The Price of Valor Read online

  Garrett only confirmed it when he said, over his shoulder to Orion, “I love her like a daughter, so if you hurt her, you’ll answer to me.”

  That took the wind out of his sails a little. Still, “I won’t hurt her.”

  Garrett had been inspecting a temperature gauge, but he turned and pulled his readers off his nose. “Good. Because Jenny is a special girl. She’s one of the bravest women I know. When she first came to us, she’d gone through so much, but she refused to let it beat her. She went out for basketball and made varsity in a year. Came home every day after practice and shot baskets for hours, in the dark, even after it snowed, when her hands were ice cubes. She doesn’t do anything halfway.”

  “I know that.”

  “Good. Then you know that if she’s in, she’s all in. But . . .”

  It was the but that put a fist in Orion’s gut. The but and the long pause and then he tried to temper it . . . “I know about her past, Garrett.”

  “Then you know how her mother died.”

  “She was killed by her boyfriend.”

  “Yes. Jenny might look put together, but she hides her wounds well.”

  He knew that too. Because she’d managed to hide the fact that she worked for the CIA while they were serving together in Afghanistan, managed to hide the fact that she had a nervous breakdown, even managed to pretend she didn’t know him when she ran into him later, in Alaska—not wanting to dredge up the past and the guilt she felt at her part in an op-gone-south.

  Not her fault. But still, the woman had the capacity to walk wounded like no one he knew. So, he nodded. “I know. But Jenny and I don’t have secrets.” Not, at least, anymore.

  “Good.” Garrett had walked over to the next barrel of wine, replacing his glasses to read the gauge. “The thing about making wine is that you have to know when to stop the fermentation process, rack off the wine, and let it sit. And you can’t rush the process. But if you can wait . . . well, it’s always worth it.” He looked back at Orion.

  Orion stared at him. “I’ll remember that if I ever make wine.”

  Garrett pursed his lips. “Why do you want to marry our Jenny?”

  He was ready for this. “I’ve loved her for years, really. But when we found each other again, it was like . . . I don’t know, maybe an answer to a question I didn’t know I had. She makes me better and I think—well, it’s time.” He followed Garrett as he walked out of the back of the barn, toward the apple orchard.

  Aggie and Jenny were picking apples from a tree down the lane. She wore her blonde hair down, and it shone a deep gold under the sun.

  “Time for you? Or time for her?”

  Orion looked at him, frowned. “Time for us. I’m ready to start our lives. To get married, have children . . .” He looked back at Jenny. “I don’t want to be Ham and realize that we could have had more but didn’t grab our chance.”

  “According to Ham, he didn’t even know his daughter was alive.”

  “No, he didn’t. And the last time he saw his wife was ten years ago at a refugee camp in Chechnya. I don’t know the whole story. But I do know that she was kidnapped by a terrorist and Ham thought she had died. He regrets not going after her anyway.”

  “And you’ll go after Jenny?”

  “Always.”

  “That, son, was the right answer.” Garrett turned then and held out his hand. “Here’s hoping she says yes.”

  Here’s hoping.

  Please.

  “We used to come here after our basketball games,” Jenny said now, scooping up a square piece of pizza. “Fraser would challenge his brother Jonas to a pizza-eating contest. It never went well for Jonas.”

  “I haven’t met him.”

  “He’s a storm chaser in the summer, but works in Oklahoma during the winter months, researching tornados.”

  Now? Nope. “Aggie could play basketball. She’s got a great hook shot.”

  “Yes. I saw you trying to teach her.” She picked up her glass, took a drink. Set it down. Wiped her fingers. Looked at the fire.

  Huh.

  “Ham wants us to go to DC tomorrow for some fundraising event.”

  “Good. Fine.”

  Now? Maybe—

  “That Ferris wheel accident was really . . . wow.” She gave him a tight smile. “Scary.”

  So that was the problem. Maybe it touched off her PTSD. He touched her hand. “Everybody was okay. Aggie was so brave, though, wasn’t she?”

