His mother could have died and it was all his fault. Tate wanted to put a fist through the arrogant visage in the mirror. Why hadn’t he listened to RJ?
Because in his heart he didn’t want her to be right. Didn’t want to believe that he’d spent the past six months helping a traitor. Believing in someone who had no regard for the safety of their country.
The one his Ranger brothers had died for.
Frankly, Tate still didn’t know what to believe, especially with RJ’s words sticking in his head like a burr—What if this was intended to silence—
Wyatt shouldn’t have snapped at her—Tate knew that—but they were watching their mother bleed out, and RJ’s obsession with her conspiracy theory was the last thing they needed.
Although, what if she was right? Now that he’d seen his mother and called Glo and also Swamp, just to make sure the house was on lockdown, Tate had a second to process.
To breathe.
Either he’d completely dropped the ball on his job or…or RJ was right, and this hit wasn’t for Senator Jackson but Sloan.
Either way, he stared at the face in the mirror and shook his head. “You’re an idiot.”
Because, as usual, he’d failed everyone.
The memory of his mother’s rasps as she’d gulped for air on the kitchen floor could still send a razor through him, serrate his insides.
His last clear memory before that was looking at Glo’s beautiful eyes as Hardwin told them to pray, Hardwin’s words stirring in his head.
Lean in to each other, but lean also in to God. When all else is done, God is enough, everything, and always. Trust Him to give you what you need.
Tate needed truth.
He needed to know that he hadn’t killed his mother, hadn’t completely screwed up.
Hadn’t let an innocent man die.
The door to the bathroom banged open, and he turned to see Ford come in.
“Hey,” Tate said. He grabbed a couple paper towels and scrubbed his face, wiped his hands. No need to let his brother know he was completely unraveling.
“We have trouble,” Ford said.
And it was the way he said it that had Tate looking over at him. “Oh no—is Ma—”
“She’s fine, bro.” Ford took a breath. “It’s RJ. York just got a call—I think someone took RJ.”
“What—?”
“York said he’s going to get her back, but—”
“Where is she?”
“I don’t know. York took off a few minutes ago. He told me not to tell you what’s going down—that he was going to finish this, but yeah, right. We gotta help him.”
Finish this. And right then, York was in Tate’s head with his words, Martin is dead. Because I killed him.
He’d said it with such cold, dark precision it’d sent a chill through Tate.
Tate had been a soldier, so he understood what it took to kill someone. And, he supposed, York had been trying to defend himself from whatever was going down in that SUV.
Still, Tate agreed with Wyatt. He wasn’t so sure he wanted York in his sister’s life.
Except for now.
Because if anyone could find RJ and get her back, it was the man who’d kept her safe in Russia.
“Was it Gustov?” Tate asked.
“What about Gustov?” Wyatt came walking in.
Tate made the mistake of giving Ford a look.
“Aw, c’mon! I met him. Fought him. Hurt him. So, guess what, I get to know what’s going on.”
“We gotta go,” Tate said. “York got a call, told Ford that RJ had been taken—”
“Taken? As in kidnapped? And you’re still standing here?” He started moving toward the door.
“We don’t know where he went—”
“We can find out. Sheesh.” Wyatt shook his head as if he were talking to a couple rookies. “He went to find RJ. And we can track down RJ, right?” He had his hand on the door.
Tate had stopped, frowned.
“Coco put a tracker on her phone, genius. We can find her and intercept him. Or at least back him up.”
Ford raised an eyebrow as he started for the door.
“Don’t start. I went to Russia, I found my girl, and I brought her home. Hello.”
“Fine,” Tate snapped.
“I’m calling Coco,” Wyatt said and left the bathroom.
Ford looked at Tate as he caught the door. “He’s going to get hurt.”
“What are we going to do, sit on him? Tie him up?”
“I agree with Wyatt. We need to help York,” Ford said. He stepped inside, let the door close.
“No doubt, Rambo. But are you armed? Because I didn’t wear my shoulder holster to my wedding. I know, what was I thinking—”
“No,” Ford snapped. “But I’ll bet York isn’t either.”
“Oh, that’s fun.” Tate scrubbed his hands down his face.
“You okay—?”
