me?”
Then he launched at Martin.
Martin sidestepped him, sent a punch at his head, but Orion ducked and grabbed his hand, twisted, turned, and slammed his fist into Martin’s ribs.
Martin bounced away, grunting, and turned. “I see we’re still angry about Italy.”
Orion drew in a breath just as Martin came at him.
He deflected his punch, trapped his other arm and slapped away the cross punch. Then he swung Martin’s arm back into a bar, locking his elbow. He chopped his other hand into the back of Martin’s neck, bending him over into submission.
Except Martin slammed his fist into Orion’s bad knee, and of course—of course—it had to give out. Just for a second, but long enough for Martin to twist away.
He rounded, kicked Orion in the chest, sent him into the wall, and took off down the hall.
Nice. Pain shot up his leg, but not enough to slow Orion down. He hit the stairwell and spotted Martin already two flights down.
Orion took the stairs three at a time, more, nearly jumping from stairwell to stairwell, and frankly any pain vanished by the time he hit the ground floor.
He’d made up time, Martin just ahead of him.
And that’s when he spotted Jake. Blessed Jake who was wandering in the hallway outside the ballroom.
“Jake!”
Martin took off toward the other stairwell at the end of the hall.
“Don’t let him leave the hotel!”
Jake sprinted for the stairwell.
A security officer came out of the ballroom, took a look at Orion, disheveled and sweaty, and tried to step in front of him.
Orion shoved him out of the way, kept running.
It slowed him down enough for him to hear a shout when he reached the stairwell.
Way to go, Jake.
Except, when he opened the door, he found Jake on the middle landing, on his knees, bleeding hard from a cut in the head. A fire extinguisher lay nearby.
“Jake—get up!” Orion ran past him. “Get help!”
He landed on the service floor and threw open the door. Housekeeping carts, linen baskets, a long supply closet. He slowed, Jake’s trauma echoing in his mind. Martin could be hiding. Or he could be long gone, heading for the loading docks.
“Yeah, I’m still hot about Italy. C’mon, Martin. Don’t run away.”
He crept down the hallway, out into the next room.
The catering kitchen. The place was a hum of activity, shouts from chefs, the clank of utensils, the smell of baked goods and sense of chaos.
A massive vent hung from the center of the room, over a long stainless steel oven-and-stove workspace. Along the wall, giant walk-in refrigerators and freezers gleamed, reflecting the hanging lights.
And, throughout the space, line cooks and chefs worked on plating hors d’oeuvres for the party upstairs.
Orion walked in, looked around.
The kitchen led to another hallway, more stairs, and by the sign posted, the loading dock.
Martin was gone.
Orion stood there, his jaw tight, and a female waitstaff looked over at him as she carried in an empty tray from upstairs.
It was her widened eyes, her shout, that saved his life.
He turned just as Martin’s knife came down at him. Orion threw up an arm, and the blade sliced through the flesh of his forearm.
He didn’t even feel the pain as he grabbed Martin’s wrist and sent a punch across his jaw.
Martin ripped himself away, breathing hard.
Orion ignored the blood from his arm.
Around him, the room had stilled.
Run. Orion heard his instructor—and that of every other hand-to-hand combat class he’d taken—in his head. First rule of knife fighting—someone was going to get hurt.
Yeah, well, today it was Martin.
“You’re not getting out of here,” Orion said, using his peripheral vision to look for a weapon. Or defense.
“And you think you’re going to stop me?” Martin lunged again at Orion.
Orion jumped away, kicked at his hand.
“Run!” Orion shouted to the crowd but kept his eyes on Martin’s hand. He came at him again, and this time Orion grabbed his wrist and brought it down to his hip, trapping it.
Martin hit him in the face.
The world blacked, but he held onto his wrist, twisting with Martin as they banged around the room.
They scuffled down the galley.
“Ry!”
The voice shot a chill through him.
No—no—how had Jenny gotten here? But he couldn’t take his eyes off the knife. Orion headbutted him, and Martin’s nose exploded. They’d already bloodied the serving carts, the floor—
Martin broke free, wiped his wrist across his bloodied face.
He couldn’t look for Jenny.
The butcher’s knife dripped.
“Whoever is left in here needs to get out, right now,” Orion said. He just needed to buy time until Jake showed up.
Gun against knife—he hoped Jake arrived armed.
Martin shook his head. “I know you’re weak. I saw you go down in Italy. I studied you, Orion Starr. I know one good shot to the knee, and this is over. I don’t even need the knife.”
He set it down on the counter, held up his hands. “See?”
Orion watched his hands, saw the twitch.
