Ruby Jane Marshall wasn’t a runner. Normally.
Usually, her SOP was to hunker down and hide. Like a rabbit, her little heart pounding in her chest, seconds away from a heart attack.
But as she stood in the kitchen of the rowhouse in DC, sirens haunting the autumn night air, a voice screamed in her head that sounded a lot like York’s.
Run!
The blaring unsettled the Mayfair neighborhood, lights flickering on in nearby townhomes, and she had five minutes—maybe less—to track down a serial killer.
A killer whose victims included her boss, Sophia Randall.
And maybe the man she loved, York Newgate, although—nope, she wasn’t going there.
She simply refused to accept the idea that York could be dead. Not when his body hadn’t been conclusively identified.
So running wasn’t an option. Nor hiding. Not until RJ tracked down Sophia’s notebook and maybe her laptop computer. Anything that might give her a fresh lead on Sophia’s death, give her a clue as to why her boss would have been in Seattle.
And most of all, how she ended up in the sights of a Russian assassin.
RJ darted out from shadows behind the fridge where she’d momentarily planted herself when she heard the first mourn of a siren. Of course they’d be coming for her because she wasn’t a supersleuth or even an action heroine. More like a glorified secretary with the B&E skills of a third grader.
To get into Sophia’s place, RJ had broken a window on the ground floor. Climbed in over a plant, which now littered the sofa with its dry-as-dust remains, and tracked her footprints across the formerly white carpet of the guest room and up the stairs to the kitchen and living room area.
Oh, she was definitely going down for this. Jail. Prison. And orange so washed out her complexion, clashing with her dark hair and blue eyes.
But desperate times called for crazy actions and…
What would York do?
He was still in her head, those blue eyes looking at her like she could save the world—or maybe just his world.
She bumped into a table in the dark and reached out to right the wobbling lamp—
The crash raised gooseflesh and she froze again. She was going to leave a raccoon trail of evidence through Sophia’s apartment. But it wasn’t like Sophia was around to press charges.
Not since she’d died four weeks ago.
Don’t. Think. About—
RJ blew out a breath, trailing her hand down the hallway toward the first door on the right, Sophia’s office, working off the scant memory of a casual dinner party a year ago.
Please let Sophia have left behind her journal, the one she always carried, old-style, to jot her thoughts.
The journal had to be here. Vicktor Shubnikov, the police detective in Seattle who headed up the investigation, had been kind enough to give her a list of the evidence found at the crime scene.
No journal in Sophia’s possession. Just her body, a lot of blood, and evidence of a struggle.
At least her boss had gone down fighting.
Hopefully the journal led to clues about how she ended up in a hotel room in Seattle, her throat slit, clearly having been tortured.
Don’t. Think—
RJ drew in a breath and brailled the wall inside the office door. She found a light switch. Flicked it on.
Hello, neighbors. Maybe they would think Sophia had returned.
The sirens faded, and for a moment, she heard her breath, heavy in her chest. Maybe she hadn’t triggered an alarm…
Still, she needed to add some giddy-up to this snatch and grab.
The tiny office was palatial by DC standards, containing a standing desk, a credenza, and a bookcase. The entire townhouse, a three-story walk-up brownstone, had been renovated in the revived trendy, early-eighties’ style—muted gold fixtures, dark wood floors, shaggy white rugs, and cool white driftwood furniture. The office overlooked the lush garden alleyway that ran between the homes.
A deck led out from the office and ran the length of the unit.
She opened the credenza and began to sort through it. Bills, papers, folders, and a printer. Nothing that resembled Sophia’s small gray journal.
On the black desk, a dust ring framed the outline of a laptop computer, probably confiscated by a CIA sweep. Another fine wisp of dust over the top of the desk suggested they’d been here some time ago.
Opening the desk drawers, RJ riffled through pens, a checkbook, and leafed through the duplicate pages. She found an entry for a piano tuner, another for the Great Frame Up, a local picture framer. The office sported a few photos of friends and family, but Sophia was single, so no shots of her on a beach with a cute man.