“No, I’m not okay! I need to think. We can’t just run out of here like we’re on fire!” And maybe Tate should have schooled his voice. But he was just so— “I should have known better. I should have listened to her.” He wanted to punch the mirror. “Okay, just…I need to figure this out…”
“At the risk of getting hit—my team leader used to call me the lone wolf. Said I never asked for help.” Ford glanced at the door. “But I’m not the only one. Wyatt. Knox. You. Even Reuben went for years without coming home. We all work on teams, but we never seem to…”
“Work together,” Tate said. “I know. I’ve spent my whole life trying to be—”
“As good as your brothers?”
Tate looked away. “I guess.”
“Get in the freakin’ line,” Ford said. “But I nearly died this summer, and I’m tired of being the lone wolf. Remember that time Dad took us hunting for that wolf that was threatening the cattle?”
“He armed us with tranq guns and we sat in a snowbank for two days,” Tate said.
“Coldest I’d ever been,” Ford said. “But he was caught because he was alone. Separated from the pack. We’re Marshalls. And we are not alone.”
Tate looked at him. God is enough, everything, and always. Trust Him to give you what you need.
His family.
“Let’s get our sister.”
Ford reached for the door but pulled back as it opened.
Knox stood in the entrance. “What is Wyatt doing?” He came in. “I heard him on the phone. He’s tracking RJ?”
Tate looked at Ford. “RJ’s gone missing. And York’s gone to find her.”
“What—what?” And there was no schooling Knox’s voice. “Are you kidding me?”
Tate gave him a look. “Totally— No! Of course not!”
“Calm down!” Knox growled. “So, what are we going to do?”
“What we’re not going to do is stand around in the bathroom—” Ford said. “We need a plan.”
He made to push past Knox, but his brother stopped him with a hand to his chest. “This is not hard. How many times did Dad take us on roundup?”
“I hate roundup,” Tate said.
“I love roundup,” Ford said.
“Yeah,” Knox said, grabbing the door. “Roundup is our plan.”
He opened the door.
Reuben stood on the other side, flanked by Hardwin. “You were shouting,” Reuben said. “What’s this about roundup?”
RJ should have listened to her gut back in Moscow when it said run. Before the shots were fired that took down General Stanislov. Before she stepped up into the glow of the lamplight for CCTV to capture her and connect her to an international crime.
Probably even before that when her boss’s contact, Roy, tried to contact her boss regarding the information about the possible hit and she’d decided it might be a grand idea to meet him in Prague and stop an international catastrophe.
In fact, if she were going back to her regrets, maybe it was thinking she could be some sort of superspy. Thank you, Sydney Bristow.
Because if RJ had listened, she wouldn’t be lying on a cement floor, the night descending around her in bruised shadows, a chill seeping in through the fabric of her dress. The dim hue of faraway lights, along with the smell of fresh-poured cement, dirt, rebar, and woodchips suggested she was in a skeletal shell of a building. She made out the skyline and realized she was at least two stories, maybe three, from the ground. It had started to rain, the patter light upon the cement and the dirt and raising a breath of grimy mist into the air.
Her hands were taped behind her, a rope scraped her neck, nearly cutting off her air.
She gasped as the full weight of her capture bore down on her.
She was alone—no one knew where she was.
“Stop struggling, RJ. It’ll be over soon. We’re just waiting until your boy gets here.”
RJ lifted her head, the world spinning slightly, probably an aftereffect of the drug she’d been given.
Footsteps echoed, coming closer, and hands grabbed her arms, setting her upright. “Let’s get you up so he can see you.”
He. Your boy. York?
Oh no. “I led you right to him.”
“Thank you for that. When you said he was still alive, I didn’t dare hope. But you are tenacious, RJ. You would have made a good analyst.” He stepped around her, and for the first time she confirmed what she already knew.
Director Tom Crowley. He wore suit pants, a dress shirt, which he’d rolled up to the elbows, as if reluctant but willing to get his hands dirty.
And right then, she knew she was going to die. Because there was no way that Director Crowley was going to let her live after she’d figured him out.
Crowley, the leader of the rogue faction that wanted a new cold war. Crowley, who’d been the ambassador to Russia, seen the corruption taking over New Russia, and wanted a return to the old ways.
At least then, Russia would be labeled the threat they still were.
