Ford Read online

  Seagulls stalked the parking lot for tidbits, and the sea had rolled in the scent of brine, seaweed, and saline. A bright sun suggested a beautiful day.

  She should take a swim. Especially since she still had two weeks on her personal leave, if she wanted it. Get in the best shape of her life before she started swim school…

  “You okay, Scarlett? Ford tried to get ahold of you after the political rally, but your instructor told us you’d been fast-tracked to Pensacola. I figured your leave was to get ready for your intake.”

  “My mother was killed in a car accident—I had to figure out what to do with my half brother.”

  That admission, bold and brutal in the light of day, had her looking away from Nez. When she looked back, his dark eyes were on hers. “And what are you going to do?”

  She blew out a breath. “I’m not sure. Social Services took him. Said I needed to provide a more stable home environment.” She didn’t know why she was telling him all this. Maybe in hopes that Ford would drive up any moment. She glanced into the parking lot as a truck pulled in, her heart falling a little when she spotted Sonny at the wheel.

  “Yeah, that’s a tough nut with the Navy.”

  “I’m thinking of separating. My ETS is coming due, so it’s time to sign a new contract or walk away…”

  “Hence the change of rate to Rescue Swimmer. I see.”

  Sonny got out of his truck, hung a bag over his shoulder, and headed their direction. Handsome, with dark hair and a charming smile, Sonny had done time as a corpsman in Sicily before trying out for the SEALs.

  “You’ve worked awfully hard to leave it now,” the master chief said.

  “Leave what now?” Sonny asked.

  “She’s leaving the Navy,” Nez said.

  “What—?” Sonny looked down at her. “I thought you were going to be a Rescue Swimmer.”

  She opened her mouth—not sure. “How did you know that?”

  “Ford kept bragging you up. Said you passed your PRT and were fast-tracking to Pensacola.” Sonny lifted a shoulder, then looked at Nez. “Ford takes any more headers off a cliff, we might need her, huh? To drag him out of the water when he conks his head again?”

  Ford did what?

  Nez gave Sonny a look.

  “What—?” Sonny said. “She was on the team. She knows about Ford and his addiction to crazy stunts. Of course, if she’d been on the other end of the radio, maybe he wouldn’t have had to nearly blow himself up.”

  She pressed her hand to her stomach. “Blow himself up?”

  “He threw a grenade in a closed room, had to take a header out a window. Problem was, the window overlooked a fifty-foot drop into a pretty hard landing,” Sonny said.

  “He hit the water. He’s fine,” Nez growled, sending Sonny another look.

  Hard landing…

  “Yeah, if you call twelve stitches, a concussion, and a couple bruised ribs fine,” Sonny said. “But the kid does have a hard head.”

  Good thing she was sitting down.

  “He’s fine,” Nez said again. “Took some medical leave time, but he’ll be back.”

  Medical leave. “Is he home?”

  “I don’t think so…” Now Sonny was turning weirdly cryptic.

  “I think he went to Montana,” Nez offered. “Some family time.”

  Oh.

  He hadn’t called her. Hadn’t checked in. Her throat tightened.

  Not that she expected him to. After all, she wasn’t on the team anymore.

  And maybe they weren’t really friends.

  She hadn’t called him, after all.

  But he’d been injured, and he still hadn’t called her.

  She drew in a breath, hating the way an ache filled her chest.

  And now she was…what, chasing him? Trying to hold on to something that never was?

  She was way too much like her mother, reading more into a relationship. Committing her heart. Finding herself wearing makeup, hoping a man might notice her.

  “For the record, I don’t think you should separate, Scarlett,” Sonny said. “You were always an asset to us. Ford said you were the best. Always had his back. But I also think you’d make a great Rescue Swimmer.” He gave her a wink, then headed toward the shed.

  Nez was swinging his keys, looking away from her. He seemed to be considering something. Finally, he sighed. “For what it’s worth, I think Ford has a pretty full plate right now. But when he gets back, I’ll bet you hear from him.”

