3

“You’ve had quite the night, son.”

The words came from the tall man standing by the nurses’ station. Chief of Police Jimbo Reynolds. Mid-fifties, balding, and with an aura around him that said he knew this town, its people, and all of it was under his protection.

He was Jethro’s best friend and the second on the scene standing beside Mack as they watched the brewery burn.

The Shelly fire department had arrived first, just in time for Mack to emerge from the building, nearly on fire himself. They grabbed him and Jethro and pulled them away from the flames, and then one of the firemen administered oxygen.

Mack had sat on the sidewalk across the street, watching as the EMTs revived Jethro. He’d wanted to weep when he saw the man start to cough, as the EMTs bundled him onto a board to take him to the small hospital in town.

Mack had refused to go—he was fine, thanks—and instead watched as the firemen battled the flames that crawled up the side of the building, into his apartment, and chewed away at the roof. The fire ate the wooden rafters but spared the brick and mortar, and by the time the dawn dented the pallor of night, nothing but smoke and char remained of the inferno.

The building might not be a total loss, but Mack didn’t relish giving Jethro a report. He’d stayed until the fire chief, a man with years lined in his tanned face, produced what he thought might be the culprit.

“I found this poker in the burned remains of one of the patio chairs,” he said and showed it to Mack.

Right. The poker Teddy had used. The one Mack had shaken from his grip.

The one that had fallen on the cushions, left there to smolder.

Clearly not his fault, but it felt like it as he’d headed to the hospital.

There, an ER nurse had spotted the blood on his shirt, his blackened face, a rasping cough and practically dragged him to the ER.

Now, Mack sat on the end of a bed in the ER, waiting for the all-clear to leave after getting checked over by one of the docs.

And of course by Jimbo, who hadn’t moved from his spot across the hall, just in case—what—that Mack might make a run for it?

“Yeah,” Mack said in response to Jimbo’s comment. “I was sleeping when I woke to the smell of smoke.” He took a sip of orange soda, still trying to clear his throat.

Jimbo nodded. He wore a pair of jeans and a black T-shirt with the letters SPD on the breast. “And that’s when you went outside.”

“Had to take the fire escape. I saw Jethro’s truck and realized he hadn’t gone home.”

The nurse came by. “I’m just waiting for the doctor to sign off on your release, Mr. Jones.”

Jones. He’d picked that name because, well, it felt ironic. Not that he meant to keep it, but, well, Mack Jones seemed like an okay moniker.

“So remind me where you’re from, Mack?”

Yes, he knew this kind of questioning, circling back to earlier questions to see if he made mistakes.

Hopefully he remembered all his answers. “Seattle.”

“Mmmhmm. I used to live there. Whereabouts?”

And shoot, he didn’t know Seattle well, so, “Actually, I spent a lot of time overseas. I just lived there shortly. Downtown.” He had a vague memory of the piers, and even oddly Pike Place. “I worked downtown, in the market. Slinging fish.”

Sounded like something he’d do.

“And how’d you get to Shelly?”

That was trickier. Because if Mack said he woke up on the side of a highway, bruised, bleeding, and not sure how he got there— “I needed a change. Got a ride from a couple friends who said they liked this little town.”

“What friends?”

He did remember their names—a young couple visiting for the weekend. They’d taken pity on a guy walking along the highway. He couldn’t believe that the fact that he’d looked freshly dragged behind a car hadn’t given them pause. They’d even tried to drop him off at the hospital, but he’d opted for the town park. “Taylor and Sienna Bart.”

Jimbo nodded, said nothing, but Mack could see his wheels turning.

And right then he nearly said it, nearly confessed that he didn’t actually have a clue who he might be, and would Jimbo be willing to run his prints, because maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t a criminal on the run, or even a military fugitive.

Maybe he had a family, people who loved him, a job as a…fireman?

Then the nurse came back with his papers. “The doctor is a little worried about your wound in your side—it seems to have reopened. He wants to see you back here in a week.”

Jimbo raised an eyebrow, and the last thing Mack wanted was for the cop to get a look at an injury that, even to Mack’s eyes, looked like a knife wound.

As if he’d been in a serious fight.

Setting down his soda on a nearby cart, he signed his discharge papers—Mack Jones—and slid off the bed.

“Mack!”

Raven’s voice echoed down the hallway, and he turned to see her striding hard for him. She wore a pair of yoga pants and an oversized T-shirt, flip-flops, her dark hair down and wild as she broke into a run toward him.

For a second, a memory flashed, or maybe just another round of déjà vu. Dark hair. Someone running into his arms.

Then, he barely had time to brace himself before she barreled into him, her arms around his neck. “Are you okay?”

