Wyatt Page 7

  He must have looked afraid. Which was very, very close to the truth here, so he let out a breath. Swallowed. And dodged the question. Which was a legitimate technique his publicist taught him about talking with the press. “I…I just walked in and there he was. And he jumped me, and I fought back. He went over the balcony, and that’s the last I saw of him.” There. All truth.

  She stared at him. Pursed her lips.

  A knock came at the door. “Minutichkoo!”

  Oh, that didn’t sound calm at all.

  Another knock, and he offered an apologetic smile. “I have this sort of pregame routine where I listen to music while I warm up. I have to stretch out, a lot, and I get in this sort of zone, away from the other players—and really, I have to because being a goalie is sort of your own island. You can’t hide out there. So, I just get in this place, you know, where I’m listening to Here Comes the Boom, or yeah, I do sometimes zone out to All I Do Is Win, but that’s a crazy song, so that’s not my go-to, but I have a whole playlist, and I just get down into the zone, visualizing my saves. Over and over, sinking them into my head and just forcing my body to feel it. Because you can’t think when you’re out there on the ice, you just have to know—”

  “Oy,” she said and got up.

  He closed his mouth as she opened the door. Said something in Russian, glanced at him, and left.

  Huh.

  He sat there on the chair, shoulders hurting, trying not to think about the second tier of interrogators, and really, what did it feel like to be waterboarded? And no, he actually didn’t want to find out, and probably he couldn’t hold out any longer, and—

  And Coco was out there, and the man who’d taken the USB drive was after her and…

  He was getting out of here and finding her, no matter what it took.

  The door opened and a man walked in. Tawny brown hair, built—clearly gym honed—but he had the gait of someone who knew his body, knew how to hurt someone.

  A sweat beaded along Wyatt’s spine. But he just swallowed and met the guy’s hazel-green eyes with his own, ready to go another round.

  Yep. So ready.

  So—

  “So, you’re Wyatt, Kat’s friend.”

  He stared at the man. He wore a black sweater with leather shoulder pads and now folded his arms across his impressive chest.

  Probably, Wyatt couldn’t take him. But he’d give it his best shot. Go down swinging. “Why?”

  The man raised an eyebrow. “So here’s the deal. I know what really went down in that room. I know she gave you the jump drive, and what I need to know is—do you still have it?”

  Oh these guys were good. Very good.

  Wyatt needed a drink. Water.

  Okay, maybe something stronger than water, but right now, his throat was closing up, fingers digging into his chest, and—

  “I’m a friend.”

  Wyatt’s eyes widened. That’s what they all said. Especially in a Lee Child novel. What would Reacher say? I don’t know what you’re talking about. No, no, Reacher would say something like, In two minutes, I’m going to be out of these cuffs and you’re going to wish you were already dead.

  Why didn’t those words come out of his mouth?

  The man frowned. Sighed. “Listen. My name is Roman. My wife Sarai and I have been taking care of Kat since she showed up on our doorstep a month ago, wounded. She went to meet you today on orders from a friend named York. And I know where she is. Trust me yet?”

  Wyatt nodded, a little too enthusiastically for his taste, but, “Where is she?”

  “Did the assailant get the USB drive?”

  Wyatt stared at him, and for a moment, he was in the zone. The one where he stared down a wing, eyes on the puck, feeling his next move in his bones, knowing exactly how to react. “Tell me where she is.”

  Roman cocked his head. “On one condition—after you describe the man who took the USB drive, you get on the train to Vladivostok with your team and go straight back to America.”

  “And you’ve lost your freakin’ mind.” Wyatt pulled at his bonds. “Coco is in trouble, and I’m not going to let anything happen to her.”

  “Neither am I. I’ll find her, put her in protective custody. But first—is there a reason to worry about the USB drive?”

  “Yes!” And shoot, he let out a word that betrayed the fact he might be going off the rails.

  Tuck it back in, Guns.

  “Yes. He took it. A blond guy, maybe five ten or more, good with his hands. A professional. He had a scar on his jaw and clubbed ears. He jumped me, but I think I broke his nose.”