This was RJ’s working theory as she wrestled with the tape around her wrists. “I am a good analyst. And so was my boss—she put the pieces together, didn’t she?”
Probably RJ should shut her mouth, just like Wyatt said. But if she was going to die, she wanted all of it. “You had her kidnapped, then killed.” Shoot—she hadn’t even considered looking at the source of the other numbers on Sophia’s call log.
“She just didn’t play well with others,” Crowley said. He reached over and picked up the end of the rope, cutting off RJ’s air. “And neither do you.” He threw the end of the rope over a girder above them. “But it doesn’t mean you weren’t helpful.”
He pulled on the end, drawing up the slack, yanking her up to her tiptoes. She whimpered.
And selfishly wished York might show up. Tears pricked her eyes.
No.
“This isn’t about the senator, is it?” she rasped.
“This is about the safety of the world.” He dragged over something, the metal scraping against the cement as he stepped back in front of her. A metal sawhorse. “Up we go, now.”
He grabbed her arm with one hand, the noose with the other, and tugged, cutting off her air until she acquiesced. She climbed up on the narrow sawhorse, no more than six inches wide, and stood there as he took up the slack, again pulling her up to her tiptoes.
“Why are you doing this?” she gasped.
“Did you know that my daughter was tortured before she was killed? By the Bratva. They brought her to an empty building where her screams couldn’t be heard, and…well, her body was nearly unrecognizable when the militia found her.”
“This isn’t just about politics. This is personal. This is about York.”
He spoke from behind her. “York brought this on himself.”
“By marrying your daughter. By getting her killed.” RJ shook her head. “Only it wasn’t his fault. He was betrayed.”
“It’s always York’s fault, sweetheart. And now York deserves to hear you scream. Watch you die.”
She searched the darkness, not sure if she should pray he’d be there or not.
“You had Martin kill Tasha, didn’t you? Or was it Damien Gustov?”
He laughed. “Tasha knew too much.”
“She knew about the affair between Jackson and…who? Tsarnaev? Stanislov?”
“Oh, sweetheart, you know too much too. You should have left well enough alone, let Sophia answer her own calls.”
“So that was your plan—send Sophia to Russia, let her take the fall for the assassination. Start an international incident. But she was onto you.”
“She didn’t know what she was onto. And neither do you.”
“I know you’re trying to influence the election—”
“This is way bigger than the election or you or York.”
She drew in a ragged, burning breath. “This is about money. About power.”
“Money is power.”
“No, truth is power.” And probably she shouldn’t have said that because he set his foot on the sawhorse. Pulled a handgun out of his belt.
She was already struggling to breathe. “You’re not going to get away with this. York will find you.” And with her words, she knew it in her bones.
York would find him.
And kill him.
And never escape the past, become the new man he longed to be.
Her eyes filled. I’m sorry.
Wyatt was right. She had gotten them all into this freakin’ mess—and they’d probably all come running to save her. Except, of course, they had no idea where she was, so there was that.
And maybe her mother was already dead, too, because RJ heard her now, showing up to whisper in her head. Her heart. God will show up even when we’ve made a mess of things. Even when it’s our fault—He will show up.
Right. Please, God. Show up.
He was your father. Of course he’d save you.
Her eyes blurred.
Because that’s who He is—He loves us by choice, not because we deserve His help.
“I’m counting on it,” Crowley said to her threat.
“Tom.”
And even though she expected it, even though she knew in her bones that York would show up, seeing him emerge from the shadows turned every muscle weak, her body longing to dissolve into a puddle of relief.
There’s no if…just when. And His timing is perfect.
“York,” she gasped.
He still wore the suit from today’s wedding, his jacket shed, and in the glow of wan light from the moon looked exactly like the man she first met in Moscow. Dangerous. Confident. If you want to live, follow me.
Anywhere, York. Across the world, even to Small Town, Washington State.
He glanced at RJ tied up, balancing on the sawhorse, and something flickered in his eyes, just a hint of the fury igniting deep inside. “Let her go, Tom. This is between you and me.”
Crowley trained the gun on York and moved around behind her. “Do you ever think about how she died? Ever think about her screams echoing off the cement? How she probably called your name?”
York didn’t move.
“They hung her after they finished with her. Left her in the darkness—”
“I know,” York said. “I found her body.”