On the wall, however, hung a picture of the astrological clock from Prague’s Old Town Square. The picture stirred memories of the last time RJ had been in Prague. She’d been meeting with a man named Roy who had sent her on a trip to Russia and ignited this whole fiasco.
The fiasco in which she’d found herself on the lam through the former Soviet Union, dodging the FSB and Interpol, suddenly named as the lead suspect in the attempted assassination of General Boris Stanislov.
Ex-CIA operative York Newgate had pulled her out of hiding, kept her alive, and secreted her out of the country. Of course, that only led to more trouble when the real assassin turned his sights on RJ and then her foster sister, Coco, and then, of course, York. Which only caused Ford, her Navy SEAL brother, to completely overreact and stage his own rescue attempt, one that nearly got him killed.
She could take care of herself. Really.
Nothing in the desk, and RJ stared at the picture.
Maybe…
She pulled the picture off the wall, looking behind it. No safe. No secret compartment. So much for her super CIA analyst skills.
After checking the back of the picture, RJ replaced it on the wall.
She flicked off the light.
RJ had personally searched Sophia’s CIA office after VP candidate Senator Reba Jackson had cleared her of the assassination charges. No journal in the small office overlooking the Potomac either.
So, either her murderer had taken it, or Sophia had left it here in her home.
RJ took the stairs up to Sophia’s bedroom and turned on the bedside light. The nightstand held a vitamin container, a Kindle, still charging, and some lip gloss.
She gave a scant search through the closet and bathroom, looked in the hall linen closet, and stood in the hallway, heart thumping.
The sirens sounded again, this time closer.
C’mon. Think.
She was out of leads. But she desperately needed to track down Sophia’s killer if she hoped to find York. Or at least his killer…
No. He had to be alive.
RJ refused to believe the body identified at the accident scene, burned and unrecognizable, belonged to her York.
Of course, the CIA denied even arresting him. Denied knowing the two suits who had dragged him from the hospital in cuffs. Their bodies had also burned in the car accident that had charred the vehicle.
She wasn’t stupid—she could spot a cover-up when she saw it. After all, she’d seen every episode of Alias.
And somehow—she didn’t yet know how, but she’d figure it out—entangled in it all was a Russian assassin named Damien Gustov. An assassin who had followed York from Russia to America.
In her worst fears, Gustov had York. Was torturing him the same way he had Sophia—
Sirens. Nearly deafening, and RJ had a minute, tops.
She came down the stairs and headed for the family room. Light bathed the room as she flicked on a lamp to reveal a leather sofa, fireplace, bookshelf, and an upright piano. A cursory glance at the shelf revealed nothing.
A stack of books on the piano held a lamp. She searched through the books and accidently hit a number of the piano keys.
Oops. Although…a couple hadn’t hit, leaving a dull thud where a note should be.
Piano tuning. She remembered the duplicate check. Clearly someone hadn’t done their job.
Or…
RJ pulled the books off the piano top and opened the lid.
There—inside, lying on the strings—the weathered gray journal, the corners fraying as if Sophia had brushed her thumb against them too many times, thinking.
RJ grabbed it and shoved it into her inside jacket pocket. Zipped up the jacket.
Red lights flashed through the front windows.
She turned off the light.
Yeah, she should run.
Now.
Clearly the front door was out, so she slipped out onto the deck.
Second story. And below her was the patio, a hedge, and a not-so-sweet landing.
Oh, where was her inner Sydney Bristow when she needed it?
RJ’s hands slicked as she threw her leg over the edge of the railing—probably smart cops would run around back, but all the townhomes were connected, so maybe she had a minute or two—
Her hands slipped, and she let out a scream, her grip sliding down the rails to the bottom.
Her legs dangled, maybe eight feet from the patio.
Okay, she just had to let go and drop.
Let. Go.
