Wyatt Read online

  Reuben wore the mantra Big Brother well, from his rank in the Marshall family to his actual size. The former smokejumper-slash-sawyer-turned-ranch-foreman had the shoulders of a buffalo, his arms thick, not a spare inch around his waistline. No wonder he’d won awards in high school for his football prowess. But the man was a gentle giant and his voice was soft as he came into the den and sank down on the recliner.

  “It’s 2:00 a.m. What gives?”

  RJ sat on the sofa, a knitted afghan pulled up over her, a mug of hot milk in her grip. Darkness pressed against the windows, and the house smelled of tonight’s pot roast and homemade bread.

  For a prisoner, she was living well.

  She shrugged, not sure where to start. “This is my favorite episode. It’s where Will finds out that Sydney is a secret agent. She saves him and blows his mind.”

  “You were addicted to this show when you were a kid. I remember you saying you wanted to be like Sydney when you grew up.”

  He smiled. She didn’t, painfully aware of what she’d said.

  What a joke she’d turned out to be. Oh, she’d had big, high-flying visions of who she’d be. And a crash-and-burn reality.

  She lifted a shoulder, keeping it casual. “Mostly, I watched it for the romance between Vaughn and Sydney.”

  “You’ve been down here every night for…well, at least the last couple weeks. And that’s just since Gilly and I moved in permanently. What’s going on? Does this have to do with your…event in Russia?”

  Event. That was one way to say it.

  Another could be Idiotic Attempt to Save the World. As if what she did mattered. As if she could be a hero like Ford, or frankly, any of her brothers.

  Apparently, she would always be just the girl who needed saving. Something her nightmares reminded her of every night. The residue of tonight’s nightmare, another rerun of her bare escape from a killer, still buzzed under her clammy skin. Even now, a half hour later, she could still hear the gunshots that had taken down Boris.

  Still feel York’s hands on her as he grabbed her and told her to run.

  She was still running.

  And he was still in Russia, trying to keep her safe.

  Or maybe not. Maybe York had forgotten about her. It wasn’t like she was Sydney Bristow or he was Vaughn.

  She ran her fingers through the golden fringe of the afghan. “Every time I close my eyes, I think about Coco and leaving her bleeding in some Russian alley…”

  Coco. Their foster sister.

  Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Reuben’s mouth tighten. Oops. He’d always been a protector, looking over his little sister like a mastiff.

  He reminded her so much of their father. Quiet. Faithful. Strong. Brave.

  Not unlike York.

  Oh for Pete’s sake, she really had to stop thinking about the man. About his dark blue, pensive eyes trying to read her. The way he pulled her to himself, held on to her as if…as if…

  As if he was trying to… Save. Her. Life. Because she needed rescuing.

  She needed a good dose of reality. Namely, that she was a peon CIA analyst—former CIA analyst, thank you—and he was some kind of 007-slash-Jason Bourne who had risked his life to get her out of Russia.

  A superspy who’d kissed her.

  Oh, how he’d kissed her.

  Sometimes, she simply stopped and hung on to that kiss. The way he’d pushed her against the wall and kissed her like he might be pulling his heart from his body to give it to her. He’d tasted of desperation and danger and what-if and if only and she had let herself believe—for that moment—that maybe he could love her.

  I could find you when this is over.

  York’s words, spoken in his slight British accent, probably meant to convince her to leave him.

  On the screen, Will was following Sydney as she dragged him, wide-eyed and terrified, to safety, and yeah, maybe this wasn’t the episode to watch.

  Because she wasn’t Sydney. She was Will…in over her head.

  Yes, her feelings for York had everything to do with the fact he’d saved her life and nothing at all to do with reality.

  “I never did hear what exactly happened,” Reuben said, picking up the remote and turning off the television. “You came home, and you went quiet and we didn’t want to pry. But now I’m prying.”

  Oh.

  “All I know is that Ford was completely freaking out,” Reuben was saying. “I suppose we all were—after you were blamed for shooting that general.”