RJ looked at him. He hadn’t told her that part.
And now he was here to find her body too.
“You should have stayed away from my daughter, hot shot,” Crowley said. “Get on your knees.”
“No—!” RJ shouted
The sawhorse wobbled and she gasped, the rope burning her neck. She was a fish, gulping for air.
“Stop!” York held out his hands. “I’m getting down.” He lowered himself to his knees, his hands behind his head. “Just let her go.”
“Oh, there’s not a chance of that, son. The question is, who will die first—you or her?”
Then Crowley kicked the sawhorse. It wobbled for a second, then went over.
And she dropped.
“No!” York leaped for RJ, catching her and holding her up. “It’s okay. I got you—I got you!”
He was holding her with one hand, prying at the tape around her hands with another.
And that’s when she spied Crowley behind him. “York!”
Her voice came out strangled, but strong enough for York to brace himself as Crowley swung at him with a two-by-four.
He hit him broadside across the back, and York grunted.
“Stop!”
Because she got it now. Crowley would make him choose—hold her up to let her breathe or protect himself.
And in her heart, she knew what he’d choose. Because he was a good man, the kind of man who would gladly sacrifice himself to save her.
Crowley hit him again, this time in the legs. York stumbled—
“Hey, you!”
The voice came from behind her, but she jerked, recognizing it.
Knox!
Crowley backed away, his gun out, aimed at York. “Stay back.”
“Sorry, bud, no can do.”
Reuben!
Crowley pointed the gun at RJ. “I said stay back.”
“Probably not.” The voice came from ahead of him. Wyatt.
They were herding Crowley, or at least confusing him.
Because Tate was out there, too, hidden in the darkness.
Only, not Tate but Ford exploded from the other side of the building, jumping on Crowley like he might be a calf in need of branding. He swept the tall man’s feet, jerked his gun away, sent it spinning across the floor, and took Crowley down so fast he was bouncing on the cement.
York set up the sawhorse, climbing up beside her, fighting to loosen the noose. The tension locked it tight.
RJ got her hands loose. She put her hands on York’s shoulders, pushed up, and he yanked the noose from around her neck.
The movement took out the sawhorse, already precarious, beneath them.
RJ went sprawling, hitting the cement hard.
She didn’t know where York had landed, but she rolled to her knees, her head spinning.
York must have gotten his hands on the gun because she heard his voice. “The thing is, if you pull your weapon, you have to be willing to use it. Ford, back off him.”
She found her feet and saw York with Crowley’s gun trained on the man.
“York,” she said quietly. She took a step toward him, put her hand on his arm. “York. You’re not this man anymore.”
He drew in a breath, shook his head, his eyes hard. “I’ll always be this man, RJ.”
“The man who shows up. The man who believes in justice, yes. The warrior God created, yes, but not this man, who kills out of revenge. This is not you. This has never been you.”
He looked at her then, swallowed.
Lowered his weapon. Took a breath.
A shot pinged off the cement girder behind her.
“Get down!” York turned to grab her, but she’d already hit her knees, scrambling away toward the shadows.
A hand grabbed her hair. “I told you we were going to have fun.”
Her breath caught.
Because for a moment, she was on a train station platform, a man’s face caught in the glow of the platform lights right before he kissed her. Just a peck, but enough to sour her gut and make her want to retch with the memory.
His arm went around her neck and the cold press of a gun barrel screwed into her neck.
“Gustov.” York’s voice, not far from her. “Let her go.”
“It’s time, don’t you think, for us to end this game? Gun, down.”
Her fingers clawed into his arm. “I should have guessed you two were working together.”
York put down his gun, held up his hands.
Crowley rolled over. “What took you so long?” He climbed to his feet, breathing hard, picked up his gun, and pointed it at Ford. Raised his voice. “Any of you try anything and I will end him.”
A crash sounded in front of them and Gustov jerked.
Another one, this time behind them. Gustov stepped away from the sound. “Stay back.”
She glanced to the side and spotted Wyatt in the shadows.
He pressed a finger to his lips.
Then he shouted. “Remember me?” Wyatt stepped out of the shadows. “Let’s have another go.”
Gustov jerked her around, pointing his gun at Wyatt, then York. Back.