He caught her hips, just to make sure she didn’t bang anything else loose, then eased into her hug. She smelled good—cottony and warm—and something about holding her felt right and easy and familiar.

Or at least, he wanted it to be.

She leaned back and caught his face in her hands, settling her blue eyes in his. “Dad’s going to be okay because of you.” Her eyes filled, and she whisked away a tear. “You’re a hero.”

“Oh, I don’t think—”

“Jimbo said that if you hadn’t pulled him out…” Her hand covered her mouth. “Anyway, it’s a good thing you didn’t take me up on my offer.”

A tentative smile, and he glanced at Jimbo, but he had his phone out, so, “I guess so.”

She wiped away another tear. “He wants to see you.”

“Sure.” He glanced at Jimbo, who looked up at him.

“See you ’round.”

Mack wasn’t sure how to take that, but he let Raven slip her fingers through his and pull him down the hallway of the small, twenty-five bed hospital.

“They said he needs to stay for a while, under observation, but…” She turned to him. “He’s already talking about rebuilding.” She stopped outside his door. “I don’t know if we should encourage him. He’s not young, and this is a big job—”

“Hey,” Mack said, turning her. “I’m not going anywhere. It’s going to be okay.” And he didn’t know why he said that, the words just spilling out. But her face lit up and she nodded.

“Thanks, Mack.”

Jethro was sitting up in his bed, wearing an oxygen mask, his face cleaned. Mack, however, probably still wore the dark soot on his face, his arms. He needed a shower and a strong cup of coffee. Or two.

Jethro reached for the mask, pulling it aside. “Hey there.”

“Put that back on,” Mack said. But he met Jethro’s hand, shook it. “You okay?”

“I’m fine. Throat’s a little sore.” He held the mask just above his mouth, not quite obeying, of course. His eyes searched Mack’s. “I knew God had sent you here for a reason. He works out all things for good.”

Mack stilled.

“Mack—?”

The words boomeranged in his head, old voices tumbling down from a top shelf. According to His plan.

“Get him a chair, Raven.”

Mack felt Raven’s hand on his arm, and he looked over at her, not quite seeing her.

You’re going to be fine, son. In time, you’ll see the victory of the Lord in this.

He took a breath, and the voice vanished.

“Did you remember something?” she asked.

“I…” He looked at Jethro. “I don’t know. A voice, maybe. Romans 8:28. That’s the verse you’re referring to, right?”

Jethro raised an eyebrow. “You know the Bible.”

Maybe he did. He slid into the chair. “It was just a voice.” Mack took a breath. “Anyway, I don’t know about God, but I do know that Raven says you want to rebuild.”

“I’ve been wanting to remodel for years.” He glanced at Raven. “I could build a stage.”

“Dad, the place is still smoking—”

“Sometimes you have to burn down the past in order to get a fresh start.” Jethro’s eyes flashed, and he looked at Mack. Oh. Their conversation from hours ago about him leaving.

Jethro glanced at his daughter standing behind Mack, then back at Mack, and smiled.

So maybe the man had changed his tune.

“We’ll see,” Mack said. “I need to get a shower and some shut-eye.” And that’s when it hit him.

He had nothing. The meager belongings he’d managed to scrape up, including a change of clothes, had turned to ash.

Nice.

“Come home with me,” Raven said, as if able to read his mind. “I think we still have some of my brother’s clothes…” She looked at Jethro, who nodded.

And the gesture swept warmth clear through Mack’s body.

Before he could protest, Raven had him by the hand again and was pulling him out of the room.

The sun had cleared the horizon, sent a golden trail through the windows at the end of the corridor. She didn’t release his hand even as they stepped out into the sunlight.

Jimbo was standing on the curb, surrounded by a handful of press, giving a statement.

“Uh oh,” Raven started, but her warning came too late as one of the videographers spotted him. He turned the camera on him as a reporter pushed a microphone in his face.

“Mr. Jones, can you tell us how it feels to know you saved the life of a Medal of Honor recipient?”

What? He looked at Raven. She wrinkled her nose. “Sorry.”

“You think?” He looked at the reporter. A woman, short blonde hair, mid-twenties, a little fire in her eyes. “I…I’m just glad I was there. Right place, right time.” He glanced at Jimbo, wondering what he’d said.

“Will you be staying on to help them rebuild?”

“C’mon, Mandy, that’s too much,” Raven said. “He just survived a fire.”

Mack glanced at Raven, frowned. Then, “Yes, of course. Jethro’s pub will be back in business ASAP. In fact, we’ll still have a booth at the Harvest Festival, so make sure to stop by.”

Now it was Raven’s turn to frown. But Mack tugged her hand and headed out into the parking lot, hopefully in the direction of her car.