Braced himself because any second Martin was going to sweep up the knife and maybe even throw it—
Bam! The sound was so loud it reverberated into Orion’s bones. He stood there, wordless, as Martin dropped, hard, onto the red tile floor.
Jenny stood behind him holding a cast-iron pan, her hair out of its pinnings, her heels off, breathing hard. “I’m done negotiating.”
Orion put his hands down and in a second was on Martin, his knee in his back, Martin’s wrist bent back in a submission hold.
Right then, Jake showed up. “Dude—sorry.” Blood covered his face, a giant welt over his eye getting bigger. He grasped the side of the counter, as if the world was spinning. But he had a gun—where he’d gotten it, Orion didn’t want to guess.
Aria rushed in, past Jenny. “Jake!” She grabbed him around the waist and helped him to the floor. “I need some ice, and a bandage.”
“It looks worse than it is—”
“Right, that’s a serious head wound,” Aria said.
Jenny knelt next to Orion. “You’re bleeding too.”
“Good job with that pan, babe.” He looked over at her.
“Teamwork,” Jenny said, grinning.
Martin came to, shaking, and Orion held him down. “Somebody get help,” he said, because yes, now he was starting to hurt.
“You got it,” said a voice, and he looked up to see Ford Marshall, Ruby Jane, and York entering the kitchen.
And behind them—what?
Royal Benjamin.
Orion just looked at him, frozen. The man had leaned out, his face hard, but he smiled as he spotted Orion. “Hey there, PJ.”
“What are you doing here?” And that was the least of his questions, but . . . “You’re okay?”
Royal knelt next to Orion. “Yeah. I’m good. Especially now that you got this guy. We’ve been trying to pin him down for a while. All those missives sent by Signe to the CIA? Martin intercepted them. Redirected them.”
York came over too. Bent over in front of Martin. “Hey there, pal, remember me?” York looked up at Orion. “I’m getting a little tired of people I trusted betraying me.”
“Yeah. Game over,” Orion said, a strange, deep sense of satisfaction sweeping through him.
“Is Martin running the rogue CIA group?” Jenny said.
York shook his head. “Oh no. That honor goes to Vice President Reba Jackson, just like Signe said.”
Martin’s jaw tightened.
“Search him. Make sure he doesn’t have anything lethal on him,” Roy said.
Ford patted him down and came up with a cell phone and a hotel key card. The phone was locked. He handed the key card to York.
Ford passed the phone to Scarlett. “See if you can unlock the phone.”
“It doesn’t matter. You’re all too late anyway,” Martin said.
“No, we’re not.” Scarlett came up and looked at Roy. “We need to warn the president that he shouldn’t come here. That he’s in danger.”
Royal looked at her, and even Orion went cold at his expression. “The president is already here.”
Signe chose the closet because, well, she hadn’t a clue where else to go.
She was fresh out of places to run.
She couldn’t go into the ballroom, not without threatening all those people.
And sure, as long as White wasn’t in the building yet, she was safe, but . . .
But there was no getting out of this. She couldn’t leave the building, she couldn’t call for help.
What she could do was keep Ham safe.
Give Aggie a father.
Even if she broke his heart.
She put her head into her knees, hearing her voice shouting at him through the glass. “You get in the way and . . . I don’t want you in my life. Just stay there and leave me alone.”
She was sick to her stomach at her words, but she needed him to stay put.
And then she found a place the farthest away from Ham and locked herself inside.
Scarlett had found her easily, probably because Scarlett had been watching her the entire time.
Smart woman. She’d caught on to Signe’s request without the need for explanation, had contacted a friend who brought the device in via her K9 dog kit.
Signe put it on in the bathroom before her meeting, not sure what to expect.
At least . . . well, at least her daughter would know she wasn’t a traitor.
And Ruslan would live.
“Talk to me, Signe.”
She wanted to weep when she heard Ham’s voice outside the door. When he ordered the team away.
When he sat down and said, his voice so calm, so in control—and yes, she desperately needed that right now—“Shorty, it’s just you and me now. And I’m not going anywhere. I’m staying right here until you come out.”
Shoot. No! Inside her head she was screaming.
And Tsarnaev was probably listening.
So, she kept quiet.
“Signe.”
She couldn’t stand it. “Go away, Ham. I have to do this. Alone.”
And, of course he didn’t understand. “Do what?”
Nothing.
“Do what?”
Please, Ham. Because if Ham gave away her position, then Tsarnaev would know she wasn’t in the ballroom. At least with this position, she looked close to the ballroom, on the main floor.