She wasn’t sure where Tate came from, but in a second he materialized and swung a two-by-four at Gustov.
York lunged for her.
Ford rolled away from Crowley’s aim.
A shot fired off, a howl, and then she couldn’t see anything with York’s arms around her, dragging her away.
Another shot and it pinged off a metal girder.
“Neutralize him, Wyatt!” Ford yelled.
She spotted Wyatt just as Gustov slammed his gun into her brother’s head. Wyatt staggered back, fell. Tate was scrambling to his feet, growling, clearly injured.
Gustov pointed his gun at Tate.
And right then she knew it.
Gustov was going to kill them. Tate, then Wyatt. And probably Ford, and maybe even Knox and Reuben as they rushed to save her brothers.
Her.
And she would have led her entire family to their deaths.
“No!” She jerked away from York. “No!”
Tate glanced at her, frowned.
And then, before she could move, follow the impulse inside—York rushed Gustov.
To her rising screams, he grabbed Gustov around the waist, took two more steps—
York tackled the Russian over the open side of the building, sailing out into the darkness.
And was gone.
Roy hadn’t called York the Bird for nothing.
York tasted the night air, bold and ripe with the smell of pine and the decaying loam as he sailed out into the blackness.
Free.
Forgiven.
The kind of man he always was and would be.
A warrior, a man who loved justice. And Ruby Jane Marshall.
All the way to eternity.
The thing was, York didn’t think it through. Not really—he just saw Tate on his knees, spotted Wyatt groaning, and didn’t stop to think about anything past Gustov putting a bullet in Tate’s head.
Right in front of RJ.
Yeah, no, that wasn’t happening.
York was armed with nothing but his bare hands and the crazy urge to end this. To take Gustov out even if he had to die doing it.
If ever he needed a little divine help, it was now.
Please, Jesus. Help me finish this.
So he’d launched himself at Gustov. Locked his arms around him.
Took him over the edge of the building.
The ground came up quicker—and softer—than he imagined, and even as he lost his breath, he realized—
He’d landed in a massive pile of wet sand.
And on Gustov.
York rolled off the man, down the mound, over and over, until he lay on the ground, his hand on his chest.
Still alive.
His breath wheezed in through his constricted lungs.
But, yes, alive. And so was RJ and Tate and—
Gustov landed on him. Cuffed him across the face, put another fist in his gut.
And that was just enough.
York was tired of evil winning, of its relentless pursuit, its unfair games, its no-rules tactics. Tired of running, tired of looking over his shoulder.
No more.
He kneed Gustov hard and flipped the man over his head. He found his feet, and ducked just as Gustov swung a shovel at his head.
Nope. York charged him, slammed him into the ground.
Gustov punched his fist into his kidney, and the pain spiked through York. He rolled off, coughing. He might have serious damage after Crowley’s battering. But as Gustov tried to scramble up, York grabbed him back, trying to wrestle Gustov into a choke hold.
Gustov jabbed an elbow into his ribs, writhed, but couldn’t dislodge York’s hold, especially when he wrapped his legs around him. Rain pelleted his eyes, blinding him as he held on.
“York!”
The sound found him through the sudden roll of thunder. RJ.
He needed to end this before she got here.
This is not you. This has never been you.
Gustov went limp. Unconscious.
Not dead.
But a few more moments…
And his prayer lifted, a ghost inside him. Please, Jesus. I don’t know who I was, but…I want to be a different man. A man who trusts You. Please forgive me for the darkness I know is in my past…and help me to live as a new man.
“York!” RJ ran up, a figure in the darkness, standing over him. He stared at her, dripping wet, her blue eyes holding his, like he could save the world.
God made you a warrior, York. Like David. A man after God’s own heart—and a man of battle.
The man who was left when he clung to God.
Today, starting now, he was on God’s side. The side of justice and truth.
And he couldn’t kill Gustov. Not anymore.
Evil wouldn’t win today.
York pushed the man off him into the mud and climbed to his feet. “Let’s find some rope. We need to secure him.”
He stepped away, breathing hard.
“You okay?” RJ said, reaching out to touch him.
Gustov came alive.
He grabbed RJ’s leg, and pulled her down. Rolled on top of her, pinned her arms with his knees and raised his hand, gripping a chunk of jagged cement block.