  “General Boris Stanislov,” she said. “He’s one of the troika—one of the three Russian leaders who can deploy nuclear weapons. He’s a moderate and has been a supporter of peace and nuclear disarmament.” And was Coco’s biological father. But she left that out because Coco had hidden that truth for years when she lived in Montana.

  Boris had sent her to the States with her mother to hide after she’d nearly been kidnapped.

  “And they thought you tried to kill him, why?”

  She reached for the half-empty bag of Doritos she’d found in the pantry and pulled out a chip. “Because I was standing on the street corner near the restaurant when he came out. And someone had slipped a gun into my purse. I’m not sure it would have taken much more than that—I was in the country on a fake visa, something hurried I got through our contacts, so…”

  Reuben just stared at her.

  “I was trying to stop the assassination.”

  Reuben’s mouth tightened into a dark line. “And York? Who is he?”

  York. Ex-Marine. Attached to the CIA somehow. A fixer, maybe. And her contact in Russia. “He works in transportation.” She said it exactly how York had, straight-faced, without a hint of irony.

  A raised eyebrow from Reuben suggested the same response she’d given York.

  “No, really. He helps people get in and out of the country.”

  “Mmmhmm,” Reuben said. “Did Coco hook you up with him?”

  Coco. Aka, Katya Stanislova. The woman they knew as Coco Stanley.

  “No. Actually, I was…in need of some help and York…” Found her. The man had materialized from nowhere right after the shooting to grab her. Had practically tackled her into an alley to save her from the FSB. Brought her to his safe house.

  Risked his own life to get her out of the country. “Hid me, then arranged for me to meet Coco. He didn’t know we knew each other.”

  “Why Coco?”

  “She was—is—a hacker. See, when I found out about the assassination threat against the general, I contacted a man who I thought could stop it. Turned out that those emails routed to someone else—a man named Damien Gustov, an assassin who was hired to shoot Stanislov.”

  “And frame you for it.”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “We don’t know—we think he works for the Bratva.”

  “The Russian mob?” Reuben drew a breath. “You were running from the mob? RJ—you’re not…well, you’re not Sydney Bristow. What were you thinking?”

  And no, she wasn’t deluded, but thanks for that, Reuben. She pulled the afghan to her chin. “I wasn’t thinking, okay? I was scared, and I didn’t know what to do. I just knew that…” She swallowed, her throat thick. “I know I was stupid. I got in over my head. I know it’s my fault Coco got shot—”

  “What?” Reuben leaned forward. “No it’s not.”

  “Yeah it is. We took the Trans-Siberian train—me and Coco and York—and York had to kill this guy—”

  Reuben stilled. “This guy killed someone?”

  “No, I mean, he was a Bratva agent, and he’d found us, and York—he was defending me. And then he threw him off the train, but he was worried that others would find us, so we got off but…” She closed her eyes, pressed her hands to her face. “That’s when Ford found us, and that’s when Coco was shot.”

  Reuben had gone quiet, and when she brought her hands down, he also wore this pained, sort of thin-lipped, grim look.

  She w
anted to reach out to him, let him pull her into his massive arms.

  “Someone started shooting at us. And Ford and York ran down the alley to stop him and…” She shook her head. “Oh, Rube, I was so stupid. I started running after York, and Coco grabbed me, pushed me back, and that’s when she was shot. If I hadn’t been so—” She reached up and wiped her cheek. “You’re right. I’m not Sydney Bristow. I’m just stupid and now…” She swallowed. “Every time I close my eyes, I’m back in that alley with Coco’s blood on my hands, listening to her whimpering while York and Ford fight with an assassin, while I sit there and…unravel.”

  Yeah, that’s the word for it. Since that day she’d been slowly unraveling, losing pieces of herself. Not sleeping, her eyes reddened, eating too many cookies, and hiding.

  Yes, hiding was exactly what she’d call it. Hiding from a Russian assassin, sure, but hiding from her mistakes. Hiding from her regrets.

