Prologue
Aw, York just knew this would happen.
Knew he should never have come home. Knew that if he set foot back in America, he’d end up in the back seat of a covert CIA SUV, winding through the back hills of Washington State with a guy who had probably figured out that York knew his secrets.
A guy who wasn’t going to slow down to question him, but rather was simply searching for a good place to dump a body.
York’s body.
Ex-CIA agent York Newgate hadn’t imagined exactly this scenario—the one where he left behind the woman he loved, where he never really got to say goodbye, where somehow the happy ending he’d grasped for a wonderful, disbelieving second slipped through his fingers—but he had known, without a doubt, that the CIA would find him.
After all, he knew their tricks.
Knew they were tenacious. And that the driver, former officer Alan Martin, dressed in a suit, with close-clipped dark hair and a pair of aviator glasses, had no intention of “questioning him down at headquarters.”
Liars, all of them.
And York had been one of the very best.
Maybe he deserved this.
“So, taking the shortcut back to DC?” he said now, his knees jammed into the passenger seat in front of him.
Martin glanced at him over his shoulder, not even allowing a smirk at York’s attempt to point out the obvious—they were traveling down a remote highway in the middle of the Okanogan-Wenatchee National Forest.
“I saw a great hike to Bridal Falls a couple miles back. Maybe we should stretch our legs?” York said.
No response.
They’d flex-cuffed his hands behind him, but he could get out of that easily enough. He just needed them to slow down. Last thing he wanted was to take a header off the side of the road, end up in a metal crumble at the bottom of the mountain.
But maybe that would be better than what Martin had planned for him.
York should have put up a bigger fuss at the hospital, but frankly, he’d been so startled by the sight of Martin, a fellow CIA contact, showing up to arrest him, he’d simply conceded.
And of course, RJ’s family was there, with all her protective brothers who formed a sort of wall around her. The last thing he wanted was a reason for them to dislike him more.
So he’d gone with Martin, quietly. Nothing to see here, folks.
The minute Martin and the other thug he’d brought for backup had locked York in the back seat, the churning in his gut started.
He looked out the window at the thick tangle of pine and underbrush. The sun had dropped behind the mountain, leaving long, jagged shadows along the road.
Yep, they were looking for a place to end him and make him disappear.
Forever.
Sorry, RJ.
The other goon hadn’t spoken, not once, but York bet if he did, he might find a Russian accent emerging from his mouth. The man had “Russian-street-fighter-named-Igor” written all over his scarred mug.
Wow, he’d been all kinds of stupid when he didn’t send Martin an uppercut, kick Russian Thug, grab RJ’s hand, and run for the hills.
“So, I’m assuming you haven’t booked us a cute little Airbnb in the woods?”
“Enough, York,” Martin snapped.
“We’re not on a CIA holiday at all, are we? This is some off-the-books field trip.”
Martin’s jaw tightened.
Yes, that made sense. After all, Martin had been working off the books for some time now. Ever since—
Martin slammed on the brakes as he came around the turn.
York barely had time to catch himself on the seat, his hands already loose in the cuffs.
Martin swerved the car into a scenic overlook, the first deserted pull-off they’d come to.
Oh good, now came the fun part.
Martin got out, walked around the car, and opened the passenger door. “Get out.”
Right. York noticed Igor got out too. So maybe this was more of a tussle than an execution.
York kept his hands behind him, no need to give away the fact that in about two-point-three seconds, as soon as Martin took a step closer, he was going to slap away Martin’s gun, grab his wrist, jerk him forward, and land his knee in his gut a second before he slammed the palm of his hand into Martin’s face, hopefully breaking his nose.
Then he’d round on Igor and redirect the fist headed toward York’s face, roll, and cut off his breathing with a side-handed hit to his neck. Maybe lock Igor’s arm into an arm bar and shove him into the ground before Igor had a chance to figure out what was happening.
York would grab the keys from a bleeding Martin, get in the car, and return to RJ and their happy ending.
But none of that went down quite like he hoped because just as Martin made to grab York by the lapel to haul him to the edge of the overlook, a voice emerged from the trail nearby.
“Hey! Can you help me?”
Oh no. York wanted to turn to the kid—maybe early twenties and wearing an Oregon Ducks football jersey—and shout, Run!
He wasn’t fast enough. Ducks spotted Martin’s gun and froze.
Igor grabbed the kid.
And the what-ifs flashed through York—grab the gun, turn it on Martin—but right then Martin shoved it against York’s head. “Good try. Hands up, York.”
York raised his uncuffed hands. Aw— “Let him go. He’s just a kid.”
Igor pushed the kid against the hood of the car. A long metal cross hung down from a leather lanyard around his neck. And the kid must have played football because he had the name Mack on the back of his jersey. He wasn’t too keen on Igor holding him down either.
“Let me up!”
“Martin—he’s not a part of this,” York growled.
Mack wasn’t listening to his hostage negotiator because he jerked back in a move he might have seen on Lethal Weapon and—hey, it worked!—connected with Igor’s nose.
Good kid!
Igor’s nose exploded in a spray of blood. He shouted, and then, of course, smashed his fist into Mack’s face.
The kid spun and dropped like an anvil. Didn’t move. A pool of blood leaked out from where he’d hit the ground.
Martin stared at Igor. “Seriously?”
York’s moment was gone. Because he couldn’t leave the kid here to die—
A car drove by, slowing as if to pull into the overlook.
No, please—
From behind, Martin shoved the gun into York’s neck. “Get back in the car.”
Not. A. Chance.
The car was pulling in, a car top carrier on the top, a couple of children’s bikes strapped to the back.
Shoot. York moved toward the SUV.
Igor had grabbed Mack and dragged him to the SUV. Mack dropped like dead weight into the passenger seat behind Igor, and York had a sick feeling.
York glanced at Mack as he got in behind Martin. The kid’s eyes had rolled back into his head, his skin pale.
“Gimme your hands,” Martin said and York complied, Martin’s gun still on him. Igor came around and flex-cuffed him again.
Aaaand, here they went again.
Martin got in at the wheel and pulled out, spitting gravel.
Yeah, the next stop would be the end.
“You didn’t have to kill the kid,” York said.
“He’s not dead,” Martin said, but York reached over and pressed a finger to his carotid artery.