Her hands gripped the bars, frozen, and, see, this was why she wasn’t a superspy.
Hiding. So much better.
“Just let go!”
The hiss emerged from the darkness, and for a second, the guttural whisper raked up her fragile hopes— “York?”
How had he—except he always showed up when she needed him the most—in the middle of an alleyway in Moscow, on a train, just in time to save her from a stabbing, and even in Seattle, when she walked in on a dead body.
Of course he’d show up now.
“Just let go, sis!”
She gasped as hands touched her ankles.
What? “Ford?”
“Yes—c’mon!”
She released one hand, turned and reached for his shoulder, and let go with the other.
He caught her easily of course, his arms thick from hours of SEAL PT. He was dressed in black, wore an earpiece and night vision goggles, and now grabbed her hand. “Run!”
“How—”
“Not now!”
Then they were fleeing down the boulevard between connected rows of townhomes, in and out of puddles of light. He pulled her into an alcove and planted her beside him. “Shh!”
Her heartbeat could give her away, but she said nothing as two figures darted past them, toward the home she’d just escaped.
“What are you—”
He put his hand over her mouth, turned to her ear, just a whisper. “Stay on my six.”
Huh?
Then he grabbed her hand again and took off.
They ran across the yard, through a narrow walkway between units, and out into the opposite street.
A van sat parked under a cherry tree and the door opened. Ford pushed her inside. He climbed in after her, pulled the door shut, and they streaked away.
The van’s seats had been removed, so she scooted back along the wall, trying to find herself.
“Hey, RJ.”
RJ stared at Scarlett, the petite brunette who had been Ford’s SEAL team communicator, sitting in the passenger seat.
Next to her, in the driver’s seat, sat Ford’s teammate Trini, a large, dark-skinned man from Trinidad. He drove as if on a casual Sunday drive, his fingers tapping on the window.
“I don’t—how did you—”
“Tate told me what you were up to,” Ford said, pulling off his earpiece.
How did Tate, her overly protective bodyguard brother—okay, they were all overly protective—know where she was? Or what she was doing…
“Wait…he’s working with Vicktor in Seattle, isn’t he?”
Ford had pulled off his night vision goggles. Ran a finger and thumb across his eyes, then blinked. Looked at her. “I don’t know. I just got a text from him with this address that said you were in trouble and that you needed an exfil.”
She stared at Ford, her eyes adjusting to the darkness, the DC neighborhoods outside the van’s back window sentried by the gnarled limbs of barren cherry trees, their leaves turning to dust in the autumn air. She was surrounded by brick homes, manicured yards, tidy lives.
She’d had a tidy life, once upon a time.
A tidy, safe life where no one needed to rescue—or exfil—her.
“I had everything under control.”
Ford’s mouth tightened around the edges. Even in his all-black attire, she could make out his too pensive pale-green eyes.
See him unmasking her lies.
Except it wasn’t a lie.
She got them into this mess.
She was going to get them out.
Besides, “You, better than anyone, should know that when people try and rescue me, they only get hurt. Or…” And she looked hard at him. “Killed.”
Then, with the accuracy of a knife to her heart, Ford took a breath, looked away.
Virtually agreeing.
She deserved that.
Pulling out Sophia’s journal, she ran her thumb along the frayed corners.
Yes, she might have started this whole nightmare. But she was going to figure out how to end it.
Without anyone else she loved getting hurt.
I will find you, York.
Please, please be alive.
Monday nights usually didn’t get that rowdy.
Even at Jethro’s, the only tavern in Shelly, a tiny town in the shadow of the Cascade Mountains of Washington State. The tavern-slash-craft brewery located on Main Street saw mostly well-attired locals who came in for their Freaky Fries—crispy steak-cut fries slathered in sour cream and cheese—and a pint of amber beer fresh from the kegs in back.
But on Mondays, the tavern turned into a sports bar, the two giant flat-screens over the bar tuned to Monday Night Football.
