Wyatt

by Susan May Warren

  He rolled off her onto his back, writhing.

  “Wyatt!”

  “Stay there!” York barked at her as he jumped on Natalya.

  She couldn’t watch. Because she’d seen him with the woman yesterday, and…oh, was this her life now? She couldn’t trust anyone she met or knew? Coco turned and brought Mikka close, putting her hands over his ears. “Close your eyes, Mikka.”

  She, too, closed her eyes. Until a shot went off again, and she couldn’t stop herself from looking up.

  York bled from his shoulder on the ground, and Natalya was on her feet, searching, probably for them. “Katya, this doesn’t have to end badly.”

  Really? Felt like it.

  York wasn’t done. He lunged at Natalya, hooked her around her knees, and she went down, slamming hard into the dirt.

  Just like that, she stopped moving.

  Silence. The sulphuric smell of gun powder stirred the air, mixed with the metallic scent of blood in dirt.

  York scrambled up next to Natalya. She lay face down, blood pooling beneath her head. He pressed his fingers to her neck, then rolled her over.

  “She’s still alive, but her head hit the brick when she fell. It’s bad.”

  The brick she’d used to clobber Wyatt, who also lay like the dead in the street.

  As if reading her mind, York scrambled over to Wyatt.

  She followed, picking up Mikka. “Is he—”

  “No. He’s just got a doozy of a goose egg and probably a concussion.” He rubbed his knuckles into Wyatt’s sternum. “Wyatt. Come back to us.”

  She could have wept when he stirred. Setting Mikka down, she knelt beside Wyatt. His eyes fluttered.

  “We need ice or a cold pack,” she said.

  “We need to get out of here,” York replied. He glanced at Natalya. “Why did she want the jump drive?”

  Coco had nothing. Wyatt stirred to life, and she ached for him as he woke wincing.

  “Shh, you’re okay,” she said.

  His eyes found hers.

  And he most definitely wasn’t okay. “Coco—oh—I thought—”

  Then he rolled over and retched, mostly bile, but she had to look away.

  He sat back, wiped his mouth.

  She reached out for him, but he pushed her hands off him. “I’m fine.” He looked at her again. “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah.”

  She glanced at Natalya. Her eyes were rolled back into her head. “York…uh—I think she’s dead.”

  Wyatt’s eyes widened. “York?”

  “We need to get off the street,” York said. “Those shots will bring militia. And when they arrive and find Natalya…”

  Coco nodded and got up, reaching under Wyatt’s arm to help him, York on the other side.

  Wyatt found his feet, obviously still woozy. He looked at York. “Huh,” he said, and she had a feeling he still hadn’t found himself.

  “C’mon, buddy. You’re a long way from home.” York put Wyatt’s arm over his shoulder, and Wyatt let him, a little evidence of his wound. He held his hand to his head over the growing bump.

  York picked up Mikka’s bag, then Wyatt’s and put them over his shoulder.

  Coco picked up her backpack and Mikka. Didn’t look at Natalya sprawled in the road.

  She put her hand over his eyes.

  She couldn’t just leave her in the road—

  “Oy! What happened?” The voice turned her, and Lana was running down the road after them, just behind their security man.

  “It’s a terrible story, but—she fell and hit her head.” York, the half-truth spilling out of his mouth in a matter-of-fact tone.

  Coco was a little shaken at how easily he let that information spiral out. And how easily he’d also left behind the woman at the train station.

  She knew him from her friend Tasha, who had dated him before her death. Knew he’d been a Marine working at the embassy. Knew he’d worked in some covert position in the CIA.

  Knew that something terrible had happened to make him resign.

  Now, a darkness spread through her gut, into her bones as he said, “Call the morgue. They can pick her up.”

  Like she was refuse.

  But Natalya had been…well, sort of her friend.

  Maybe.

  “Let’s go,” York said and turned down the street.

  Mikka was trying to wiggle out of her grip, so Coco turned to Lana. “I’m so sorry—we have to catch the train.”

  “Go,” Lana said and kissed Mikka once more. Coco couldn’t look at Natalya’s body as the security guard put his jacket over her.

