Wyatt Read online

  He looked out the window. The train had started to slow as they’d entered the outskirts of the city, the outlying suburbs congested with blue and green painted houses, tall fences, cement garages, and dirt streets. Such a disparity with the cities. He spotted an elderly woman pumping water into a container in the middle of the street.

  “She’s the one who got away.”

  Nat said nothing, and he looked over at her.

  “She’s…I’ve been in love with her since I was sixteen.”

  “Really?”

  “She came to live with my family after her mother died, and we spent the summer together. I taught her how to drive and to ride a horse, and she would shoot tennis balls at me in the barn and…I don’t know. She was quiet and she listened to me. She made me feel like I wasn’t the strange one.”

  “Why are you the strange one?” Nat asked as she folded the newspaper and set it on the seat beside her. She picked up a sugar cube balanced on the side of her cup, then dipped it into the tea and put it in her mouth.

  Huh. “I don’t know. Maybe it’s because I play hockey and…well, I guess I’ve always played hockey and no one else in my family does. My uncle played, and I got the bug when he came out to visit with my cousins from Minnesota one Christmas. We had a tiny rink in town that we used for recreation, and he took me down there and slapped some pucks around, and that was it. My mother signed me up for a local peewee team. I played wing back then, and I fell in love. And not just with the competition, but the sport. The quickness of gliding over the ice, the toughness of it, the skill it takes to handle a puck, even the teamwork. Maybe that was it—I was a middle kid in the family and felt pretty much invisible. My brothers loved the ranch, but I didn’t. And I think my father knew it—there was always something off between us. I didn’t feel a part of them. Then suddenly, I had something of my own. Hockey. And I was good at it—really good. I don’t know what it is, but when I’m on the rink, I feel almost invincible. Like…I was born to play.”

  He looked out the window. The train was moving deeper into the city. “As I got better, I had to move away to play—I spent the summers at hockey camps, and when I was sixteen, I moved to Helena to play on a traveling team. I lived with my coach and his family. Coco came to live with us the summer before I moved.”

  He turned back to Nat who was looking at him, listening.

  “I was pretty freaked out, but she’d just lost her mom, so we sort of bonded over feeling like our lives were crazy around us.” He smiled, the memories sweet. “But together, we were safe. I felt seen, and maybe she did too.”

  Nat said nothing.

  “She’s the only girl I’ve ever loved,” he said quietly. “And I blew it. Somehow, I blew it. I mean—I don’t know why, or how, but…okay, I might know why, but I didn’t mean to…screw up. I thought…” He shook his head. “Last time I saw her, I let her go without a fight. I was stupid and hurt and angry. This time…this time, I’m probably still stupid and hurt and angry, but I’m also…well, I know what a jerk I can be, and I don’t want to be that guy anymore.”

  He hadn’t a clue why he might be unloading all this onto a stranger. Stress maybe. And she just sat there and listened. But even as he spoke, he felt something shift inside him. A resolve, maybe.

  Or perhaps just him hunkering down into the zone. He looked again at Nat. “Yeah, she’s in trouble. She needs me, and I’m going to be there, like I should have been before. I’m going to keep her safe.”

  And once she duplicated the information that had been on the jump-drive—yes, he couldn’t wait to tell her he’d lost that—then his sister would be too.

  “If she’s traveling,” Nat said, “she’d do it by train. You have no idea why she’d come here?”

  “No.”

  “So, we’ll wait for her near the station. Eventually, she’ll come back.”

  She made it sound like they might be a couple wolves, stalking their prey. Maybe they were. And who knew how long they’d have to camp out?

  But absent any other plan…

  He watched as his tea shivered in the glass snugly fit into a metal holder. He’d eaten a hard roll with what might have been raisins inside. What he wouldn’t give for some eggs and crispy bacon—and not the raw version they served in the dining car.