  Hiding from the fact that she wasn’t at all the person she’d wanted to be.

  A superspy didn’t wake up in a cold sweat crying.

  A superspy didn’t spend hours binge-watching television because she was afraid to sleep.

  A superspy didn’t sit by the phone hoping the man she’d walked away from would call from the other side of the world.

  She wasn’t anything but super pitiful.

  “I can’t go back to work either to try and find them because when Ford and I fled Russia, we found out that the CIA had put a hit on me too.”

  Reuben’s eyes widened. “What—?”

  “The Chief of Station at the embassy in Russia, a guy named David Curtiss, said that he’d also heard rumors that there was a rogue group working inside the CIA and they had made me the prime suspect.”

  “The CIA can’t kill their own people.”

  She lifted a shoulder.

  “Is there no one you can trust? No one you can talk to?”

  “And tell them what? I have no evidence. Not until Wyatt gets home with the information Coco is giving him.”

  Reuben just stared at her. Then, quietly. “What did you say?”

  Oh. So maybe Wyatt had left big bro out of that conversation.

  “Wyatt is in Russia?”

  She bit her lower lip. “A hockey tournament.”

  “Slash secret mission,” Reuben said, shaking his head.

  She looked away. “If he gets hurt, that will be my fault too.”

  “And there we are, back in the cave.”

  She looked at him, and he raised an eyebrow. He had inherited their father’s dark hair, his solemn, steady demeanor, and sometimes he reminded her so much of Orrin Marshall it turned her inside out.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You know what I mean. Sometimes, I think you never left that cave you and Ford were trapped in when you were twelve. You always blamed yourself for the fact that he didn’t go for help.”

  “I begged him not to. I was scared to be left alone, and because of it, we nearly died.”

  “You and Ford are like two sides of the same coin. He always blamed himself for not having the courage to leave.”

  She shook her head, but Reuben got up and sat down next to her on the sofa. Put one of his big arms around her and pulled her to his chest. He was warm and safe, and she just wanted to sink into his embrace and let him tell her that everything would be all right.

  While she sobbed in his arms.

  But superspies didn’t cry either.

  “Sydney Bristow always knows exactly what to do. But not me. I ran to Russia, thinking I was brave and smart and…”

  “And now you’re having nightmares.”

  She closed her eyes.

  “I understand getting in over your head. I once thought Gilly had died in a fire and I just…I lost it. I couldn’t think, I couldn’t move. I completely fell apart.”

  She had a hard time imagining that. “I guess I realized that I’m not who I thought I was. I planned to come home, dig up evidence, save the world. Instead, I can’t sleep, all I do is eat Doritos and bake sweets and I jump at every noise I hear. I’m not me. I don’t know who I am. Or what I’m supposed to do.”

  “I know who you are, Rubes.” Reuben kissed the top of her head. “And if you need time to get yourself back together, you’re welcome to stay right here on this sofa.” He picked up the remote. “Even Sydney Bristow needs rest in between saving the world. Now, hand me those Doritos.”

  5

  “That’s about the closest I ever want to get to a gulag. Thanks for that, Wyatt.” Deke was folding down his bed in the private compartment of their train car. The man looked—and smelled—exactly like Wyatt. As if he’d spent the night in his clothing on a hard, wooden bench in some chilly cement Russian prison cell with urine stains in the corner. They’d eaten Wyatt’s definition of gruel for breakfast—runny oatmeal with specks of brown he dearly hoped were raisins. His gut clenched with the memory.

  At least someone had packed his gear. He’d found it deposited in his train compartment when the militia dropped him, Deke, Kalen, and Jace off at the train station.

  Wyatt had received an extra-special escort by a quiet and large FSB agent to his train car. A glance out the window revealed said agent wasn’t taking chances on his escape.

  “Sorry about that,” Wyatt said. “I don’t know why they felt the need to detain you guys too.”