“No!” York was scrambling hard, trying to find purchase in the mud—
Someone flew by him holding a shovel and slammed it against Gustov’s body as if taking a shot on goal.
Wyatt.
Gustov spun off RJ, lost his balance, then dropped, falling into a pit below—maybe the future parking garage. He screamed when he landed. The sound echoed into the night.
York crawled over and yanked RJ up into his arms.
A light careened up, someone running, maybe with a phone. “Are you okay?” Knox, shining the light on a sopping wet Wyatt, breathing hard.
Wyatt looked at York, then at Knox. “Yeah.”
“I meant him,” Knox said and looked at York.
“I’m okay.” As long as it meant never letting her go.
Sirens whined through the soggy air.
Ford, too, ran up. “Where is he?”
Wyatt pointed to York, but Ford ran to the edge of the pit. “Wow.”
York joined him, RJ’s hand gripping his.
Gustov had landed on a spire of rebar, a pike poking through his chest, his body now still.
RJ slipped out of his grip, walking away from the scene.
“Where’s the other guy?” Knox said.
“Reuben has him. And he called an ambulance for Tate.”
But York didn’t ask about Tate—he got up, striding after RJ through the rain and the mud.
She was moving fast.
He caught up with her next to a dump truck, grabbing her arm, and she spun, her hands curled into fists. He caught them just as they aimed for his chest. “What—”
“You shouldn’t have come for me! You shouldn’t have—”
“Have you lost your mind? Of course I came for you! Sheesh, RJ. Haven’t you figured it out? I will always come for you. No matter what. I. Choose. You.”
He let go of her fists, pinned her face between his hands. “I know you’re scared. I get it. I’ve never been so scared as when I saw you standing there, a noose around your neck. But I knew that nothing—nothing Crowley could do to me would stop me from trying to save your life. Even if Crowley beat me to death.”
She was crying, and he ran his thumb under her eyes. Not that it helped with the storm crackling above, the deluge of rain soaking them through. “I love you, RJ. Period. And I don’t care where we live or what we do—I’ll follow you around the world—”
She kissed him. Fisted his shirt and pulled him to herself. She smelled like the night, and off her radiated the crazy bravery that said she believed in something bigger than herself. Maybe even him.
She wrapped her arms around his neck, and he put his arms around her waist, lifting her, practically inhaling her.
Because he got it then. God had sent her to Russia to rescue him. To lead him home.
He backed her against the dump truck, let her down, and braced his arms on either side of her. “I love you, Syd. Oh, how I love you.”
Then he kissed her again, needing her, tasting her, wanting her, losing himself in the essence of RJ. Brave, bold, overwhelming, in-over-her-head RJ.
And he couldn’t stop drinking her in until she finally pressed on his chest.
He raised his head, his lips burning, breathing hard. The rain drove down around them, cutting through the lights of the construction site, but all he could see were her beautiful blue eyes in his.
As if she could look right through to his soul.
Well, she probably could. She always probably could.
“Turnips,” she said, running her thumb along his lips.
It took a second, but then, yes. His lips curved into a smile. “Turnips.”
Then, like the thunder haunting the air, the voice tremored into his bones. And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love him, who have been called according to his purpose.
Only, this time, the memory flashed with him, sitting at a kitchen table eating oatmeal—funny, he hated oatmeal—with a man and a woman.
She had short blonde hair. The man was darker haired, wore a mustache.
His parents. He knew it, all the way to his marrow. His father had his Bible open. The man looked up at York and smiled, something so warm in it, it nearly knocked York over. Everything has a purpose. You have a purpose, York.
He made a sound, like a whimper.
“You okay?” RJ said, frowning.
The image faded, but left behind a residue—no, a rooting.
Or simply, maybe, peace.
He looked at her. “Yes. I am. I think maybe, for the first time in years, I really am.”
“Hey, RJ, oh—sorry.” Knox came up to them, shining the light. “Um, the cops are here, and we need you to untangle this thing.”
“That’s all you, Syd,” York said, but she slid her hand down to his and wove her fingers through his.
“I’m not sure I can untangle it all, but I’ll give it a try.” She walked out toward the shiny red lights.
“Maybe it can wait until we get back to the hospital,” Knox said. “Because Hardwin texted. Ma needs us.”