  She nodded. Turned and wove her fingers through his.

  “She called me Uncle Ry today.”

  It coaxed a grin from her. “Sweet.”

  Now. Yes. “Jenny, can I . . . uh . . .” And shoot, Just do it, man! He stood up, dug into his pocket, and then, without a hint of pain, knelt down on one knee. He still had a hold of her hand. Ran his thumb across the top of it.

  Her eyes widened. “Ry—”

  “Just listen, Jenny. Since you came back into my life, I’ve known . . . well, even before then, I knew you were the only girl for me. You’re beautiful and brave and kind and I can’t imagine spending my life with anyone else.”

  Yes, see, that came out easily enough. He took a breath. “And I don’t want to.” He let go of her hand and opened up the ring box. A solitaire. Something pretty yet simple and perfect for the woman he loved. “Babe, will you marry me?”

  She’d wrapped her hands around her waist and now stared at him.

  And the restaurant had gone quiet, waiting for her answer.

  He grinned at her.

  “No.”

  Huh?

  He might have frowned because she shook her head, and got up, nearly knocking him over. “No, Ry—”

  He scrambled to his feet. “Jenny—”

  But she was backing away from him, shaking her head, her expression pained.

  No more than the terrible squeezing of his heart.

  “No, Orion. I can’t—I won’t marry you.” Then she turned and sprinted for the door.

  Taking the world with her.

  It was a simple room, but safe.

  With a lock on the door, a single clean bed, a small table, and windows that overlooked the river Main—a dark snake three stories below. Most of all, the room came with a large, grumpy woman at the front desk who looked a lot like Signe’s fourth grade teacher, Mrs. Nicholson.

  And no one got by Mrs. Nicholson.

  Felix’s fresh new documents had done their job—Signe Kincaid was now Sigfreda Katz, and she checked in with euros, just like every other traveler at the hostel Jugendherberge.

  Signe had spent the day hiding, watching as the police secured the flat, then doubled back when it got dark and took Felix’s VW Passat to Frankfurt. She’d ditched it a mile away and walked to the hostel, the darkness pressing into her, the air breathing a chill into her bones as the wind stirred off the molten black river. Not even a moon to light her way, although maybe that was in her favor. No one to watch her as she limped along the sidewalks. No one to watch as she purchased a backpack and filled it with essentials—toiletries, a flashlight, a map of Frankfurt, water, a scarf, and socks.

  Signe didn’t know why, but socks were always on the list. If she wore socks, at least her feet would be warm. Protected.

  Socks meant she wasn’t completely destitute.

  But she was hungry. She’d eaten nothing—too upset by the images of Zara and Felix lodged into her mind—and now, as she set her backpack on the bed and stared out the window, her stomach roared to life.

  She shouldn’t leave the room. Maybe she shouldn’t have even stopped, but really, where was she going to run that the CIA wouldn’t find her?

  Or, for that matter, the Russian mob?

  Oh, things had gotten way too complicated from the day she’d seen the NOC list on Pavel’s computer and realized the jig was up.

  Frankly, she didn’t understand why she wasn’t already dead, because Pavel would have killed her if he’d actually studied the list.

  She’d h
ad no choice but to leave him for dead aboard his burning yacht and escape with her daughter.

  No choice but to send Aggie to her father.

  No choice but to run.

  But with Roy possibly dead, well . . .

  No. She couldn’t call Ham. Because she knew him.

  Knew he’d come running.

  Shoot. It wasn’t fair what she’d done to him.

  Over. And over. And . . .

  She picked up her backpack, grabbed her key card, and headed outside to the cafe still lit up across the street. The outside patio was alive with music and patrons drinking beer and coffee and eating piles of French fries that had her mouth watering. Signe slid into one of the rattan chairs at a table along the riverwalk’s edge and read the menu card propped in the middle.

  A waitress in black pants and a white oxford approached the table. “Guten abend,” she said.

  Signe pointed to the fried potatoes, with bacon and onions. “Die Bratkartoffeln, bitte.” She ordered water in a bottle, with gas—no need to stand out as an American—and sat back to listen to the skinny kid at the mic plucking at his guitar.