  He packed his gear as the train pulled into the station, a long yellow and white building with multiple tracks edging up to platforms. Greeting them in the center of the cobblestone square stood a bronze statue of Lenin. Pigeons scattered as travelers, some with rolling bags, others with duffel bags, moved toward the train.

  None of them were Coco.

  He hiked his bag onto his shoulder and followed Nat out of the train, across the platform, and into the building.

  A light crowd of travelers sat on wooden benches, their bags tucked between their legs. An overhead ticket counter listed prices to various locations. A couple—a man in a leather jacket, a woman with a red plaid dress—sat at one of the round tables in front of a café.

  None of them were Coco.

  “Let’s go outside, by the door,” Nat said and headed through the station.

  They emerged to the other side and scattered more pigeons. Overhead, the sky had turned a bright blue, the sun still peeking over the horizon, the clouds wispy. A beautiful day for late August, the temperature cool enough to warrant his suit coat but with hints of heat. He got a couple looks as people passed him, and he considered that he could probably use a shower, a shave.

  The train station overlooked a bus stop, a row of vendors in blue tin-sided kiosks. Nat gestured to one of them. “I’m going to get a chebureki. Want one?”

  He hadn’t a clue what that was, but he nodded, his stomach a beast.

  She headed out across the street, and he wandered over to the edge of a raised flower garden and sat down.

  A bus pulled into the stop across the street and people streamed out, most of them headed toward the station. A woman with a pram strolled by.

  Belogorsk had all the makings of a storybook village, no sense of the chaos and rush of the city.

  Why Belogorsk?

  Coco already had a sort of mystery about her. When she first showed up in Montana at age ten, sporting a Russian accent, she was the town curiosity. His mother had invited her old friend over to the ranch, and Wyatt found Coco in the barn watching the goats.

  You can pet one.

  She looked at him as those beautiful gray-green eyes widened. Won’t they bite? Only she said it in her accent. Von’t zhey bite? It sort of knocked him over.

  “No,” he said and climbed over the fencing to pick up one of the skin and bones baby goats. He held it out to her.

  She stared at him, and he reached out and took her hand. “Trust me.”

  She considered him a moment before nodding, and he placed her hand on its body, the hair more wiry than soft. Then the goat shivered and bleated, and she yanked her hand away and laughed.

  He’d only been twelve, but he was a goner for that laugh. High and sweet and it found his bones and never left.

  Sometimes, when he closed his eyes, he could still hear it.

  Even—

  Oh. He jerked, and yeah, laughter, somewhere—it came from ahead of him, across the street.

  Just like that, there she was, walking along the cobblestone pathway as if she’d emerged from some side street.

  He’d almost missed her.

  Wyatt bounced to his feet, intending to shout but—

  She was walking with a man. Nearly as tall as Wyatt, maybe, dark blond hair, square-jawed, he had his hands in his pockets, as if casual, and he was smiling at her.

  A dark fist went around Wyatt’s heart.

  She’d come to Belogorsk to meet a man.

  Just…forget about me.

  Yeah, maybe he should have.

  He glanced over and found Nat standing in line at the kiosk. Debated. Looked back at Coco. She was disappearing down the street.

  Nat had money
and could take care of herself. He picked up his duffel and dashed after Coco, calling himself a fool.

  But he still couldn’t get it out of his gut that she was in trouble.

  Maybe this guy had something to do with it.

  He cut across the street, kept them a good distance from him, and followed. They reached the end of the long block, then turned onto a dirt road. He hung back, staying in the early morning shadows. She was gesturing with her hands as she talked. He was a big man, wide shoulders, a steadiness about him as he walked as if…

  Oh, man, this guy could be military.

  FSB?

  Wyatt quickened his pace but didn’t catch up.

  They stopped at a tall gate, the entire house fenced off, and as he tucked himself in behind a hatchback, he noticed the play yard out back.

  A school, maybe.

  The gate was opened by a man, and Coco and her friend went inside.

  Wyatt crouched behind the car, feeling like an idiot.

  Maybe he should just go in there. But what would he say? Hey, Coco. Funny meeting you here. I was just…in the neighborhood.