“Seriously, the Harvest Festival? That’s two weeks away.”

“Hopefully some of the beer in the kegs survived the fire.”

She dug out her fob and clicked the door open. Then she turned to him, over the top of her car. “You’re really going to dig in, help us rebuild?”

He looked past her toward the lake, the fire of the morning sun burning its way through the green-platinum waters, the rumple of mountains along the far horizon. Burn down the past… He met her eyes, warm in his. “I told you, I’m not going anywhere.”

She grinned, and it could almost gulp him whole with the sunshine in it. “Then we’re going to need pancakes.”

There was something magical about the morning hours in D.C. The way the sunlight streamed through the fading pink flowers of the autumn-blooming cherry trees that lined RJ’s street. The quiet of her neighborhood, the nip in the air that dissipated into the day.

It all conspired to hint at a hope that RJ desperately wanted to lean in to as she sat on her front steps and laced up her shoes.

Hope that she’d seeded into Coco’s smart brain.

The fact that her soon-to-be sister-in-law had also been awake this morning in Seattle, at the very early hour of 3:00 a.m.—three time zones away from D.C.—told her that neither of them wanted to admit the probable truth.

York really was dead.

And Damien Gustov, Russian assassin, was loose in America.

Or maybe that thought, along with the nightmare of York being burned alive in the mangled SUV, had only driven RJ out of bed to fire up her computer just as the dawn cracked through her blinds.

Coco was probably just catnapping beside the hospital bed of her son, Mikka, still in his induction phase of his leukemia treatment. So far he hadn’t suffered any infections or seizures from the cocktail of chemo drugs injected into his system, but he’d had two painful intrathecal injections and had already lost all his hair.

“What are you doing up?” RJ said when Coco responded to her ping and answered her video chat request.

Coco moved into the hospital bathroom, only the computer screen glowing on her face. She looked tired, her hair growing out red at the roots and now pulled back into a messy ponytail. She wore one of Wyatt’s Blue Ox hockey practice jerseys and a pair of leggings and leaned back against the tiled wall, drawing up her legs, the computer beside her on the floor. “Mikka was sick right before he fell asleep. I’m exhausted, but I can’t stop watching him, making sure he’s breathing okay, checking for seizures.” She scraped her hands over her face. “Your mother is coming by in the morning to relieve me.”

Wyatt had purchased a loft apartment near the hospital for family members to stay while his son underwent treatment.

“Where’s Wyatt?”

“In the next room, sleeping on the lounger. He has PT in the morning, and his hip is getting better. He’s leaving for a pre-season game in Nashville against the Predators tonight. I wish his coach would put him on the Injured Reserved list but he wants to keep him on the active roster. Last week it nearly wrecked Wyatt to leave Mikka. I rarely see him cry, but he was losing it when he got on the bus.”

Yes, well, he’d waited five years to find out he was a father. He didn’t want to lose another moment. But RJ didn’t say that.

Coco had her reasons for keeping her son’s existence quiet.

Namely, her high-profile father whose identity could put Coco and Mikka under a shadow of danger.

Another reason why Wyatt didn’t want to leave their sides.

“How is Mikka?”

“So far, it looks like the chemo is working. He’s going into remission, which means he’ll be ready for the second stage of treatment and maybe a stem cell transplant.” She offered a wan smile. “We have good doctors. And prayer.”

Yeah, prayer. RJ hadn’t exactly looked up for help. Maybe…except she seemed to have plenty of backup, thank you, Ford. And Tate. And Wyatt and... “So, I have a question…” RJ didn’t exactly know how to broach the topic but, “Last night—”

“That was me.” Coco made a face. “Not entirely, but yeah, I set up the tracker. Wyatt and your brothers asked me to set up a GPS to track your phone and…well, he put two and two together when he saw you casing Sophia’s place two nights ago. He told Tate, who told Ford, who was in DC, and Ford was supposed to intercept you before you went into the house, but…are you okay?”

RJ just stared at the computer. She wore her pajamas and sat cross-legged on her sofa, the computer on her lap, and just about gave in to the urge to slam down the cover. “You what? Put a tracker on my phone?”

“It’s because your brothers are all freaking out about you leaving the ranch—especially after, um, well…”

“After what happened to York. They think he’s dead.”

Coco’s mouth made a tight, solemn line.

“And that Gustov will come after me.”

Coco lifted a shoulder. “Gustov’s gone dark. I’ve been looking for him all over the internet—even that dating site he’s hooked into. Nothing. No activity. He’s vanished.”

And yes, that put a wrinkle of fear under RJ’s skin. But she wasn’t going to live her life looking over her shoulder.

Or having her brothers come to her rescue. “Listen, Coco. I get it—but you gotta turn that thing off. I don’t need to be babysat.”