  It wouldn’t matter. Her life in the military was over.

  She was off the team.

  The only team she had left was Gunnar.

  “Thanks, Master Chief, but I think it’s time for me to move on. Give the team my best.”

  His mouth made a thin line. “We’ll miss you. Be safe, Scarlett.” Then he turned and joined his team in the shed.

  And she went home to wash her face and figure out the rest of her life.

  Ruby Jane was trapped in a spy novel. Escape from Russia. It felt like a Cold War–era thriller, same plot, same desperate heroine.

  RJ stood at the window overlooking the courtyard—rutted cement, a broken swing set, a mangy dog sniffing at a cardboard box—her hands wrapped around her waist.

  Wow, had she made a mess of things.

  Not only that, but she needed a change of clothes, her cell phone, and a decent meal. But maybe her hunger and the grimy clothing were what she deserved for thinking she could actually do something brave and significant and save the day.

  Like her twin brother, Ford.

  Okay, not that she was competing but…

  Fine. Of course she was competing. Because that’s what the Marshalls did—competed. Maybe they never voiced it, but the fact was, every single one of her brothers wanted to prove they were as good as—no, better than—the ones who had gone before, including their father.

  And that competition reached its pinnacle in her SEAL brother Ford, Mister I-Can-Save-the-World.

  Yeah, well. She had stopped an assassination of a Russian general.

  Top that, bro.

  Except, what was supposed to be an easy tip-off to her contact in Russia, someone who could then relay the news of the threat to General Stanislov’s people, warn him, and save his life, had turned into an international man—er, woman—hunt.

  She’d seen the grainy picture on the news but could easily recognize herself.

  Someone had set her up.

  It just might be the man currently holding her captive.

  Although, she hadn’t exactly seen her captor since he’d rescued her from the FSB, led her through the streets of Moscow, on subways, down alleyways, doubling back, circling around, and finally ending up here, in the three-room flat with log cabin wallpaper, orange carpet, and two twin beds, one in each room.

  Stay here, don’t go out, don’t turn on the lights.

  Don’t breathe, probably.

  Only after he’d left, only after he’d dead-bolted the door behind him—she couldn’t leave if she wanted to—did she realize he’d spoken English.

  So, she’d slept. Listened to the news. Read a book on the shelf, The Brothers Karamazov.

  That Russian language minor had finally come in handy.

  She wished she still had her bag with her, but that had been lost shortly after the assassination attempt, as she’d fled the scene.

  Fled. The. Scene. No wonder her picture ended up on television.

  The entire thing was a blur, really, from the moment she’d met with Roy in Prague to that awful moment when she stood on Arbat Street watching in horror as General Stanislov himself emerged from the Tuxedo.

  She was supposed to meet her contact, the one Roy had set up for her. The counterpart to Roy, only operating in deep cover in Moscow. The guy who could stop the assassination.

  She’d waited under the lights, as instructed, outside the entrance to a gentleman’s club, all her instincts telling her to run.

  Worse, she didn’t know how she�
��d ended up with a gun in her bag but as she stood just feet away from the general, two shots sounded. One brought one of the general’s bodyguards down, the second finding its mark.

  And she’d simply frozen, shock turning her body numb as the general fell. Then Stanislov’s agents had made everyone—including her—get down.

  She did, and when her bag flung out onto the pavement, the gun tumbled out.

  She’d stared at it in horror.

  If it hadn’t been for—

  A key grated in the lock, and the dead bolt slid open. She stiffened and turned from the window. She should find a weapon, but frankly, other than a bread knife and a throw pillow, she had nothing. No Jason Bourne hand-to-hand combat skills, no Lara Croft knife-wielding prowess. She was just an information gatherer, a thinker.

  She didn’t know why, but she picked up The Brothers Karamazov. Held it in both hands in front of her as she stood dressed in a pair of black pants and a grimy white blouse, semi-sensible flats, her hair finger combed after her shower, feeling like something that took up residence under a dumpster as death came through the door.