  Her ear tuned to the German conversation around her but found nothing of interest. Mostly people smoking or listening to the music, and she let herself breathe.

  She’d gotten Roy’s name from Felix, had contacted him through email, although she knew how easily those could get hacked, so it didn’t surprise her that it had been hijacked.

  She’d pinned way too much hope on a stranger.

  “Mama, can I have an ice cream?”

  The question, asked in German, came from the voice of a little girl that wheedled through the crowd noise. Signe spotted a family in the corner. A little girl, her blonde hair in two ponytails, sat on her knees on a chair, reaching across the table to grab a fry.

  Her mother rescued her cup of tea before it went over. “Achtung, Marie!”

  Be careful. The little girl pulled back her hand, and for a second, Signe wanted to get up, the instinct to step in front of the girl nearly rising to possess her limbs.

  Then the woman smiled and picked up the plate of fries, handing it to her.

  Signe pressed a hand to her gut.

  Aggie was safe. It was good to keep reminding herself. Safe with Ham. Who would never beat her, threaten her, or even emotionally abuse her.

  Thank you, Ham.

  Oh, she hadn’t deserved him.

  The singer at the mic finished his song and another person took his place, a woman with full arm tats and a flute. She began to play, something light and airy, and Signe’s fries showed up, along with her water.

  She couldn’t seem to pull her gaze away from the family. The little girl was probably two years younger than Aggie, and sudden laughter when her father kissed her on the neck nearly swept tears into Signe’s eyes.

  Stop. Spies didn’t cry. Now that Aggie was safe, Signe should just walk away.

  She only brought trouble into people’s lives.

  Now Zara and Felix were back in her head, and regardless of how hungry she was, she couldn’t possibly eat.

  A whimper near her ankle caught her attention. A dog that looked like some kind of terrier mix sat at her feet, eyeing her fries.

  “Oh, buddy.” She slid him a fry.

  He leaped for it, nearly taking off her hand. Then sat again and whimpered.

  “Offer him a Cheeto, Ham.”

  She simply couldn’t stop the memory. Nine-year-old Ham, crouched at the end of a drainage pipe, digging into his Cheetos bag. Oh, he was cute even then, with his dark blond hair still summer long, tinted by the sun, and those blue eyes. He wore a T-shirt, cut off at the arms, a pair of jeans, and if she remembered correctly, his mother was still alive. Fading, but still alive.

  Water poured out of the culvert after last night’s massive autumn storm. Clogged with trees and leaves and debris, it was half full and she would have never seen the dog except for the whimpering.

  The sound found her ears as they were biking home from school. She’d stopped and spotted the dog following her.

  That’s when he ran into the culvert.

  She’d beckoned Ham back and found the dog, a mixed-breed hound with big brown eyes, tucked into the debris. No collar.

  He shivered, and her heart broke in half.

  Maybe because she knew how it felt to be alone, scared and needing rescue.

  “I’ll climb in,” she’d said after the animal grabbed a Cheeto Ham tossed to him.

  “Be careful, Sig.” Getting on her hands and knees, she held out her hand for the dog to sniff. “C’mere, buddy. It’s okay.”

  The animal growled, backed away. Snapped at her.

  “Sig—”

  “It’s okay, Ham. He just needs time to trust me.” She kept her hand out, waiting.

  And waiting.

  Ham handed her a Cheeto, and she offered it with the other hand.

  Slowly the dog eased forward, sniffed the Cheeto, and then began to lick it. She touched his head, began to rub behind his ear. “There you go, pal. You’re safe now.”

  She backed out, and the dog followed her. She fed him another Cheeto, then petted him, finally pulling him into her arms.

  “He’s hurt, Ham—he’s favoring his leg.”

  Ham looked at it with all the wisdom of his youth. “I don’t think it’s broken.”

  “I’m taking him home,” Signe said, aware that the dog had slimed her T-shirt and chinos. Her grandmother would kill her.