Coco drew in a breath.

“Now. I’m not asking.”

“Wyatt is going to throw a conniption.”

“I’ll deal with Wyatt and Ford and Tate and Knox and even Reuben.”

“Speaking of Tate, he’s back in town. Glo is on vacation in Cannon Beach. He’s staying at Wyatt’s flat. Says he’s planning on talking with Vicktor in the morning about the shooting.”

“Any news on the wedding? Maybe something small, and soon?”

“I don’t know how. The election is only a month away. Senator Jackson is going to make sure her only daughter’s wedding is the event of the season at the estate in Nashville.”

“I meant yours, silly.”

“Oh.” Coco lifted a shoulder. “It’s hard to think about that with Mikka being sick.”

Sure, RJ understood that.

“But according to Tate, Glo has been pestering him to set a date. I’m not sure why.”

RJ knew why—because the man she loved tended to get into trouble and she didn’t want to waste one more day waiting for the rest of their lives to start.

In case it didn’t.

The thought thickened her throat. RJ swallowed, looked away as her microwave beeped. “I’ll be right back.”

She’d probably nabbed four hours of sleep, at best, given her late hour last night. Doctoring her coffee, she then returned to the sofa. “Coco, I actually need your help. I found Sophia’s journal, and in it, a phone number that might lead to her contact in Seattle. Can you run a trace on her number and match it to the one I found? And then see if you can connect the number to a name?”

“Of course.” Coco’s secret abilities—and her job when she lived in Russia—were her black hat hacking skills.

RJ read off the number. Coco leaned over her computer, clearly working her magic. “By the way, did you ever verify the information Kobie gave us about Jackson?”

Alan Kobie. The bomber who’d kidnapped Coco, strapped a bomb to her, and used her as leverage to try to tell the world some crazy story about VP candidate Reba Jackson and her involvement with a Chechen warlord, maybe even some collusion with Russia.

The fact that Coco said his name without a tremble in her voice spoke to how she’d managed to free herself and triumph over evil.

Evil seemed to keep winning, however.

“Kobie said she took a covert trip to Chechnya two years ago, but I scoured her travel history. She did take a humanitarian trip to Chechnya ten years ago, when she was a freshman senator, to tour refugee camps, but…nothing recently.”

“He probably lied,” Coco said. “He just had a vendetta against the government for abandoning his brother to the jihad camps. He said his brother was a POW there.”

“His brother was one of the bombers who tried to kill Glo and later her mother, the VP candidate in San Diego,” RJ said. “So, apparently some of his jihadist conditioning took.”

Coco nodded. “I got something. Sophia Randall called this number twice. Once for a minute, then a week later for three minutes. The number called her back five days later for four minutes, then again two days later for forty-nine seconds.”

“When was the first call?”

“The day before you went to Russia.”

“She went missing right about then.”

“Maybe she was under the radar. It looks like all her calls took place while you were escaping Russia, but the return calls came shortly after you returned. Maybe around the same time.”

“Except Damien Gustov was still in Russia, trying to find you, for at least another month.”

“And you never heard from her after you got back?”

“My calls always went to voice mail.”

Coco looked up and RJ heard Wyatt’s voice at the door. “Just a few more minutes. We’re looking into something.”

Wyatt settled down next to her, half his face appearing on the screen. “You’re not staying out of trouble, sis.”

“I had everything under control, Wy.”

His mouth pinched.

“I don’t need you guys hovering.”

“Says the woman who was accused of an international crime, had to escape a foreign country, and walked in on a dead body.”

“I was cleared of any crime, and the dead body was planted so I’d walk in and find it.”

“Which just sends warm fuzzies through me.” Wyatt ran a hand around the back of his neck, his brown hair growing longer in anticipation of hockey season. And his many photo shoots, probably.

“You guys completely overreact.”

“Overreacting would be making you wear an ankle monitor. Maybe confining you to house arrest,” Wyatt said.

“I’m a trained analyst!”

“You’re our only sister! And the youngest, and we’re only trying to do what Dad would want us to do—”

“Leave Dad out of this.”

“Hardly. We all know you’ve always tried to keep up with us because you didn’t want Dad to see you as weaker, someone to be rescued.”

She drew in a breath. “I’m not weaker. And I don’t have to be rescued—”

“Yet. Or should I say again?”

“Wyatt!” Coco said.

He looked at Coco. Back to the screen. “Sorry. I’m clearly tired. And edgy and—”

“Being a jerk,” RJ said. “Just because you went to Russia and saved Coco’s life doesn’t make you the only one who can save the people you love.”

He drew in a breath. Swallowed. “Sorry. I know. I’m just…I’m—we all—are worried about you.”

