She opened another.
* * *
Morpheus. When can we meet? How about Boylston Street? I’ll run by you. Wearing red, number 249.
Tammer21
* * *
The ISP address posted to a server in Rhode Island. So, apparently Gustov was a player of some sort.
Had a number of dates on the Eastern seaboard. She’d ask York about it later. Or maybe RJ could dig deeper with her CIA access.
She closed the files, reset her password, and logged out.
The coffee was still beckoning her so she headed into the café. The barista was just wrestling in a stuffed animal display. A teddy bear fell off. Coco picked it up and helped the woman bring it inside.
“We close at 10:00 p.m. You just made it,” the barista said, a woman with a nose piercing and green hair, kind eyes. “What can I get you?”
Coco ordered a decaf chocolate mocha, then reached for her money. Rubles. “Sorry. Do you have an ATM around here?”
“No problem. It’s down the hallway toward the emergency room entrance, in a little alcove by a side door.”
“Thanks.” Coco quick-walked down the hall, pulling out her credit card.
The ATM was parked in an indent off an alcove for taxis and other pickups. The area was dark, the door light probably activated by movement. She stepped into the privacy of the alcove and inserted her card.
The door opened behind her, the spill of fresh night air finding her skin. She didn’t get a look at who had exited or entered.
In a moment, the machine was spitting out money. She took it, shoved it into her wallet, and grabbed her card.
The hand came around her so fast she didn’t have time to scream. And couldn’t, really, not with the grip clamping a cloth over her nose and mouth, his other arm pulling her against a hard, unyielding male body.
The chemical smells of the cloth turned her instantly woozy, and overwhelming toxins seeped into her brain, shunting her struggle.
No—help!
The man picked her up, off her feet, and dragged her outside, into the darkness of the pickup spot.
The light didn’t switch on.
She tried to kick, her mind fracturing, her world spinning as she flailed against him. She formed a scream, but he had a death grip on her mouth, digging her lips into her teeth. She’d gone light-headed, her limbs turning to rubber.
God—help! The cry lifted inside, a strange, unused reflex, but she doubled down. Help me! Help!
Her abductor dragged her into the darkness of the parking lot, avoiding the streetlights that pooled on the blackened pavement, along a row of bushy cedars.
Oh, no, she was not going to get raped out here in the parking lot, turned helpless by some date-rape drug.
But he didn’t throw her down onto the grass. Instead, he backed her up to a sedan, the bumper hitting the back of her legs. Then he took his hand off her mouth.
She took the opportunity to pull a clear breath. To scream. Or maybe it was just in her head because the darkness had slunk in around the edges.
He picked her up and dumped her into the trunk of the sedan.
“No!”
She threw her hands up, but couldn’t stop the hatch from closing around her and locking her in darkness.
“No!” She kicked against the coffin, then turned and pushed on the seat. But he must have braced the back seat with something because it wouldn’t move.
The darkness was still edging in. No. She gulped, trying to clear her lungs, but as the car fired up and began to back out of the lot, she lost her grip on herself.
If she ever wanted Wyatt to show up, it was now.
With a frustrated scream, she fell into the engulfing darkness.
12
At least he’d finally disentangled himself from the crazy Lee Child novel.
Wyatt glanced up at Tate’s buddy Swamp, dressed in the black-and-white attire of a private security agent, and tried to wrap his brain around what had gone down in the Executive Suite of the Farimont hotel.
“So you’re the brother Tate keeps bragging about,” Swamp said, pulling away from the curb in the SUV.
“Don’t believe everything you hear,” Wyatt said.
“He’s my boss. I have to believe him,” Swamp said, grinning. “Where to?”
“Children’s Hospital.”
Wyatt leaned his head back, scrolling back over the past hour since he’d met RJ and York in the lobby.
RJ had looked at him with a strange mix of compassion and fury as she rose from one of the silver couches by the fire.
RJ met his eyes. “You okay?”