  Roman held up his hand. “Breathe, Wyatt.”

  Wyatt narrowed his eyes at him.

  “I really am on your side.” He started to get up.

  “Who was that man?”

  “If my guess is right—and we’re still tracking down CCT footage to see if we can find him on the hotel cameras—his name is Damien Gustov.”

  And ding, ding, ding, that rang a bell because that name matched up with the name RJ used when she’d relayed her horrific get-out-of-Russia-before-you’re-killed-by-a-hit-man story.

  Wyatt went cold, his shoulders simply rising and falling as he tried to get back up, mentally, from his crash onto the ice.

  Gustov had the drive. Had probably followed him from his meet with Coco to get it.

  And who knew but he was on his way to kill Coco right now.

  “Where. Is. She?”

  “I think I’m going to let you cool off right here in holding until the train leaves.” Roman headed for the door.

  “Where is she!” Wyatt stood up, knocking the chair over, rounding the table, heading straight for Mr. KGB.

  Roman turned, something lethal in his expression. “Step back.” He didn’t raise his hands, didn’t move, but his entire body had tightened, and Wyatt recognized it.

  Ford and Tate did that too when they were snapping into some kind of warrior mode.

  Well, it had nothing on angry athlete. Hello, he wasn’t helpless.

  He’d nearly taken down a killer, thank you. Broken his nose.

  He might be cuffed, but he could still do damage.

  Would even feel good about it.

  “She’s on her way to a city called Belogorsk. And then, she’s leaving the country.”

  “But you will catch up to her,” Wyatt said softly, not sure if he was playing along or pleading.

  “I will. And I’ll keep her safe.” Roman’s gaze met Wyatt’s. Held it. “I’d like to think you’ll stay put if I let you go back to your hotel.”

  Wyatt said nothing.

  “Yeah. I thought so. I’ll have the guard bring you a blanket.”

  Then he opened the door and led Wyatt back to holding.

  Coco had missed out on so much of his young life. And if she made the decision to leave, she’d miss out on the rest.

  Coco stood outside the high fence of Orphanage 23, the sun over the houses of the small Russian city of Belogorsk, fingers of light cascading down the dirt roads, around the two-story blue and green wooden houses, and into the back yard of the group home.

  Dew glistened on the playground equipment—slides, a wooden swing set, a merry-go-round, a sandbox filled with toy trucks, soldiers, and tanks. A couple tricycles sat under the overhang near the door.

  Small, but cute, the sprawling one-story, orange stucco detski home was outfitted better than most, with a gymnasium, a media room, new beds, an educational center. It sat tucked away in a neighborhood with houses and gardens, pets and other children running down the streets. Just another family amongst many.

  That was, if no one looked at the fencing that cordoned off the place. And what no one could see were the security cameras hidden in the oak and linden trees that surrounded the yard.

  She couldn’t help but see it as a prison. For children.

  Twenty children lived here, most of them abandoned, but a handful, like Mikka, had parents who visited.

  Some of
those parents were people like her—single mothers who couldn’t keep their children.

  Only one had a private nanny hired to care for him.

  Her father had found the place in a village time had forgotten. The best kind of hiding place, really. Coco had helped set up the surveillance, had vetted the children who lived here. Her father had hired the security guard who acted as one of the children’s physical education teachers. A man who was probably tired of his life in the FSB or the Spetsnaz and wanted to settle down with his family.

  A man with something to lose if Mikka should be found.

  With the recent passing of the law that excluded foreigners from adopting children from Russia, Mikka was safe from mistaken red tape. He wasn’t going anywhere, and no one was getting in without her knowing about it.

  It didn’t feel any less remote, untenable, and terrifying, especially for the children inside. But sacrifices had to be made…

  Oh no, she was starting to sound like her father.

  Coco wove her fingers into the fence, watching as the door opened and children ran into the yard.

  If you’re not careful, you’re going to get your son killed.