  She followed York, hustling to catch up.

  When they rounded the corner, back onto the street, she let Mikka down and took his hand. He looked up at her, his smile gone. “It’s going to be okay,” she said, squeezing his hand, trying to believe it. “We’re just going on a little trip.”

  After her conversation with York last night, she’d put together a few details. Like once she got Mikka to Sarai, got him checked out, she’d get him an American passport. Or at least a birth certificate. As her child, he could travel into the United States under her documents.

  She’d go to America. Hide in Kansas or somewhere.

  If Mikka was sick, she’d tap into her father’s vast wealth and get him the best medical care on the planet.

  And then Wyatt had to walk back into the picture. He’d stopped leaning on York and now simply walked, albeit slowly, his hand pressed to his head.

  She caught up to him. “How did you find me?” Oh no, that wasn’t exactly the first thing she wanted to say to him.

  He glanced at her, his mouth tight. “The FSB. Although after what just happened, I’m not sure who is lying to me.”

  Oh, and that hurt. But why would—

  “Roman.”

  Recognition of the name flickered in his eyes.

  “He told you where I was? How did you—”

  “He questioned me down at FSB central, thanks. After someone broke into my hotel room and tried to beat the snot out of me while stealing the jump drive you gave me.”

  And that very definitely sounded like an accusation.

  “Sorry—”

  He blinked. “I’m not blaming you. I’m just saying—it’s gone, and I don’t have the first clue what is going on, and maybe I should have just…stayed on the train to Vladivostok.”

  Her mouth tightened. Yeah, maybe.

  Especially when his gaze fell to Mikka walking beside her. It held a touch of sadness, a little anger, maybe. “He is your son, right?”

  Oh. She nodded. And right now…she should, she could—

  He looked at York and suddenly she got it.

  Wyatt thought the child was York’s.

  Oh. Boy. He’d clearly been hit in the head a few too many times, because he had to be very, very bad at math.

  Or perhaps not, because one good look in the mirror screamed the truth. Her son looked exactly like his father.

  They had the same dimple, the same eyes, the same hair…shoot, even the same gait.

  Clearly, Wyatt wanted nothing to do with the little boy.

  Her heart broke all over again.

  “I’m sorry I told Nat where you were. I thought…well, I thought you were in trouble. Turns out I was the one in trouble.” He gave a wretched laugh and shook his head. “I’m sorry I didn’t listen to you. You’re right. I should have just gone home. I don’t know you at all.”

  She dropped back and tried not to cry.

  They reached the station, and York led them inside to a bench. “Stay here. I’m going to get us tickets. I’m sure there’s a day train leaving soon.”

  She sank down on the bench beside Wyatt, who leaned forward, his head in his hands. She drew Mikka onto her lap.

  “Where are we going, Mama?” Mikka asked, in Russian.

  “We’re going to see Mama’s friend. She wants to meet you.” She pressed a kiss to his cheek. He giggled and wiped it off.

>   Wyatt’s gaze turned to them. He frowned. Met Coco’s eyes.

  Yes, Wyatt, he’s yours.

  But she didn’t say that. Not here, not now.

  Maybe, frankly, not ever.

  York came back. “We’re in luck. The Trans-Siberian passes through here in about an hour. We’ll take that to Khabarovsk.”

  “Good,” Wyatt said. “The sooner I can get out of here, the better.”

  Coco looked away and determined not to cry.

  7

  He’d really been walloped. Because Wyatt couldn’t get past the idea that he was missing something, that all the pieces weren’t puzzling together.

  Coco wouldn’t look at him. Instead, she had pulled her little boy onto her lap, reading him a book, her black hair—he still couldn’t quite get used to that—tucked behind one ear, her voice in low Russian tones.

  She was a good mother—he could see that much. And Mikka was cute. He’d introduced himself when they reached the private train compartment, holding out his hand to Wyatt, grinning.

  Wyatt kept looking at York, trying to find the resemblance. York was blond, square-jawed, his gaze serious as he leaned back on the bench beside Coco, his arms folded as he stared out the window.