  A rather attractive version of death, maybe. Tall—over six foot—dark blond hair cut short on the sides, but with enough tousle left on top to suggest stress, and a square, fierce jaw with dark scruff roughening his face. He wore an olive green field jacket, a pair of dark jeans, and the effect of it only added to his lethal aura as he locked the door and turned to her.

  She hadn’t noticed the scar at first, the one that ran from his ear and halfway across his neck, but now it stood out, a dissection of white through the dark blonde hair on his neck.

  As if someone had tried to slit his throat.

  Oops, she was staring because he said, “It wasn’t as bad as it looks.” He had a deep voice and a hint of a British accent.

  Her mouth opened.

  “So, are you gonna club me with Dostoyevsky?”

  Oh. “Maybe.”

  “I would have gone with Tolstoy, personally.” A tiny smile jerked up one side of his mouth.

  Right. War and Peace had about four hundred pages more heft.

  “So, you okay?” He carried two plastic bags and brought them into the kitchen.

  Huh. So maybe he wasn’t here to kill her. She followed him, still gripping the book. “You left me here for a week without even a word. Took my cell phone. And locked me in. I had no idea if you were coming back.”

  “The phone could have been tracked—I dumped it. From now on, we’re cell phone lite. Even me. I’ll pick up a burner phone in case of an emergency.”

  “I had no food!”

  “I left you water, bread, sausage, eggs, cabbage, oil. What more do you need?” He pulled a hunk of hard cheese, tea, butter, and another loaf of bread from one of the bags.

  “How about some idea if the FSB is going to show up at my door?”

  “You’re not in the gulag yet, right?” He raised an eyebrow.

  “Felt like it.”

  “Don’t be dramatic. You’re safe. And not dead.” He glanced at her over the upturned collar of his field jacket. “Right?”

  She stared at him. Put down the book

  He nodded, his mouth pursed. “I’m on your side, but you should be careful. The entire world is looking for you.”

  She reached out for the back of a chair.

  He picked up the bread and brought it over to a cutting board. Retrieved the bread knife from the door and began to slick off large rectangle chunks. “The FSB is still combing the city for you even now. Your picture is everywhere. What were you thinking?”

  She stared at him in silence so long he turned to look at her. He had the bluest of eyes, hard and piercing.

  Lethal.

  She should have hung onto the book. But hello, it wasn’t so different than standing up to any one of her brothers. “What do you mean, what was I thinking? I was supposed to meet someone. He told me to meet him at the restaurant, gave me the time and place, and I was there. Waiting. And then General Stanislov shows up and everything gets crazy.”

  “You were on the wrong side of the street.”

  She frowned at him. “What?”

  He brought the bread over to the table on the board. Then he filled a kettle with water from a filter on the counter and set it on to boil.

  “I saw you—you need a better disguise.” He picked up the cheese and pulled out a chair, then unwrapped the cheese from the plastic. “You have CIA written all over you—”

  “I’m not—”

  “Give it up, sweetie. I know exactly who you are. I was your contact, not just some random ex-pat telling you to run.” He pulled a knife from a sheath on his belt and began to slice the cheese.

  “You’re the Bird?”

  He gave a chuckle, nothing of humor in it. “Roy likes to call me the Bird. Sort of a joke, but yeah. My name is York. And I know I should have asked sooner, but what with fleeing the FSB, it didn’t seem as important, but I’m assuming…you’re RJ?”

  “How do you know my name?”

  “You emailed me three times.”

  Oh… “Roy said you could stop the assassination.”

  He handed her a piece of cheese. “I’m not in that business anymore.”

  “Then why did you answer my email?”

  He frowned. “I didn’t. You just kept emailing me, so I thought…I’ll find out what all the fuss is about.” The teakettle whistled so he got up and retrieved it from the stove.

  She grabbed the tea box, opened the cupboard, and took down two cups, saucers. He seemed to watch her movements as she opened the box and dropped a bag into each cup.

  He filled them with water.

  “You weren’t the one who emailed me back?”