  Maybe she could sneak in after her grandmother fell asleep. Her grandfather wouldn’t care, of course.

  “Are you sure?” Ham asked. “I don’t think—”

  “She won’t know. I’ll keep him in the barn.”

  Even then, Ham had a way of looking at her, worry in his eyes.

  “It’ll be fine.”

  “Okay.” Ham helped her situate the dog in the basket on the front of her bike, but the animal wouldn’t stay put, so they ended up walking the bikes home. The sun had nearly reached the horizon by the time they settled the animal into the barn. She’d already made up her mind to drag out her ratty Scooby-Doo comforter off her bed to keep the animal warm.

  Maybe sleep out here with him.

  Ham knew that too. “I don’t like you sleeping out here all by yourself.”

  “I won’t be alone. I’ll have Caesar.”

  “Caesar?” He raised an eyebrow.

  “I just like it.” She rubbed the dog’s ears.

  Ham put his hand over hers, also rubbing. “He likes you.”

  It was the first time she could remember wondering if Ham might like her too.

  Wishing it.

  “I gotta get home.” Ham had gotten up. “But I’ll be back first thing in the morning, I promise.”

  It was the only promise he’d ever broken.

  Because his mother had died that night.

  She’d seen him a week later at the funeral, and shoot if he didn’t look at her the same way Caesar had when he was trapped in that tunnel.

  She swore that whatever it took, she’d get him out, into the sunlight.

  And later amended it to include into her arms.

  Her throat tightened now as she slid a couple more fries to the terrier.

  “Shoo!” Her waitress came around the table, stomped on the pavement. “Shoo!”

  The terrier barked, then turned and ran into the night.

  “Nein!” She turned to Signe. “Füttere keinen Hund!”

  Right. Don’t feed the dog. She held up her hands. “Entschuldigung.”

  The woman gave her a look, shook her head.

  Yeah, that was familiar too—the look her grandmother had given her when she’d discovered Caesar. Tried to shoo him away.

  Caesar kept coming back.

  Not unlike Ham.

  “Lucky dog. He picked the right girl to follow home from school.” Ham’s voice, whispering in her ear so many years ago when he’d found her in Chechnya. “He wasn’t the
only stray you took in.”

  Oh Ham. If only he knew.

  Now she was the stray.

  And he was the one calling her into the light.

  Signe dug into her jacket to grab her wallet, and her hand closed around her phone.

  It was an errant, forbidden impulse that made her draw it from her pocket.

  Two missed calls.

  Breathe. Only one person had her number. Well, two, but either voice at the end of the line could be lethal. For them.

  For her.

  For any hope she might harbor to keep everyone safe.

  She pulled out some euros and left them on the table.

  Then she got up and headed back to the hostel.

  But on the way, she stopped in the middle of the bridge and dropped her phone into the water.

  CHAPTER THREE

  IT WAS THE HELPLESSNESS, the not knowing, that was driving Ham crazy.

  That and the hum of frustration right under his skin that buzzed, kept him from sleeping.

  He needed answers. Confirmation of his suspicions.

  Some way to fix this.

  Because his nightmares were playing out a scenario in his head that had the woman he loved—yes, he would always love Signe Kincaid—running around Europe with the Chinese or the Russians chasing her, the NOC list in her hand.

  So he’d never been so glad to get on a plane. Because Ham couldn’t get his conversation with White out of his head, either. Crazy hope had lit inside him that maybe—please—White’s request had something to do with Signe.

  Which would only mean, of course, that Signe was in trouble. That dragged up visions of her body washing up in some murky canal.

  She hadn’t answered the phone. Twice on Sunday morning, and then five more times during the last twenty-four hours.

  Ham wanted to throw something against a wall.

  “Would you like a drink, sir?” The flight attendant stopped by his row on the morning flight to DC.

  “Coffee, please,” he managed, without the growl he felt in his throat.

  She filled his cup and set it on the tray. She posed the same question to Orion, who sat next to Ham, but he had his earbuds in so Ham nudged him.