  Thinking.

  Probably about how colossally Wyatt had messed up.

  Wyatt leaned his head back on the seat, and Coco looked up. “Don’t go to sleep.”

  “Yeah. I got it.” Not like he could sleep—his head wanted to leave his body with the pounding of his headache. And the residue of Coco’s scream.

  Not to mention his stinging words that he very much wanted to take back—The sooner I can get out of here, the better.

  He hadn’t meant that. Exactly.

  Because pitiful him, now that he was with her again, the thought of leaving her made him want to curl into a ball and surrender to the pain.

  Except…so much for hoping that she was pining for him. Clearly. Not.

  He looked again at York. “You’re the guy who got my sister out of Russia.”

  York said nothing. Finally, “How is she?”

  “Fine. Back at the ranch, hiding. She’ll freak out when she finds out that some guy stole the information that will clear her.”

  “Describe him.”

  “Blond. A wicked scar across his jaw, clubbed ears.”

  York glanced at Coco. “Gustov.”

  “The assassin.”

  York nodded. “Which means he knows for sure that Coco and RJ are onto him. Perfect.”

  “Hey. It’s not like I invited him into my hotel room to watch the game, have a couple beers. He tore it apart, attacked me, and tried to kill me, thanks.”

  York glanced at his head. “Apparently, that’s a trend.”

  Wyatt gave him a look. “How was I supposed to know that she was some kind of—of—who was she?”

  “She worked for my father,” Coco said, pulling a stuffed lion out of Mikka’s bag and handed it to him. “She was head of his security.”

  “Your father. You mean General Boris Stanislov?”

  Silence pulsed between them.

  Finally, “You should have said something.”

  “I was in America to hide. It’s not something I wanted broadcast to the world.”

  “I wasn’t the world. I was the guy who…” He glanced then at York and shut down the rest of his words. “I cared about you.”

  “I know.” Her mouth tightened. “But my mother asked me not to, so…and I had my reasons.”

  “I’ll bet you did. As it turns out, you’re very good at keeping secrets.”

  If his head hadn’t been throbbing before, it would have split open with her stinging glare.

  Mikka slid off the bench and climbed over to sit next to Wyatt. Coco started to reach for him, but Wyatt held up his hand.

  He was just a kid. And a tough one at that. He spotted a bruise on his jaw, where he must have fallen. Wyatt held out his hand, and Mikka grabbed it to pull himself onto the bench.

  He sat beside Wyatt, playing with the lion’s long tail.

  Wyatt didn’t know why, but the sudden injustice of it all settled into his bones. Coco had a child. With York—or maybe not York, but still, this jerk was in her life—their lives—and Wyatt wasn’t and…nope, it wasn’t fair.

  Because when he gave her his heart, and his body, he’d given it all away.

  Coco was his girl.

  Had been his girl.

  Wyatt closed his eyes against the burn in his throat, his eyes.

  “Don’t sleep.”

  “I’m not sleeping!”

  He opened his eyes, aware that he’d raised his voice. Mikka was watching him with a wide-eyed gaze. “Sorry, kiddo. I’m just…tired.”

  “He doesn’t understand you,” Coco said.

  He looked at her. “I know. I just… He’s a cute kid, Coco. I’m happy for you.” Sorta.

  Yes. But…he also wanted to weep.

  York was back to looking out the window. “Why would your father send Natalya to get the jump drive? How would she even know about it?”

  “Why did you think she was here to kill me? Maybe she came to make sure that Mikka was safe.”

  “She had a gun on him.”

  “Yeah. But…her job is to protect me.”

  “Maybe she was trying to protect her from you,” Wyatt said, not sure why, but frankly, he didn’t trust this guy.

  Not only did the guy—well, maybe he didn’t exactly murder Nat, but he would have, Wyatt knew it in his gut. And there was a cool presence about him that may work for Jack Reacher, but Wyatt still didn’t trust him.

  Especially since he seemed to be cozying up to Coco when he was supposed to be…oh, RJ. “How, exactly, were you involved in the assassination attempt and the framing of my sister?”