Aw, he wasn’t easily fooled, clearly.
She’d been such an idiot to think that she could be someone amazing. Save lives. Be a hero.
She could choke on her own stupid aspirations.
Then, she felt fingers against her leg, stuck under the door just like she’d done to Ham so many years ago. Under the door, under their desks, across a dark closet.
She couldn’t stop herself from reaching down and weaving hers through his.
Oh, she didn’t deserve him.
Ever.
And Tsarnaev picked then to roar back into her brain. “You would have never surrendered to me in the first place if you didn’t believe that you deserved it.”
No. That wasn’t true.
“At some point in your life, someone told you that you weren’t worth protecting. Weren’t really worth loving. And you believed them.”
Not anymore.
“Start listening to the truth. Ham, your friends, and, if you want, God. Because clearly he brought you back to the starting place.”
The starting place.
And suddenly, she was thirteen years old, in a thin dress, hiding in her barn. The smell of stale hay and old manure drifted up through the slats of the haymow and the cool wind whisked over her. She pulled up her dress and hid her knees in it, touched her forehead to her knees.
“I thought I’d find you here.”
Signe nearly lifted her head, the voice felt so real, but it was just Ham, tiptoeing into the haymow in her mind. In her heart.
“I’m sorry about your grandfather.” He came over to her. He wore his dirty orange-and-brown jacket and a pair of jeans, his hair long and scraggly. “You look cold.”
She didn’t say anything, and he shucked off his jacket and put it over her shoulders.
Then he moved in around her, his legs and arms embracing her. “It’s okay, Shorty. I’m not going anywhere.”
She’d held on to him, refusing to cry. Because why did it matter, anyway? God wasn’t on her side. And crying wouldn’t bring her grandfather back.
“He’s the only one who ever wanted me,” she said quietly, her voice small.
“That’s not true,” Ham said. “I want you. You’re my best friend.”
Huh. She’d sort of forgotten that memory. But sitting here, her fingers touching his, it stirred from the dust of her heart.
That, and, “Why?” she’d asked.
“I don’t know. Maybe because you want me, too?”
He’d meant it honestly, and back then, she hadn’t assigned anything but friendship to it.
Maybe it was just that simple. Maybe there wasn’t a reason to love someone. Maybe you just did. And that was enough.
Nothing to prove. And if she didn’t have to prove it, then she didn’t have to fear losing it either, by screwing it up.
She simply was loved.
By Ham.
It just took the feel of Ham’s fingers, entwined with hers, to realize . . . yes, God had brought her back to the beginning.
To the one her heart loved.
Because . . . maybe the Almighty loved her too.
Her core wasn’t shame.
Her core was love.
And love was power.
Love was hope.
Love was happy endings.
Her fingers wove around Ham’s.
No more hiding in the closet.
She let go and got up, easing the broom handle away from where she’d lodged it into the door, and opened it.
Ham had also gotten up, and now she pressed her finger to her mouth.
His tuxedo was a mess, untucked, his hair undone by the running of his hand through it.
She pointed to the bracelet, and then her ear. Held up her fingers, like it might be a phone. He nodded.
She exploded her hands out, and his eyes widened.
Then he took her hand. Trust me, his mouth said, but she heard it with her heart.
Yes. Always.
Ham headed down the hallway, toward the stairwell.
He took it down, two flights, all the way to the basement, then walked out into the corridor. Signe could see the light on the bracelet still blinking. This wasn’t going to work, and she almost said it when he came to a secure door.
He keyed in a code on the keypad.
It opened.
He took her down three more flights to another secure entrance. Ham keyed in another code, and he pulled her into a corridor. The place reeked of age, the lighting dismal but, as he took her hand and began to walk down the tunnel, the light flicked off.
She stopped. “Ham. The bracelet—it stopped transmitting.”
He turned. Looked at the bracelet, then, “No.”
Huh?
“I’m not going to leave you alone. Ever. If you run, I’ll find you. If you push me away, I’ll stick around. I love you, Signe. You and I belong together. You’re my wife and—”
“Yes.” She pressed her hands to his chest. “Yes, I am.”
He kissed her. And it wasn’t one of those tentative kisses he’d been giving her for the past month, but the kind that reminded her of exactly the man she’d married. A man of honor, yes, but a warrior, a man of purpose and power, and the kind of man she could hang on to. He backed her up to the wall, leaned against it with one hand, and pulled her to himself with the other.
She wrapped her arms around his neck and let him storm into every compartment of her heart. It all belonged to him, anyway.
She was safe. She was wanted.