“Clearly. But I’m fine.” Her throat tightened, and she clamped down against the lie. “Just fine.”

He nodded. “Okay. Just promise me not to do anything crazy.”

“Oh, like running off to a foreign country to save—oh wait, I did that. And so did Ford. And you—”

“I’m going back to bed.”

Coco was grinning as he kissed her on the cheek.

“I love you, sis,” Wyatt said. He got up and walked out of the shot.

Coco reached out with her leg, and RJ imagined her toeing the door closed. “He means well. And he wants to do what he thinks your dad would do. He’s been reading your dad’s Bible, and it’s made him want to be more connected to your family.”

“He did miss out on a lot with his hockey career.”

“I’m searching the GPS on both phones.”

“How long has my mom been there?”

“A couple days. Got a hit—both phones were in Seattle three months ago, near the same cell tower. And there are no more calls from Sophia’s phone after that.”

“Might be when he took her. But why would he hold her for a month?” And RJ didn’t want to answer her own question. “And if Damien was chasing you across Russia…who took her?”

“And if someone else, not Damien, killed Sophia, did that person also grab York?”

RJ finished her coffee. “I have a call in to a man named Crowley who York knew at the CIA. I’m trying to track down the guys who took him. They say they don’t have him, but…”

Coco met her eyes. “If he’s still alive, we’ll find him, RJ.”

If… “He is,” she’d said softly, her eyes burning. She couldn’t give in to the alternative.

Coco nodded. “I’ll see if I can track down an owner for the phone. I gotta get back to Wyatt.”

“I’m going out for a run to clear my head.”

Coco had pressed two fingers to her lips, then the screen, and RJ had mimicked it, then shut her computer.

Now, ten minutes later, she sat on the front steps, the morning air sweeping into her nose, her body.

Prayer. She hadn’t really considered that God might be willing to get involved. But if that’s what it took to find York…

Please.

She got up and started at an easy pace down the sidewalk. The morning sun just lipped the roofs of the townhomes and condos in her area. A few neighbors were out walking dogs, a couple more running, and she raised her hand to the former Marine who lived across the street. He wore his blond hair short, not an ounce of fat on his body, and it reminded her so much of York, she quickened her pace.

York, with those blue eyes she couldn’t seem to forget, nor the way he kissed her, as if, when she was in his arms, he forgot the man he was, became the man he wanted to be. He’d even told her that.

She liked—okay, loved—the man she knew, despite the things he’d done, the man he’d been.

That man had also been the one who’d saved her life.

At the corner, she stopped to wait for the light. Beside her, a limousine pulled up, then slowly turned right on red.

Stopped in front of her.

Before she could react, the back door opened, and a man stepped out, grabbed her arms. “CIA,” he said, flashing his I.D. “Come with me.”

“What—why?”

He didn’t answer her. Instead, without a pause, he pulled her inside the vehicle.

The door shut on her scream.

She sent her palm into his jaw hard enough for him to whoof out his breath, then rolled back and kicked him, center mass. He let out another grunt as he fell back.

She rolled over, clawing for the door—

“Stop!”

The voice jerked her around, her attention to the man seated on the back seat. Thin, with salt-and-pepper hair, he wore a suit and now held his hand up—either to her, or her assailant, she didn’t know. But his gaze fell on her and held fast. “I’m here to help.”

“Help? With what? Kidnapping?”

He gestured to the seat. They still hadn’t moved from the curb, and she glanced out the window in the hope her neighbor had seen her abduction. She could use a former Marine right now—

York was a former Marine.

Oh, she had to stop going to him for help. To anyone for help.

“Please, sit down. We need to talk.”

She narrowed her eyes.

“I’m Director Tom Crowley. You’ve called my office about thirty times.” He flipped open his identification for her.

Oh. She bit her lip and slid onto the seat. “Uh, thanks for taking my call?”

He smirked and put away his I.D. “You are persistent, Miss Marshall.”

“Where’s York? I know your men took him.”

His smile fell. “Actually, no, they didn’t, and to cut to the chase, I don’t know where he is. If he is dead, or alive. And, if he’s alive, I’d like to find him too.”

“I’ll bet you would,” she snapped.

He frowned at her.

“He told me that you warned him never to return to the US. After, well…after…”

“After I said he got my daughter and grandson killed.”

Her mouth tightened.

He swallowed, looked away from her, a flash of sadness on his face. “I shouldn’t have blamed him for the evil that is in the world. He did everything right. I was grieving, of course. And angry.” He looked back at her, and his eyes glistened. “Of course York is a hero. But he also is dangerous.”

She looked at him.

“Not to us—to the rogue faction of the CIA that is hunting him.”

Her eyes widened. “So it’s true.”