  York looked at him, his expression unmoving. “I wasn’t. I saw she was in trouble and jumped in.”

  “What are you getting at, Wyatt?” Coco asked.

  “I’m just saying, this guy has secrets written all over him. What if Nat knew that he was dangerous—”

  “I am dangerous. But not to Kat. Or RJ. Or you, although I’m rethinking that.”

  “Wyatt, he’s right. York is on our side. He saved my life—”

  “I know, I was there.” Although he’d had a hand in that, hadn’t he?

  “No. Yesterday. One of Gustov’s associates tried to kill me and…” She swallowed. “He…um…”

  Wyatt just stared at York. “You killed him.”

  “Her,” he said. His chest rose and fell. “It was an accident.”

  “Sure it was.”

  Coco looked at Mikka, who was sitting back in the corner of the bench, winding the lion’s tail around his arm. She stood up and spoke to him in Russian, and he slid off the bench. “We’re going to find something to eat, although I’ve lost my appetite. It’s a good thing Mikka doesn’t know English or I’d be wringing both of your necks. No more talk about murder, assassination attempts, or anything else scary around my son.”

  Wyatt ran a hand behind his neck.

  York looked out the window.

  She slid the door closed behind her.

  Wyatt couldn’t take it. “Are you his father?”

  A beat, and York just stared at him, his mouth opening. Then he closed it. “No, I’m not.”

  The breath he’d been holding released. “Do you know who is?”

  Slowly, York shook his head. Kept shaking it. Then rolled his eyes and looked again out the window.

  “What’s that for?”

  “You just… Nothing.”

  “I don’t get you, York. I know something happened between you and RJ. I’m not stupid. But—what, you’re with Coco?”

  “Are you kidding me right now?” York rounded on him. “Seriously?”

  Wyatt recoiled. “What—?”

  “I’m not with Kat! I’m…with no one.” He shook his head. “Don’t be an idiot.”

  He’d let that pass. “Th
en what are you doing here?”

  York pinched his finger and thumb against the bridge of his nose. “I’m here because I was tracking down Gustov when I got jumped. While I was figuring my way out of that, I realized that Kat might be in danger, so when she texted me that she was headed to Belogorsk—and then disappearing after that—I knew I had to get to her.”

  There was too much for Wyatt to unpack, so he picked the one that mattered most. “Disappearing?”

  “That’s what she said.”

  “Was she taking Mikka with her?”

  “No. My guess is that she went to say goodbye.”

  And so much of this wasn’t making sense, but, “Why would she say goodbye to…I don’t—”

  “Mikka doesn’t live with her. To keep him safe, she did the same thing her father did to her—made Mikka live away from her.”

  “Why is Mikka in danger?”

  “Because this is Russia, not America. If someone found out Mikka’s identity, they could take him and use him to leverage the general.”

  Oh.

  “But…why didn’t she just move to America?”

  York sighed. “I don’t know.”

  Wyatt did. “He lives with his father, doesn’t he? And he won’t let him leave.” It was a guess, but if Wyatt had a son like Mikka, he wouldn’t let him out of his sight.

  York blinked. “No. He lives—it’s an orphanage.”

  “An orphanage. Is his father dead?”

  “I don’t think so. At least… Not. Yet.”

  “So, let me get this straight. She lives in Moscow, and her kid lives in the middle of Siberia?”

  York raised his eyebrows, touched his nose again.

  Huh.

  “So, she was just going to say goodbye to him? Leave him…here? While she went…where?”

  York lifted a shoulder.

  But yeah, it fit.

  Because that was Coco. Leaving people behind without a word. Except, “But now, she has him. Where are you going?”

  “She thinks he might be sick, so she’s bringing him to a doctor friend in Khabarovsk. If she needs to, she’ll take him to America.”

  Right. “What kind of sick?”

  “Leukemia.”

  “Oh, geez. Her mother died of leukemia.” He leaned his head back against the seat, closed his eyes.

  “Don’t—”

  “Stop.”

  “That was a pretty good crack.”