  The words could still take her apart, that terrible moment the next morning in the hotel room in Moscow.

  She’d spent the night, the entire night, in the arms of the man she loved. And every moment was as beautiful as she’d hoped it might be. Wyatt was gentle, and this time she hadn’t been quite so afraid.

  In fact, it might have been him who’d been more afraid, asking her in a voice she barely recognized if this was what she wanted. Meeting her eyes with a vulnerability that suggested maybe he wasn’t quite the player the tabloids made him out to be.

  “I’ve missed you so much, Coco.” His words whispered into her ear, the scratch of his beard on her skin. He’d trembled in her arms.

  He’d reminded her exactly why she’d fallen for him. There was no going back now. As soon as he returned from his early morning practice, she’d tell him about Mikka. We need to talk, Wyatt.

  He’d take them both back to America. Marry her. And she would live the life she still longed for.

  Then the knock at the door. She’d thought he’d left his key behind, or maybe ordered up room service, like last night. She’d drawn one of the hotel bathrobes around her and answered the door.

  Just like that, all her dreams shattered. Because Colonel Natalya Smolsk stood on the other side, dressed in the uniform of the FSB, her dark brown hair pulled back. “What have you done, Katya?”

  For a second, Coco had forgotten. Forgotten that she was not only Russian but the daughter of one of the most powerful men in the country. Maybe the world.

  Forgotten that she didn’t really have choices. That she’d never had choices. Forgotten that her life didn’t belong to her.

  Forgotten that she didn’t get to change her life, escape, live in the world she’d dreamed of. That chance died when she’d abandoned her life in Montana and fled back to the man she thought would protect her.

  In truth, the general was protecting her. It just felt…

  Natalya stepped into the room, shutting the door behind her. “Get your things—”

  “No.”

  Oh, the look on Natalya’s face.

  Coco knew her father’s security chief would have a reaction. She just hadn’t expected it to be pure disgust. Especially as her gaze traveled the room, from the empty champagne glasses to the pizza box to the rumpled covers.

  Yeah, Coco had felt naked.

  “Did you tell him?” the colonel snapped.

  “He’s Mikka’s father.”

  “He’s no one. And you are someone. And if you’re not careful, you’re going to get your son killed.”

  Cold slivered through her.

  Because she didn’t know if that was a threat or a warning.

  She got dressed. “I want to talk to him—”

  Natalya grabbed her arm and pulled her out of the room.

  Two of her thugs-slash-FSB officers stood outside the room, one of them by the elevator.

  Coco’s eyes filled. “But he won’t understand—”

  “He’s a stupid American hockey player. Do you seriously think you’re the first woman who’s spent the night with him since he’s been here?” She turned to one of the men. “What is this—number five?”

  Coco had gone numb, down to her toes.

  As the lift opened, Natalya turned to her. Laughed. “It’s not like he loves you.” Then she pushed her into the lift. They took it to the garage, shoved her into a car, and took her back to her father’s dacha outside the city, until the tournament was over.

  Not long after, her father moved Mikka to Siberia. And with that move, any chance of Coco leaving.

  Except, leaving was the only way to keep him safe now. Because her father wouldn’t let anything happen to his grandson.

  Please.

  She drew in a trembling breath as she spotted Mikka.

  If possible, he’d grown an inch, his brown eyes brighter, his smile more infectious, and his hair darker, with sweet Wyatt-like curl at the ends.

  He looked like a miniature version of his father and could wreck her on the spot. She tightened her grip around the fencing as he ran for the slide and climbed up the ladder. He wore the blue jeans she’d sent him and a lightweight canvas jacket and a pair of boots. The entire orphanage had received clothing in a package she’d sent from Moscow—one more way to hide him among the masses. He got to the top of the slide.

  “Smotree!” Look at me!

  One of the women—yes, his private nanny, a middle-aged woman named Lana—waved to him. She had no children and had been an elementary school teacher. “Ya smatroo!”

  He raised his arms and slid down.

  His feet caught under him, however, and he pitched forward, landing on his hands and knees.