“Yes. My team has been rooting them out for a year, trying to find the power broker who’s at the helm, one of a handful across the globe who is trying to cause international unrest.”

“Why?”

“War leads to weapons which leads to money which leads to power.”

“Were they behind the assassination attempt on General Stanislov?”

“Yes. And possibly the attempt on Senator White in Alaska. Sophia was on my team, looking into a cell of sleeper agents.”

Oh.

“She was investigating a dating site that we believe activates the sleeper agents.”

RJ managed to keep her expression still. But, “Was it called MyAmore.com?”

He raised an eyebrow.

“My, um, sister and I found emails sent to a user of the site.”

“Can you forward them to me?”

She nodded.

“And while we’re at it, did you find Sophia’s journal when you broke into her house last night?”

Her eyes widened.

“We tried to keep the police away when the security alarm was triggered, but they responded to the 9-1-1 call from the neighbors.”

Oh. “I suppose you’re tossing my house right now.”

“It would be easier if I could just make a call.”

She made a face. “It’s in the bathroom, behind the sink.”

He nodded at the goon who’d taken her and he took out his phone.

She sighed. “Do you think York is alive?”

“I don’t know.”

“He was picked up by a man named Martin. He recognized him.”

Recognition registered on Crowley’s face. “Really?”

“Who is he?”

“He used to work for the agency. He left shortly after York did and has been off the grid ever since. We thought he might have been connected to York’s cover being blown, but we weren’t sure. And York killed the informant, so…” He glanced at the driver. “Take a drive around the block.”

They started to move. “If Martin took him, a good bet is that he thought York knew something that could incriminate him.”

And right then, York’s voice swept into her head. I have a feeling that if the CIA knew I was here, I might be in trouble. I have too many secrets.

“Do you have any idea what that might have been?”

“I don’t.” Oh, maybe she’d answered too quickly. But really. “He never told me.”

“Miss Marshall. You work for me, remember?”

“I worked for Sophia.”

He tilted his head.

“No, I don’t know anything. But I think York did know something. And Martin took him.”

The way Crowley’s jaw tightened swept heat into her eyes, cotton into her throat.

“You think he’s dead.”

“Martin did wet work for the agency,” Crowley said simply.

She looked out the window. They were pulling up at the corner again.

“This is where your investigation ends, Miss Marshall. You’re in over your head and I don’t want you to get hurt.”

She’d heard that before. She reached for the handle.

Felt a hand on her arm.

Looked at Crowley.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” he said quietly. “We had our differences, and he had his faults, but at his heart, York was a patriot.”

She swallowed, nodded. “Sorry for your loss too.”

He blinked, as if the words hit him.

She got out, and the limousine pulled away.

Down the street and across from her condo building, a van also left the curb.

Her Marine neighbor was standing on his doorstep, watching. She lifted a hand in greeting as she ran back to her condo, up the stairs of her building.

She shut the door behind her, her heart pounding.

The place hadn’t been completely destroyed, but the sofa cushions were askew, a kitchen drawer opened.

She walked into her family room and sat on the sofa. Picked up the remote.

Voices. Just something to tell her she wasn’t alone.

That this wasn’t over.

It couldn’t be over.

This is where your investigation ends, Miss Marshall.

She flopped back, barely listening to the CNN reporter list off her two minute around-the-nation report.

Who cared who turned 101? And yes, the mudslide in California was tragic, but no one had died. And she tuned out the blurb about the lifesaving actions of a man who saved a Medal of Honor winner. She leaned up and pulled off her shoes—and caught the shot of the man on the screen, just coming out of a hospital.

Wide shoulders, blond hair, blue eyes. And sure, he was covered in soot and smoke and wore the shag of a tangled, dirty beard, but…

Her heart stopped.

York.

“Mr. Jones, can you tell us how it feels to know you saved the life of a Medal of Honor recipient?”

Mr. Jones?

“I…I’m just glad I was there. Right place, right time.”

The voice slid under her skin. Right place. Right time.

Yep, that was York all right.

Oh, she knew it. She knew it!

RJ pulled her pillow to her face and let herself weep.

It was a slow, dismal rain, the kind that poured darkness into his spirit as Tate pulled into a parking garage opposite the sleek black-and-gray brick building of the Seattle Police Department, West Precinct.

He just needed answers.

Needed to know what to look for.

Needed to make sure no one got ambushed by a serial killer or long-range sniper on his watch as lead security for Gloria Jackson, daughter of VP candidate Senator Reba Jackson.

Because, frankly, last time had been way, way too close.

Tate squeezed his Ford Taurus rental into a space, got out, and ran up the ramp to the sidewalk, holding a magazine over his head as he dashed across the street through the drizzle to the lobby.