  You should just forget about me.

  He cupped his hand over his eyes. Oh brother. He should just… Move. On. Apparently, she had.

  Maybe. Shoot.

  He was about to get up when he heard the laughter again, only this time it was higher, brighter, and he looked up to see Coco emerge from the gate, holding the hand of a little boy.

  A cute kid. Tousled brown hair, a grin on his face. He wore a lightweight canvas jacket, a baseball hat, and a pair of jeans. Maybe about four or five years old.

  And holding his other hand—the blond man. He carried a bag.

  Coco stopped and crouched in front of the kid. Wiped his cheek with her thumb, then kissed his forehead.

  She wore an expression that looked so familiar, it spiraled right to his bones. A smile, an affection in her eyes, a joy he hadn’t seen since…

  Moscow.

  That morning when he told her he would return.

  But when he had, she’d been gone.

  So maybe he’d just been deluding himself about that joy.

  Except—

  Wyatt couldn’t move. What if…what if that was why she left? Because she had a…child? Wyatt, we need to talk.

  Everything turned to ice inside him. Who was this kid?

  She took the little boy’s hand again and walked with him down the street, the boy swinging in his steps between her and the man, laughing.

  The hand in Wyatt’s chest cut off his breathing.

  Coco had a son. He saw it in the shape of the little boy’s face and that smile, those lips—

  His throat thickened.

  They drew closer and he should probably hide better, but he still couldn’t move.

  Coco had a son and hadn’t told him. Clearly he’d misread everything in Moscow, and…

  His stomach turned. What if she hadn’t…well, what if he’d seduced her into something she hadn’t really intended on doing and shame made her run from him?

  Wow, he was a jerk.

  Wyatt put his hand out on the car, bracing himself, and that’s when he felt something behind him, the cool nose of metal pressed into his back, right at the base of his spine.

  “Don’t move.”

  Nat. He recognized her voice, the soft tone, but this time with the steel edge of warning.

  He stiffened, glanced over his shoulder. “What—?”

  She stood behind him, her face hard, eyes narrowing. “Just keep your mouth shut. We’re taking a walk.”

  A chill slid down his spine. That’s what assassins said a moment before they walked someone to the edge of a ditch and dropped them.

  He held his hands up because that felt right and stepped out from behind the car.

  Coco looked up, still thirty yards away.

  Time stopped. His heart punched against his rib cage as her smile vanished and her jaw slackened.

  The guy next to her frowned, his gaze sliding off Wyatt to the woman behind him.

  “Wyatt,” Coco said, so softly he actually didn’t hear it, but saw her lips move.

  “Move,” snapped Nat and gave a little push with her gun. Or he thought it might be a gun. Felt like a gun.

  In a Jack Reacher novel, it would be a gun.

  He took another step forward.

  Coco picked up the boy, was holding him against her, as if trying to protect him.

  The man stepped in front of her, and didn’t that do just a little damage to Wyatt’s heart.

  He should be the one stepping in front of her.

  “I just want to talk to Katya,” said Nat.

  “Natalya?” Coco said. “What—what are you doing here?” She took a couple steps toward them, but the man in front of her turned and said something to her.

  She stiffened.

  Glanced over his shoulder to Wyatt. Or maybe Nat. Natalya, she’d called her.

  Coco knew her.

  “Listen, I don’t know what’s going on—” Wyatt started.

  Nat barked something in Russian, which he interpreted as Shut up.

  Nice. Not only had he not listened to Coco, but he’d helped a killer find her.

  “I just need the jump drive, Katya. Then we can all go home.”

  Wyatt froze. Coco met his eyes.

  “This is the one from Moscow, isn’t it?” Nat said, now in English. “The man you spent the night with?”

  Oh, nice. Turn it into something tawdry.

  “Give me the jump drive, and I give you your lover.”

  Her lover?

  “She doesn’t have it,” Wyatt said, loud enough for Coco to hear. “She gave it to me.”