  “Nope. But I had this gut feeling that I should be there, so…yeah. I was standing across the street from where you said you’d be—”

  “You told me to be there!”

  “Again—”

  “Fine. Someone set me up.”

  “No kidding, Sherlock.”

  She walked to the window. The mangy dog found a banana peel, was wolfing it down. “Someone slipped a gun into my bag.”

  “Which is why you took off running. Which, in the light of things, were pretty good reflexes there, Usain.”

  Usain. Oh. Usain Bolt, fastest man on earth.

  So he was trying to be funny? She turned around and he handed her a cup of tea.

  “One of the FSB agents saw the gun and I did quick math,” she said.

  “You might have been shot on the spot if the police had any real weapons on them.” He took the other chair, nodding to hers.

  She didn’t know what to say to that because the shots fired at her had felt pretty real.

  She sat down, watching him squeeze himself onto the tiny chair. He had scarred knuckles. Another scar that ran across his wrist. Like he knew how to get himself into—and clearly out of—scrapes.

  Now might be the right time to— “Thank you.”

  He glanced up at her. “It’s just cheese and bread.”

  “No, I mean thank you for grabbing me, for getting me out of there.” She took a sip of her tea, and it soothed the angry hunger inside her. “I was—”

  “Freaking out? Mmmhmm.” He opened the carton of butter and slathered a thick chunk onto his bread, added a piece of cheese. “I could plainly see you weren’t guilty, but you were about to be abducted and lost forever by the Russian police, so, yeah, I intercepted you. Which, by the way, was no easy feat at the pace you were going.”

  His words evoked the quick and startling memory of being grabbed around the waist and shoved into an alleyway. In the darkness, he’d pulled her against himself, his hand over her mouth, his dark voice at her ears. Stick with me, do what I tell you, and you might live through this night.

  Interesting words for a man who hadn’t even agreed to meet with her. But he had helped her live through the night—not only dodge the police, but brought her here, and was now feeding he
r.

  So maybe she should step back her defenses to Defcon 3. For now.

  “Where are we?”

  “One of my safe houses.” He gestured to the butter and cheese. “Eat.”

  One of… “Who are you?”

  “I told you, York—”

  “Right. Are you an assassin?”

  He drew in a tight breath and set down his bread. Met her eyes.

  Dark blue, the hues of midnight staring down at her, with all its mystery and danger. But she didn’t look away. Just met his gaze.

  Because she wasn’t some girl lost in Moscow.

  She was a CIA analyst who’d tried to save the life of someone who mattered.

  Just got in a little over her head was all.

  “I used to work in security for the US Embassy in Moscow.”

  “And now?”

  His mouth pursed. “Now I run a transportation service.” He took another bite of his makeshift sandwich. “Which includes transporting you out of Russia.”

  Oh. She took another sip of tea. Did it also include transporting people from, say, life to death? But she didn’t want to ask.

  He gripped his teacup with his whole hand, taking a long sip. Set it down. “We need to move you, but not until they think you’ve left the country. Or at least Moscow.”

  She picked up a hunk of bread and made the same butter-cheese sandwich he had. “Is Stanislov still alive?”

  “Yeah. He was hospitalized for a couple days, but he’s back at his private estate. Apparently, it was just a shot to the shoulder. But still punishable by death if you get caught.”

  “Listen, Mr. Sunshine, I didn’t do it, okay?” She put down her bread and pointed the knife at him. “I was trying to stop it.”

  He reached out and pushed the knife to the side. “Take a breath there, toots. I was just pointing out that if you get caught, it’ll be bad. I don’t think the embassy will be able to get you out before you disappear in the cells of Lubyanka. Eat your cheese, you need protein.”

  He picked up his bread, but his gaze kept flickering over to her, as if sizing her up.

  She didn’t move. Yeah, that’s right. She wasn’t afraid of him. Despite his scars and lethal expression. “So, if you never wrote to me, who did?”

  “Someone who wanted you to be there, clearly.”