The lobby was sparse, with white marble and tall, clear pillars showcasing historical artifacts from the SPD’s history. Tate easily spotted his target.

Detective Vicktor Shubnikov. Military-short dark hair, the stance of a cop, and he wore the expression of a man who knew how to size up trouble as he stood near one of the pillars, arms folded, waiting.

He didn’t blink at Tate. But then again, he already knew Tate’s story, had already fielded his plethora of phone calls.

Already knew that Tate wanted to put his fist into the stone wall he was getting from the Feds in the investigation of the assassination attempt on Senator Jackson—the second attempt.

No, the second attempt that Tate hadn’t seen coming, hadn’t caught until it was nearly too late.

He didn’t want to be blindsided by a third.

“Hey, Vicktor,” Tate said as he met his hand. Vicktor stood the same height as Tate, but had a few years on him.

“Sorry to drag you into the station,” Vicktor said, only a hint of Russian accent burring his voice. “But I thought it would help for you to see the evidence board. The SPD is working with the FBI on the investigation, but you should know, we’re getting the same cold shoulder.”

“Thanks. I’m not sure how the secret service expects me to protect Glo without all the information.” He followed Vicktor down the corridor to the stairs.

Vicktor swiped his pass, and the doors unlocked. Tate followed him up the flights to the second floor.

“How is your fiancée?” Vicktor asked.

Vicktor had met Glo Jackson, country music singer, a month ago after the shooting on the pier during one of Jackson’s rallies.

“She’s fine. Just came off a month of gigs for NBR-X, the professional bull-riding event she and the Yankee Belles play for. They have a break now until the NBR-X national finals in November.”

The stairwell door opened to a hub of quiet activity, workstations equipped with computers, junior detectives on the phone, a few sharing conversation as they drank coffee. Tate followed Vicktor down the hall to his office.

“I’m surprised you left her alone,” Vicktor said as he opened his door and gestured Tate inside.

“She’s at a private house in Cannon Beach this week, holed up with her bandmates, writing songs. And the place is heavily guarded. My man Swamp is on it.”

Vicktor’s office window overlooked a sleek skyscraper that housed on its ground floor a Starbucks and a soup-and-sandwich place. The other three walls were filled with massive whiteboards littered with written notes as well as photographs of people, maps, buildings, and a timeline.

Vicktor offered him a chair.

“That’s okay. I think better when I pace,” Tate said.

“So, where do you want to start? The shooting or your missing—or dead—friend?”

Oh, York. His sister’s missing or dead friend. But because she was obsessed with the idea that her boyfriend-slash-action hero was still alive, that made it Tate’s problem too.

“Is RJ in contact with you about her search for York?” Tate asked.

“And her dead boss, Sophia Randall,” Vicktor said.

Tate didn’t know much about the case—admittedly he’d been too wrapped up in protecting Glo. But he had been alert enough to pick up Wyatt’s call last night about RJ getting in over her head. He’d texted Ford, who happened to be, providentially, nearby.

Saved him from getting on a plane. Or better, calling Knox to get on a plane. Since his big brother had taken over the gig as director of livestock for NBR-X, he had left the ranching in Reuben’s hands, and frankly, stayed clear of most of the drama happening with RJ and Ford and Wyatt.

But if Knox knew RJ was in trouble…yeah, it was probably better Ford was in town to intercept his twin. Which, according to Ford, was all about said dead boss.

“Do you think Randall was involved in the potential assassination of the VP candidate?” Tate asked.

“Are you sure the VP candidate was the target?” Vicktor walked over to an aerial map of Piers 62 and 63, just a couple blocks from Pike Place Market on the harbor.

Tate joined him, seeing that day in his mind. The pier had been sectioned off for the event and a giant battleship brought in for backdrop. A banner of presidential candidate Isaac White and VP candidate Reba Jackson flanked the side of the ship, the words For a Safe Tomorrow written below their faces.

Tate could still smell the brine mixed with oil that lifted from the water, feel the chill of the day on his legs as he’d watched Glo get ready for her warm-up song—she had taken to singing “God Bless America” before all her mother’s events.

“We had extra security that day. They were lined up along the street, everyone was being checked. And still, Kobie got in,” Tate said, referring to the bomber who’d used the fame of Tate’s NHL hockey-star brother to wheedle his way into the event.

“The bomber used your brother to get him onstage, right?”

“Yeah. Wyatt showed up behind the screen and told me that if he didn’t tell the world that Reba Jackson was some kind of Russian spy or traitor or something along those lines, that Coco would be killed. Wyatt was supposed to read a statement, but before he could, shots were fired.” He ran his finger along the long pier to the buildings along Alaskan Way. “Maybe from here.”