  Deke opened his duffel bag, also packed by someone on the team, and retrieved his headphones. He glanced at Wyatt. “I got your back, Guns. But next time you suggest a goodwill trip to Russia, I’m out.” He settled the headphones around his neck. “And I don’t understand why we couldn’t fly of out Khabarovsk to Seattle.”

  “We have some sort of meet and greet in Vladivostok the consulate set up,” Wyatt said, scrolling through his phone, which he’d found in his duffel bag. No calls from York or his sister.

  Or Coco. Not that he expected one, but…

  Please let her be okay.

  He’d spent the night replaying his conversation with the FSB agent—Roman?—in his head. I’ll keep her safe.

  Yeah, maybe.

  The train jerked, then eased forward. Wyatt braced his hand on the wall, still staring out the window.

  I know we have something. We always have, and I…I want you to come to America. With me. I want us to be together. Be happy.

  He should just sit down, let the train take him away from this nightmare. Leave the shards of his broken heart in his destroyed hotel room.

  Deke leaned against the back wall, legs on the sofa, arms folded, eyes closed. The guy could sleep anywhere—he’d snored himself into REM last night on a chipped wooden bench. Jace and Kalen had been in the cell next door, and Jace had shouted a couple times, not nicely.

  Jace wouldn’t even talk to Wyatt as they drove to the train station.

  Yeah, this would be a fun trip home.

  Except maybe he shouldn’t go home. Maybe—

  You should just forget about me.

  That would be like forgetting how to breathe.

  Wyatt pressed his hand to his chest and sat on the bench seat. Stretched out and closed his eyes, trying to ignore the deep ache in his hips. Oh, Russia was so very fun.

  The train bore a rhythm that reminded him very much of the countless bus rides, early in the morning or late at night. The rides he’d learned to sleep through, exhaustion embedded in his bones. Now, he lay on his back, forcing himself to stop thinking about the fact he’d failed.

  Oh, he’d failed.

  Failed to bring Coco home. Again.

  Please don’t go.

  His voice tugged him back through time to that moment by the elevator in Moscow when he’d seen the rest of his life, everything he wanted, right there within his grasp.

  A pro career doing what he loved. Travel. Money. And…Coco.

  He couldn’t believe it when he’d opened the door and saw her standing there in the Russian hotel hallway, as if she’d simply materialized.

>   She looked good. The kind of good that stopped his heart, stole his breath, shut out the rest of the world. She’d cut her red hair short, and her gray-green eyes wore just enough surprise, just enough fear for him to see the girl he’d wanted to protect back at the ranch.

  Except, they weren’t back at the ranch where Ford and the rest of his nosy brothers could interfere with his life.

  Just him and Coco, and there was no way, no how he was going to let her walk out of his life again.

  Please.

  Of course, he’d said none of that. Just an astonished, “Coco?”

  What he should have said, if all of his brain had been working, was, I’m sorry. I missed you. I love you.

  Yes, even that.

  He didn’t know when he’d started loving Coco Stanley, but he hadn’t realized how he’d kept it bottled inside.

  Seeing her standing there…it all rushed over him in a cascade that could probably bring him to his knees.

  She turned and practically sprinted toward the elevator.

  What—wait! So, he shouted at her. Shouted. “Stop!” But he’d never been good at taming his emotions, unless he locked them away, like he did in a game, so he sprinted down the hall after her.

  Slammed his hand against the wall to try and stop her from hitting the button. And when it didn’t work, he’d grabbed her, spinning her around.

  She had her eyes closed. As if he might be scaring her.

  That slowed him down to a near halt.

  He hadn’t meant to be rough with her. Suddenly she felt so fragile, so breakable under his grip, it scared him a little.

  But for some reason he said, stupidly, “What are you doing here?”

  Which really meant You look amazing—but emerged as cold and maybe even bullying.

  She pushed him away, fire in those beautiful eyes. “I don’t know!”

  She was angry with him.

  Maybe he should have expected that. He’d barely spoken to her the last time he’d seen her. The commotion of the visit, the fact that the team had sent a photographer out to take shots—it all went straight to his thick, arrogant head.