And, she still wore a bomb on her wrist. She pushed on his good shoulder.
He lifted his head. “I know.”
“What?”
“That you’re wearing a bomb.”
How did he do that?
“But down here, the signal won’t reach, so for now, we’re safe.”
Oh, she wished. “No, Ham . . . we’re not. I mean, yes, the president is, but . . . Ham, Tsarnaev has my son.”
Ham just blinked at her, frowned. “Ruslan?”
He remembered his name. And that shook her to her core . . . except it was Ham.
And he loved her.
Of course he’d remember her son.
“Tsarnaev showed me a live video of him, playing a video game, here in DC. The Washington Monument was in the background.”
“Right. Okay, so we get this thing off you and then we track down your son—”
“And how are we going to get this off me? The latch is locked.”
“Maybe we can help.”
The voice stilled her, and Ham drew in a breath. Stood up. “Sir.”
Isaac White—er, President Isaac White—came walking down the hallway toward them. “Orion caught Martin. It was quite the spectacle, but he was able to get a message to me. I was already on premises, so your quick thinking saved my life.”
He was looking at both of them.
“Sir, I am to blame,” Signe said.
“No. You’re not. You were doing what your country asked of you. You were protecting the lives of its citizens. And you paid a steep price for it. In my book, you’re a hero, Signe.”
Oh. His words could hollow her out, except, well . . . She held up the bracelet. “Except for this.”
“Yeah, about that.” He looked over at a man standing in the shadows. He stepped forward, past the president. “This is my friend Roy—”
“You stay back!” Signe took a running start, and before Ham could stop her, she’d launched herself at Roy, vaulted up his leg, twisted around his body, slung her leg around his neck, and clasped her legs together in a rear triangle choke hold.
And just like that, the man was down.
Apparently, she’d forgotten she was wearing a dress, or perhaps she didn’t care. Somewhere in there, however, she’d lost her fancy shoes.
“Signe! Stop!” White said.
Roy had his hands up, clasping her legs. “Let me go!”
“He tried to kill me in Germany!”
“I didn’t!” He looked up. “Ham?”
Ham stepped up to him. “Signe, this is Royal Benjamin. He used to be on my team.”
“I cut him. Check his knuckles.”
“It’s true, but I was trying to help you. I was your contact.”
She went silent.
“My tag. It’s a bonefrog, Signe. See?” Royal lifted his arm, pulling back his sleeve, his air clearly cutting out.
“You can trust him, Signe. But thanks for the save,” the president said.
She released her legs, scooted away. “Where were you, in Germany?”
Roy sat up, catching his breath. “Sheesh.”
Ham was grinning at her. But he held out a hand to Roy.
Roy got up. “I know I let everything go south. It’s my fault. I got there early and I saw Martin, and I needed to know what he was up to, so I hung back.”
“And left me to hang.”
“I was there—I followed you. But I needed to know what his game was, so—”
“So you let him try and kill me. Kill my friends.” She found her feet.
“I’m sorry about that. Really. I shot him in Germany when he tried to take you, but clearly I underestimated him.”
“I think we all underestimated this entire conspiracy,” White said.
“I didn’t,” Signe said.
Ham looked at her, his mouth hiding a smile.
She shrugged, but her mouth was a tight bud of anger, her eyes hard on Roy.
“When this is over, clearly you’ll still have a job with the CIA,” White said.
“Not unless I can serve down here.” She held up the bracelet. “Bomb, anyone?”
“I got this,” Roy said.
“Without cutting my arm off?”
“Maybe we should evacuate you, sir, just in case,” Ham said.
White headed down the tunnel but turned. “Thank you, Ham. For everything. You’re a good man and a credit to your country.”
Signe watched Ham, the way White’s words hit him. The look on his face found her heart.
He was a good man, and she’d spend the rest of her life reminding him of that.
Roy had her arm out, was looking at the clasp. “I’ve seen this before. It’s like a shoe bomb, except it has a firing pin meant to ignite the TATP in the bracelet. I’m not sure how much explosive is in here, but it would have definitely caused damage. I just need to separate the pin from the ignition chamber.” He pulled out his Ka-Bar. “Better look away,” he said to Signe.
“What?”
He was laughing as he stuck the end into the lock and twisted.
The lock broke and she caught it before it fell onto the cement floor.
“Good nab,” Roy said. He held out his hand.
She noticed his scarred knuckles. “Sorry.”
“My bad. I shouldn’t have let you get in trouble.”
She rubbed her wrist. Looked at Ham. “I’m going to find Tsarnaev.”
He held out his hand. “Not without me you’re not.”