  Oh—Coco wanted to run to him, pick him up, especially when he cried out. He got up, lifting his scraped hands, running over to Lana.

  She blew on his hands, then picked him up and hugged him.

  Coco’s heart nearly shattered into pieces.

  Mikka pushed away from her and scampered over to the swings, clearly recovered.

  Coco gripped the stupid lion she’d purchased at a kiosk in the train station. He was probably too old for stuffed animals, but really, what did she know? She wasn’t really his mother—just the woman who’d birthed him. A visitor in his life.

  Lana, who drank a cup of tea and chatted with the other two teachers, was more of a mother to him. She wore her brown hair short, a thin coat over her pants and shirt.

  Did she read stories to him? Sing to him at night? Coco’s throat tightened.

  At least her own mother hadn’t left her in Russia when she’d fled the country. No, she’d dragged Katya, albeit kicking and screaming, out of the only world she’d ever known and settled her into the back country wilderness of Montana.

  Coco had never felt so abandoned, so alone in a world where the language felt unwieldy, despite the rules of English she’d been taught. She didn’t understand the customs or how to live in this new world.

  It had terrified her.

  Then her mother had died of leukemia and abandoned her completely. If it hadn’t been for the Marshalls, for Wyatt…

  No, she couldn’t do that to Mikka.

  And, maybe she shouldn’t even be here. Because he wouldn’t understand.

  He was getting old enough to remember her. To ask questions.

  Maybe it would be better for him if she were simply a dream. A hazy recollection. She could still send him money. In a few years, her father would send him to an elite boarding school somewhere in Europe, and he’d have a brand new life. One that could build a future for him. What could she give him, really?

  Coco turned, and a dog in a nearby yard barked at her movement. It alerted the woman sitting on the porch, and Coco froze.

  Lifted a hand.

  Lana got up, glanced a
t Mikka, and then headed over to the fencing. “Katya?”

  “Prevyet. I…I was in town and wanted to see Mikka.”

  “Of course. I’ll get him ready for you—”

  “No. I just…I’ll just stand here and watch him.”

  She’d hired Lana because of the way she had looked at Mikka, a softness in her eyes, as if she could truly love him. She now gave Coco a smile, the same softness in her eyes. “Come in and spend time with him. He knows you. He has your picture by his bed. He will want to see you.” She cast her gaze on the bag, the lion peeking out from it. “And he’ll be delighted with the gift.”

  Coco didn’t know why her eyes glazed, but she seemed to have no mind of her own when Lana motioned her to the gate entrance. She pressed in the digital lock and opened it.

  A couple children were riding the merry-go-round. A couple more looked up from where they were teeter-tottering. She walked over to the edge of the play yard. Mikka was digging in the sandbox, motoring a truck through a tunnel he’d made. His dark brown hair fell over his face—he probably needed a cut, but it reminded her so much of Wyatt, she just wanted to touch it. He pursed his lips, making a motoring noise.

  “Mikka, someone is here to see you,” Lana said.

  Mikka looked up, first at Lana. Then at Coco.

  She held her breath.

  His concentration dissolved into a slow, perfect smile. “Mamichka!”

  Oh—uh—

  He got up and sprinted toward her. She had enough presence of mind to crouch. To open her arms.

  To catch him when he flung himself into her embrace.

  He caught her around the neck, his strong little body melded into hers.

  She pulled him against her. He smelled of the laundry soap, and perhaps his morning kasha, and the outdoors, and crazily, a little like Wyatt, as if he embedded the skin of his son.

  Coco could do nothing but hold on and weep.

  I’m assuming your plan ends with assassination?

  Yes.

  If you kill him, we’ll never have the opportunity to discover who hired him and what he is after. Or how he works. Or his alliances.

  “Seriously, RJ? An old Alias rerun?”

  The voice, not on the television screen, jerked RJ’s attention from the drama and over to where her big brother Reuben leaned against the doorframe to the wood-paneled den of the Marshall family ranch home.