And tonight, the Seahawks versus Vikings.
Jethro didn’t have to even ask Mack to stay late after the kitchen closed to make sure none of these jersey-wearing fans got out of line.
Because Mack would do just about anything for his boss.
Mack glanced through the crowd, looking for trouble as he wiped up a puddle and grabbed an empty mug.
Especially since the Vikings were up by a field goal, two minutes left, with Wilson under center. And at least two of the spectators in the crowd were wearing Vikings jerseys.
In the middle of Seahawks country.
That took brass.
He was also keeping his eye on a couple broad-shouldered tough guys bumping against each other at a high top, his instincts nudging him.
Not that Mack had any idea where he’d gotten those instincts. They seemed embedded in his bones, along with the knowledge that should something go south, he probably knew how to handle himself.
Or maybe not, because he’d been pretty worked over when he arrived in Shelly. He didn’t remember much about how he’d gotten here, which was bad enough, but when Jethro Darnell had found Mack huddled under a tree in Riverwalk Park, the wound in his side had already started to pus and burn, infection setting in.
A couple more days and it might have gone septic.
Mack had been shivering, running a fever, but in his gut he knew—just knew—that going to a hospital would be deadly. For someone. Probably him, but…something about hospitals had raked up his defenses.
Jethro had taken him to his pub and sewn up his wound with the steady hand of an Army medic and probably his many years as a bar owner. The cut separated Mack’s flesh along his ribs, nearly into his gut, and combined with the hematoma just above his ear, he looked like he’d survived a plane crash.
Jethro asked him a couple questions which Mack honestly couldn’t answer. Then he’d fed him and let him bunk in the vacant upstairs apartment until he could find his feet again, basically keeping him alive, feeding him, and then employing him.
Giving Mack time to figure out…well, who he was.
A month later he still hadn’t figured it out.
“How’s the game—oh my—” Raven Darnell had come in from the patio area where a fire flickered in the firepit and more spectators sat at high tops watching the outdoor screen. She wore a tight blue-and-silver Seahawks shirt, put her hands on her hips, and stared at the screen over the bar, her mouth a tight line.
He followed her gaze. Third and ten, one minute left.
Yeah, it wasn’t looking so good for the Hawks…
Wilson hiked the ball, dropped back—
Mack winced as Wilson went down, sacked.
He shot a glance at the Vikings fans in the back. One was pumping his fist, shouting in a sea of furious Seahawks.
Down, boy.
“Aw, shoot. There goes another twenty bucks,” Raven said.
Mack grinned and held out his hand. “I don’t know why you keep betting against me.”
“I believe in my Seahawks. That’s what a true fan does…” She slapped a twenty, probably out of her tip stash, into his hand.
Mack liked her. She stood maybe six inches shorter than him, her dark hair pulled back into a sloppy ponytail, her lips a deep red to match her fingernails, although the paint was chipped on the ends. She played her guitar and sang on open mic nights, her voice a deep, smoky alto, and had dreams of making it big as a country music star.
He had a feeling she was just sticking around to help her old man.
Her brother’s picture, the one in his Army Ranger uniform, hung on the wall behind the bar. Grinning, holding his weapon, the Afghani mountains in the background.
A war hero cut down before his life really started.
No, Raven wasn’t going anywhere, even if she was discovered.
The bar crowd began to close out their tabs, and the next time he looked up, the place was nearly empty.
Even the Vikings fans had left, and he hoped he’d given them a bill. Maybe—shoot.
Mack wasn’t a waiter, that much he knew. He let beers warm on a table, forgot to bring out food under the warmer, and too many times found customers holding out their water glasses as he walked by.
He could pour beers, however, and…
Well, there was that one night about a month ago when he’d spotted a couple college-age guys lurking around the back entrance and decided to stick around as Raven cleaned up.
Raven had let him walk her all the way to her car.
Since then, she’d been ultra-friendly. Started betting on the games with him.