He’d stared at her, trying to puzzle together exactly what she might be referring to. He was still limping, so, “Just a little stiff from practice.”
York had his hand laced into RJ’s, and Wyatt’s gaze only briefly fell on it.
He decided then that once they got clear of all this, he’d have a short but direct heart-to-heart with his sister about the things he’d seen York do in Russia. Wyatt was pretty sure he didn’t want his kid sister hanging around a guy who knew how to kill people with his bare hands, accident or not.
She raised an eyebrow, glanced at York, then back to Wyatt. “Um, no, I was referring to your 100-yard dash out of the hospital.”
Oh. “Uh. That was…well…”
“I know Mikka is yours.”
Wyatt’s mouth lifted on one side. “I only just found out.”
“I know. York told me.”
Wyatt looked at him, not warmly. “He’s full of all sorts of information.”
“And he’s an idiot,” York said.
Wyatt glared at him, but, “Yeah, I am. And I shouldn’t have left. I over-practiced and I’m out for tomorrow’s exhibition.” Not to mention the hurt he left in his wake. But, “Does Ma know?”
RJ lifted a shoulder. “He looks like you, and she’s not blind, so…”
Perfect.
“Listen, I know I blew it. But I love Coco—and Mikka—and as soon as we’re done here, I’m going to go back to the hospital and beg her forgiveness and ask her to marry me.”
He dug into his pocket and produced the jump drive. “I should have given this to you at the hospital.” He handed her the jump drive. “Coco said that this has all the emails, with the ISP information proving that your email account was hacked, York. And it proves that you were set up, RJ.”
She took it. “Thanks.”
“Wyatt.”
The voice of his brother turned him and he spotted Tate walking over from the elevator bank, holding the hand of his girlfriend, Gloria Jackson. She was way too good for Tate, cute and blonde, a Nashville country star to Tate’s backwoods, rough-edged, tough-guy demeanor. Glo seemed to have spiffed him up, however. Tate wore suit pants, a white dress shirt open at the neck, and a jacket, his brown hair cut neat and tight, and no beard, as if he might be respectable.
Huh. “Bro,” Wyatt said and met Tate in a hug. “Glo.” He hugged her too. “What are you guys doing here? I thought you were on tour with NBR-X.”
“We had a few days off, and Senator Jackson has a rally tomorrow morning. I convinced RJ that the senator could probably clear her name, given her DOD connections—”
“And he has big news,” RJ said.
Tate glanced at her, and a rare smile lit up his face.
In fact, so rare it startled Wyatt. Tate had a dark and brutal past, so to see him transformed…
No. To see him at peace. Tate looked at Glo and grinned, cupping his other hand over hers. “Yeah, we do. But let’s go up to the suite. I’d like a sit-rep.”
Wyatt glanced at his watch. After 9:00 p.m. But Coco wouldn’t be asleep yet—not with jet lag coursing through her body. “Let’s hurry. I need to get back to the hospital.”
“What?” Tate’s eyebrows rose. “Are you sick?”
RJ looped her arm into Wyatt’s. “Oh, you two need to catch up.” She pulled him toward the elevator. “So much gossip, so little time.�
�
“Nice, RJ.”
Tate was eying York. “And you are?”
“York,” he said quietly and held out his hand.
Tate took it. “Nice to finally meet you.”
No smile passed between them, however, and Wyatt wondered if Tate might be picking up the same vibe he had. A danger radiated off York, the way he looked at someone with an almost suspicious look, his gaze a little unforgiving.
Trouble with a capital T. Or maybe a capital Y.
Definitely not the kind of guy their sister needed in her life.
“Thanks for getting RJ out of Russia,” Tate said. “But what are you doing here?”
Oh boy.
“Upstairs,” Wyatt said.
They got onto the elevator and took it up to the top floor, the executive suite. A couple of suits stood outside the double doors, and Tate nodded to them as he let them inside.