  A hiccup, a beat, and then, “And it was stolen from me at the hotel.”

  Another beat as Coco’s eyes widened.

  “That’s very bad,” Nat said quietly.

  “So, that means we can all go home, right? No harm, no foul—”

  There went that Russian word again. “Move.” She pressed into his spine and he started walking toward Coco.

  “Natalya, please,” Coco said, then switched into Russian and began to talk.

  More steps.

  The man in front of her turned around, his hands up, shielding her. Wyatt could like him for at least that much.

  “Stop,” the man said.

  Yes, good idea. Because every step closer meant Coco was closer to the gun.

  Wyatt’s mind raced through scenarios. What would Tate and Ford do? Probably enact some super awesome spy trick where they turned and grabbed the gun and disabled the shooter in one smooth move.

  Wyatt wasn’t that awesome. But he didn’t have to just stand here and let the skinny brunette assassin shoot him. He took another step, drew in a breath, and—

  “Run!”

  He jerked back, his elbow about shoulder height to Nat and slammed it hard into her body. It jerked her grip loose, and he rounded on her and tackled her to the ground.

  The gun fired, and for a second, he jerked. But no, he wasn’t dead, so he grappled for her gun hand as she boxed him in the ear, then brought her knee up.

  Sorry, but he’d spent half his life tussling with people on the ice, getting sticks in the face, in the body, between his legs. And sure, he didn’t have padding, but—

  The slam to his head felt like a brick, exploding against his temple. She must have picked up something from the street—a rock, maybe—but in a second, his world pitched, turned into slats of gray and black. He rolled off her, his vision churning.

  Shouts and grunting near him, but he couldn’t make them out. His ears were ringing, and his head just might explode.

  Screaming. He put his hands over his ears to keep it from piercing his brain, shredding it.

  Then another shot.

  And his vision faded to black.

  Coco needed a moment to breathe. To piece together exactly how—what—had just happened.

  To travel back three minute
s to when Wyatt—Wyatt—appeared out of nowhere, as if he might be out for a morning stroll, in the middle of Belogorsk.

  Hey, Coco.

  Had he said that? It seemed like maybe, because he’d given her that signature lop-sided smile, a little apology in his whiskey-brown eyes, as if chagrined.

  He always looked a little like he wanted to apologize to her.

  At least lately.

  Then she’d tracked past him to the woman behind him.

  Natalya. From her father’s security force. She wasn’t dressed like an FSB officer, however, wearing a black T-shirt, a pair of jeans, and boots. The woman looked like she might be a—

  “She’s here to kill you.” York’s voice, low and tight as he turned in front of her, literally putting his body between hers and Mikka’s.

  What—? “She works for my father.”

  “Why else would she be here?”

  “I just need the jump drive, Katya. Then we can all go home.”

  York met her eyes. “See? Why does she want that drive?”

  Coco shook her head.

  And that’s when Natalya drove everything home to a fine point. Give me the jump drive, and I give you your lover.

  York blinked. His gaze went to Mikka. “Really?”

  She opened her mouth, not exactly sure what she planned on saying when suddenly, “She doesn’t have it.”

  Oh, no. Wyatt—stop talking—

  “She gave it to me. And it was stolen from me at the hotel.”

  Her breathing cut out then. All the emails, all the compiled evidence proving RJ’s innocence…

  Breathe. She still had copies on her cloud storage—if it hadn’t been hacked.

  “Natalya,” she said. “I don’t have what you want. But I can get it. Please—let him go—”

  “Stop,” York said, turning his back to her, to protect her.

  And probably he could, somehow, but he didn’t have to because Wyatt started acting like some kind of superhero. “Run!”

  She wasn’t exactly sure how, but he ended up on the ground, wrestling for the gun with Natalya. It went off, and Coco screamed and raced with Mikka for cover behind a nearby car.

  York took off in a dead sprint, but not before Natalya scooped up a nearby brick and slammed it into Wyatt’s head.