Technically they were still open, so he left the door unlocked but turned off the Open sign.
The night shadows played off the eclectic vibe of the tavern. Tall barrels served as the base to high top tables, beer kegs lined the back wall with copper piping running along the ceiling, and Edison lights hung down like starlight from the painted black ceiling. The floor was original to the warehouse—a work-worn hardwood—and the walls red brick. The bar had been made from scrap copper, the stools handmade by Jethro, simple wood, also painted black.
The man had put his life into this place after he’d lost Ace to the Taliban.
Outside, the fire in the pit had died, the crowd that had been watching the game dispersed. Mack would have to go out there and get the glasses next.
“Hey, tough guy, are you interested in sticking around for the Riverwalk Open Mic tomorrow night?”
Raven stood at the bar, washing by hand the mugs for the mules. She looked up at him.
Something about her stirred a memory inside him, the way she laughed, a feisty edge to her persona. He liked down-to-earth, loyal women.
At least, he thought he did. He picked up a tray and began to clean the tables, piling up glass and copper mugs. “Who’s playing?”
“Besides me? There’s a guy doing a bunch of Neil Diamond covers, I think.”
“Who?”
She looked up at him. “Seriously? You don’t remember Neil Diamond?”
He made a face. “Should I?”
She laughed. “I dunno. Maybe not. He was sort of a big deal in my dad’s era, but you’re definitely too young for that—how old do you think you are?”
He added a plate of half-finished fries to the tray and headed for the back. “I don’t know. Twenty-nine?”
“Oh, dude, you wish.”
His mouth made a tight line, not sure if she was kidding. Probably not. He caught his reflection in the window of the freezer door.
Forty, maybe, given the lines around his eyes. He had blond hair, no gray, but a weird scar along his neck that had given him pause, but it was covered now by his beard. His head injury had finally faded, although the deep bruise still darkened part of his head.
And the wound in his side had stopped aching. Which meant he couldn’t be that old—he’d bounced back pretty fast. His body had, at least.
His mind, not so much.
The only thing that seemed to linger from his past was his accent. He’d tried to ping it, and decided it sounded more British than Aussie. When he googled it, in conjunction with amnesia, he discovered that speech patterns were part of muscle memory, along with knowing how to walk, and couldn’t be erased with trauma.
So, in short, he wasn’t from around here.
Mack set the dishes into the sink and began to spray them off to put in the dishwasher, loading them onto the rack.
“Here’s the rest,” Raven said, coming in beside him. She set another tray into the sink, then loaded it into the automatic dishwasher and turned the machine on. “So, Neil Diamond?”
He looked at her. “Are you…are you asking me out?”
Her mouth opened, just slightly, and he was a cad, until—
“Um, yes. I think so.” She flashed a smile at him.
He expected more of a response, something inside him that might stir to life. Feelings, if not memories.
Nothing.
Still, she was pretty and he liked her, so, “Okay.”
She grinned, reached out and touched his arm. “I know you don’t remember anything, Mack, but maybe you don’t have to. Maybe you get a fresh start.” Then she winked and headed back to the dining room.
A fresh start. He mulled over the words as he loaded another tray. The previous tray came out of the machine on the far side, the dishes clean and dry, so he retrieved it, and started putting the dishes away.
Over the last month he’d spent hours searching for anyone with the name Mack missing in Washington State, his age, his build. Then Oregon and Montana, and finally the United States at large.
Found three men, none of them matching the mug he saw in the mirror. Two his age, one younger.
Apparently, he’d dropped off the planet.
Or, possibly, his name wasn’t Mack. But it was the only scrap of information still lodged in his brain when he’d flagged down a trucker four weeks ago on Highway 2 headed east. He didn’t know why, but he’d gotten off at Wenatchee and picked up another ride, this time headed north. The driver, a recent college grad with his wife, had parents in Shelly and talked about the place with such fondness Mack ended his trip here.