The view overlooked Elliot Bay, the shiny lights of the city reflecting off the black waters undulating with streaks of red, orange, blue, and yellow. The massive Ferris wheel glowed, a circle of light against the dark sky.
A plate of cheeses and crackers and an open bottle of red wine sat on the table.
“Celebrating?” Wyatt said as he went to stand by the window.
But before Tate could answer, the double doors to the adjoining room opened, and a woman in her late fifties walked through. She wore her amber red hair up, a loose white silk shirt, and white dress pants. Regal, composed, and as her gaze latched on Wyatt, a smile tweaked up her face. “Wyatt Marshall. Goalie for the Blue Ox. In my suite. I’m having a fan moment.”
He stared at her, not sure. Um, “Senator Jackson.”
“Call me Reba.” She walked over to him and extended her hand. “My husband is a huge Blue Ox fan, so…naturally, I had to start following them too. You had an amazing season—so sorry about the shootout against the Capitals. That was amazing goal tending.”
The room had gone quiet around him. “Thank you, ma’am—”
“Reba.”
“Reba.”
She patted his arm. “By the way, since Tate is going to be my son-in-law, I’m expecting rinkside tickets.”
Wyatt looked at Tate, who lifted his shoulder. He glanced at Glo, who held up her left hand. Yowza.
He needed to up his game if he wanted to propose to Coco. Shoot.
“Congrats, bro,” Wyatt said.
“Oh, I’m sorry—I thought he’d told you,” Reba said.
“It’s fine, ma’am,” Tate said.
She patted Tate’s arm as she walked past him but didn’t correct him, then headed over to RJ. “And this must be Ruby Jane, the international assassin?”
All the air left the room, and Wyatt had the crazy, inexplicable urge to grab his sister and run.
Tate might have been reading his mind because he gave a little shake of his head.
RJ had paled.
Then York spoke up. “Actually, ma’am, that’s incorrect—”
“Oh, I know. I’m not unaware of the situation. The fact that RJ sought out embassy help and her claims of being set up—”
“I was set up!” RJ said, but York pressed a hand to her arm.
“I know that too,” Reba said as she walked over to the table and picked up the wine bottle. “Boris reached out to me through back channels and told me what happened.”
Boris? As in Coco’s father?
Reba poured herself a glass of wine. “But, according to the CIA, you’re still on the hook.”
“Except, we have evidence that she was set up,” Tate said. “Copies of the emails, and proof of tampering with York’s email account—”
Reba held up her hand, taking a sip of wine.
Tate glanced at Wyatt, his mouth a grim line.
“Do you have it with you?” Reba asked.
“I have it,” RJ said and pulled out the jump drive.
Reba held out her hand, and RJ handed it over. “Do you…believe me?”
A beat, then, “Of course I do. And don’t worry. Everything will get straightened out.”
RJ let out her breath but looked at York. “We have one more problem.”
Reba set down the wine on the table.
“My boss, Sophia Randall, was found dead in the Renaissance Hotel. By…me.”
“And me,” York said.
Reba folded her arms. “Oh my.”
“My mother was there too,” RJ said.
“What?” Tate said.
Wyatt echoed him. “When?”
“This morning—I got a text from York saying to meet him at the hotel. And when I did—I found her body on the bed. Her throat had been slit.”
Wyatt looked at York. Only the fact that he knew York had been on the plane with Sarai and Mikka kept him from advancing on him.
Not Tate. “What the—what’s going on?”
York took a breath but didn’t move.
“Hold up, Tate. He didn’t do it,” Wyatt said. “He wasn’t even here.”
Tate stopped and looked at Wyatt. “How do you know?”
“He was on a plane with…with my son.” Not exactly how he wanted to share that epic information, but—
“You have a son?” Tate said in the tone Wyatt had expected. “Since when?”
“I’ll explain later. But he’s sick and he needed a medical escort from Russia, so York and this American doc brought him over.”
“From Russia? And where were you?” Tate asked.
“I was with Coco. On a cargo plane. Long story.”