Vicktor was nodding. “That’s a long, long shot.”

“With wind. So it would take someone with skill. Which is why York thought it might be a Russian assassin by the name of Damien Gustov. York was pretty sure he was working for the Bratva—the Russian mob.”

“I know who they are,” Vicktor said, and of course he would. Because Vicktor had spent fifteen years working with the FSB before he immigrated.

“Were you able to get surveillance video from any of these buildings?”

“Unfortunately, those are all high-end condos. And we’re not even sure if the shots came from there,” Vicktor said.

“Did you get ballistics from Kobie’s body? York thought he’d shot him, but he couldn’t get an angle.”

Kobie had been shot while trying to flee the chaos.

“York surrendered his weapon to the FBI. We haven’t been privy to their results.”

Which left Tate right back at nada. No leads, no hint of who might have killed Kobie and nearly his brother.

Had tried to take down the VP candidate.

Tate took a breath, shook his head. “So we have no idea who, really, was shooting that day.”

“Or their intended target.”

He hated this with every cell in his body.

“Sorry,” Vicktor said, clearly reading him.

“So, any news on York’s death?”

“Just the preliminary forensics report.” He walked over to his desk, sat down, and pulled up something on his computer. “According to the autopsy—which, by the way, was inconclusive on the DNA evidence of your friend—there were three bodies, all male, burned in the crash.”

Tate walked over to the window. Watched a bicycler wearing a rainsuit ride up to the Starbucks in the rain. “According to RJ, the CIA has no record of anyone from their office arresting him.”

“We have another lead, or maybe just an interesting problem.”

Tate turned, leaned against the window ledge.

“There’s a tourist reported missing that same day, a college kid named Jason MacDonald. Twenty-one, about six foot, played second-string football for the Ducks, went by Mack. He was on his way to a family reunion at Stevens Pass. Never showed.”

“And?”

“His car was found at a pull-off near the Tye River hike on Highway 2. The vehicle York was traveling in was found three more miles down the road. There’s a sharp turn, and the car tore through the guardrail, and went down the mountain. It’s doubtful anyone could have survived, even before the fire.”

“You think this kid might have seen something—”

“I dunno. It just…it’s just bothering me.”

Tate got that. The same way he kept waking in the night with the sense of doom in the middle of his chest.

As if someone he loved was about to die.

“What about the semi that reported the crash?” Tate asked.

“The driver just saw them swerve and go off the road. He had to wait until he could get to a pull-in before he could stop, about fifteen miles down the road. So it was some time before the authorities arrived. And by then, it was all over.”

Tate straightened. “Well, my sister is convinced that he’s still alive, so…I don’t know.” He walked over to Vicktor’s massive board. “Is this the woman who RJ found at the hotel?”

Vicktor returned to the board. “Yeah. Sophia Randall. Age forty-six, single. She was never reported missing, technically, but RJ says she went off the grid about six weeks before her body was found. Coroner found evidence of long-term confinement—dehydration, ligature scars, and even old bruises.”

“She was beaten.”

More pictures outlined the bed where RJ had found her body, her neck slit. Even more showed an array of the room and pictures of people from what looked like surveillance camera shots.

“There was a card left on file for the hotel, but of course it was stolen, so we have no idea who really paid for the room. And no record of her checking in. There’s a supply entrance in the back of the building, and it looks like the camera was switched off. But we did manage to capture three unidentified people on a different camera who didn’t come through the lobby.”

Vicktor pointed at three pictures taped to the bottom of the board.

Tate stilled, then took a step closer. “I know this one.” He pointed to a photo of a lean, tall man with closely cropped dark hair, wearing suit pants, his white shirt rolled up beyond his elbows. He had high cheekbones and the look of higher education in his demeanor. He carried a gym bag, his face half turned away from the camera.

But it was enough. “That’s Sloan Anderson,” Tate said tightly. He took another step closer. “He worked for Reba Jackson—he was her assistant campaign manager until he was fired.”

“Why was he fired?” Vicktor asked as he untaped the picture and retaped it near the top, between the murder case and the shooting.

“Because he tried to have me beaten to death,” Tate said quietly.

Vicktor raised an eyebrow. “Oy. Why?”

“I don’t know. We never had a heart-to-heart. He took off before we could apprehend him. Clearly has some avoidance issues.”

Vicktor stared at the board for a moment, then, “You were on the pier that day, right?”

“For the campaign event? Yes, I was behind the screen for most of the time, but I helped chase down Kobie.”

Vicktor traced his finger along the pier. “How far behind him were you?”

“I don’t know, a few steps…why?”

“Have you ever stopped to consider that the target that day wasn’t the VP candidate…but maybe it was you?”