Mack wanted a life that he could talk about with fondness. Anticipation. And while he hadn’t a clue what life he’d left, the wounds on his body told him that maybe he didn’t want to return to it.
So yeah, a fresh start sounded good. With Raven, at least for one night under the stars listening to Neil Diamond covers.
Honestly, the artist’s name did sound familiar.
A crash sounded from the other room. “Did you drop something?” He opened the dishwasher and pulled out the clean, steaming tray. “Raven?”
He picked up a couple glasses with a towel, set them on the rack—
Another crash.
He dropped the towel and headed toward the front room. “Are you o—”
Raven stood in the main room, her arms pushing hard against the chest of a man who had his arm around her neck, shaking her.
“What the—?” Mack’s shout turned the man. Then memory clicked in and yes, he’d also seen him a month ago.
Raven’s ex-boyfriend. A man named Teddy, if Mack remembered correctly.
“Let her go!” Mack advanced on the man, but Teddy grabbed Raven’s arm and pushed her through the door, out into the patio area.
Oh no, he wasn’t getting away. Mack wasn’t sure where the rage came from, the sudden heat that boiled into his veins, but as he pushed through the door, he didn’t stop. Not when the guy turned, held Raven in front of him, threatening her. Not when the assailant picked up a poker out of the fire, the one used to stir the embers into the dark sky, pointing it at Mack. And especially not when Mack grabbed Teddy’s arm, bent it away from Raven, and smashed his fist full into Teddy’s face.
Mack shunted Teddy’s feeble attempt to smash him with the poker, squeezing his wrist so hard the poker fell away onto a chair cushion, then he kneed the man in his gut, pulled his head down, and kneed him again.
Blood. So much of it that it filled the cracks of the patio as Teddy went down shouting, writhing, Raven screaming in the background.
Somewhere in there, Mack found himself and turned to her. She was staring at Teddy, back to Mack, and then—
“Who are you?”
Mack stared at her, blinking hard. Adrenaline ratcheted his heartbeat to high, his entire body buzzing.
Teddy moaned.
Then something of sanity grabbed hold, and Mack stepped back. Looked at Teddy.
The man held his face—his nose destroyed, his lip split, maybe missing a couple teeth.
Oh.
“Are you okay?”
Raven’s question, and Mack looked up, thinking Raven was headed for Teddy, but she came up to Mack and backed him away from Teddy, her hand on his chest. “You’re bleeding.” She pointed to his side.
He looked down and only then felt the heat scurry into his side.
His movements might have reopened the wound. Raven drew up Mack’s shirt, completely ignoring Teddy, and yep, the stitches had reopened.
Now, wow, the pain burned through him. He grabbed her wrists. “Just leave it—”
“You need a hospital—”
“I need a hospital!” Teddy shrieked. He was on his feet.
Mack grabbed his shirt and directed him to a nearby chair. “Just sit down, Slick. You had it coming.”
Raven shoved a wet bar towel in Mack’s hands and he gave it to Teddy. “Call 9-1-1,” Mack said to Raven.
“I already did.” Jethro had come out of the bar. He’d been in the back office doing the books, last Mack knew, and now emerged with the look of murder as he stared at Teddy. “I told you last time you showed up that if you ever came back—”
“Daddy. It’s okay.”
“It’s not okay,” Mack said. “He had his arm around her neck.”
And with that, he had to step in front of Teddy to keep Jethro back. He might be in his early sixties and completely gray, but he was lean and bore the movement of a man who still worked out.
Teddy got up, a little wobbly.
“Don’t even try to run, kid,” Mack said quietly. “You can sit on the sidewalk outside to wait for the cops.” Mack glanced at Jethro. “I’ll wait with you.”
“Me too,” said Raven. “I probably need to give a statement, make sure you don’t get into trouble.”
Mack frowned at her.
“Anyone who handles himself like that has a past,” she said quietly.
He drew in a breath. But, yeah, that’s what he was afraid of.
Very afraid.
So much for fresh starts.