“Shorten it for the crowd,” Tate said. “So…you found Coco.”
He nodded. “But not before I was attacked in my hotel room by the man we think is trying to kill RJ.”
“Damien Gustov,” York said. “He’s a known associate of the Bratva, and we think he’s the one who tried to kill General Stanislov. And the one who shot Coco last month.”
“Who is Coco?” Reba asked.
“Our sister,” RJ said.
“Foster sister,” Tate amended. “She came to live with us when her mother died.”
“She returned to Russia five years ago because…well, she was pregnant. And her father is…” Wyatt blew out a breath. “Her father is Boris Stanislov.”
Reba sat and reached for her glass. “The plot thickens.”
“She was sent to America to hide from Boris’s opposition and is still in hiding.”
“And your son? He’s been in hiding too?”
“Yes. In a way.”
She frowned, but in truth, she didn’t need to know the details.
“We recently found out that he might be sick. He’s at Seattle Children’s being tested.”
“I’m sorry,” Reba said, and gave him a compassionate smile. “I’m familiar with the stress of having a sick child.”
There was something honest about her that he could like.
“So, you’re saying that Coco Stanislova is here, in America. And the man who attacked you? Where is he?”
“We think he’s here too and probably responsible for Randall’s death. In fact, and this is just a guess, but there is talk of a rogue faction inside the CIA who wants to take down Boris and his progressive views and institute Arkady Petrov.”
“He’s former military. Even more extreme left—a proponent of ultra-socialist ideals,” Reba said. “I know of him and the rumors. And the fact that he too might be aligned with the Bratva.” She got up, picking up her wine. “So, you think this killer is in America, probably to find your sister and tie up that loose end. Maybe even to get ahold of Coco, right?”
“Because if he has Coco, then he can get to Boris,” Tate said. “It’s what I’d do.”
“Me too,” York said.
Wyatt looked at the two. He simply didn’t think like this. Assassinations and kidnapping and conspiracies…
All he had to do was stop a shot on goal now and then.
“Where is Coco right now?” Reba asked.
“At the hospita
l,” Wyatt said. “Where I should be.” He turned to the senator. “It was nice to meet you, Sen—Reba.” Wyatt reached out to shake her hand again.
She held it a moment. “Wyatt, I hate to ask this, but…since you’re in town, would you be willing to show up at the rally tomorrow? Maybe give an endorsement?”
He looked at her, a little flummoxed.
She dropped her hand. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have assumed—”
“Yes,” Wyatt said. “It’s the least I can do.”
“Thank you.” She glanced at Tate. “Look into the situation with Randall. We may need to call the Renaissance Hotel and see what you can find out. We need to put a lid on this ASAP. The last thing I need is some reporter making the connection between you and Gloria and your sister and this entire mess.”
The room went quiet.
“Ruby Jane, I’d appreciate it if you could stay and give an official statement about the events in Russia.”
“Yes, Senator.”
“I’m staying with her,” York said.
“Of course you are,” Reba said. She headed back to her suite, passing by her daughter. “This is quite the family you’ve chosen. I hope my campaign can survive them.”
Wyatt didn’t know what to say.
The door behind her closed.
“So, that’s the senator,” Tate said.
“Her bark is worse than her bite,” Glo added.
“I don’t care how loud she barks if she can clear RJ,” York said.
“Engaged, huh?” Wyatt said to Tate.
“And you’re a dad.” Tate folded his hands over his chest. “And you—” He turned to RJ. “You brought Ma to a crime scene?”
“You forgot to mention that your mother nearly shot me,” York said.
Wyatt stared at him. “Really?”
“Yep,” York said.
Wyatt couldn’t help a grin. He met Tate’s.
“This family should come with a warning label,” York said, shaking his head.
Wyatt headed for the door, but stopped in front of Glo. “Congratulations.”
She lifted herself up on her tiptoes and kissed him on the cheek. “I’ll be praying for your son.”
Wyatt Page 23
