She could take care of herself. Really.
Nothing in the desk, and RJ stared at the picture.
Maybe…
She pulled the picture off the wall, looking behind it. No safe. No secret compartment. So much for her super CIA analyst skills.
After checking the back of the picture, RJ replaced it on the wall.
She flicked off the light.
RJ had personally searched Sophia’s CIA office after VP candidate Senator Reba Jackson had cleared her of the assassination charges. No journal in the small office overlooking the Potomac either.
So, either her murderer had taken it, or Sophia had left it here in her home.
RJ took the stairs up to Sophia’s bedroom and turned on the bedside light. The nightstand held a vitamin container, a Kindle, still charging, and some lip gloss.
She gave a scant search through the closet and bathroom, looked in the hall linen closet, and stood in the hallway, heart thumping.
The sirens sounded again, this time closer.
C’mon. Think.
She was out of leads. But she desperately needed to track down Sophia’s killer if she hoped to find York. Or at least his killer…
No. He had to be alive.
RJ refused to believe the body identified at the accident scene, burned and unrecognizable, belonged to her York.
Of course, the CIA denied even arresting him. Denied knowing the two suits who had dragged him from the hospital in cuffs. Their bodies had also burned in the car accident that had charred the vehicle.
She wasn’t stupid—she could spot a cover-up when she saw it. After all, she’d seen every episode of Alias.
And somehow—she didn’t yet know how, but she’d figure it out—entangled in it all was a Russian assassin named Damien Gustov. An assassin who had followed York from Russia to America.
In her worst fears, Gustov had York. Was torturing him the same way he had Sophia—
Sirens. Nearly deafening, and RJ had a minute, tops.
She came down the stairs and headed for the family room. Light bathed the room as she flicked on a lamp to reveal a leather sofa, fireplace, bookshelf, and an upright piano. A cursory glance at the shelf revealed nothing.
A stack of books on the piano held a lamp. She searched through the books and accidently hit a number of the piano keys.
Oops. Although…a couple hadn’t hit, leaving a dull thud where a note should be.
Piano tuning. She remembered the duplicate check. Clearly someone hadn’t done their job.
Or…
RJ pulled the books off the piano top and opened the lid.
There—inside, lying on the strings—the weathered gray journal, the corners fraying as if Sophia had brushed her thumb against them too many times, thinking.
RJ grabbed it and shoved it into her inside jacket pocket. Zipped up the jacket.
Red lights flashed through the front windows.
She turned off the light.
Yeah, she should run.
Now.
Clearly the front door was out, so she slipped out onto the deck.
Second story. And below her was the patio, a hedge, and a not-so-sweet landing.
Oh, where was her inner Sydney Bristow when she needed it?
RJ’s hands slicked as she threw her leg over the edge of the railing—probably smart cops would run around back, but all the townhomes were connected, so maybe she had a minute or two—
Her hands slipped, and she let out a scream, her grip sliding down the rails to the bottom.
Her legs dangled, maybe eight feet from the patio.
Okay, she just had to let go and drop.
Let. Go.
Her hands gripped the bars, frozen, and, see, this was why she wasn’t a superspy.
Hiding. So much better.
“Just let go!”
The hiss emerged from the darkness, and for a second, the guttural whisper raked up her fragile hopes— “York?”
How had he—except he always showed up when she needed him the most—in the middle of an alleyway in Moscow, on a train, just in time to save her from a stabbing, and even in Seattle, when she walked in on a dead body.
Of course he’d show up now.
“Just let go, sis!”
She gasped as hands touched her ankles.
What? “Ford?”
“Yes—c’mon!”
She released one hand, turned and reached for his shoulder, and let go with the other.
He caught her easily of course, his arms thick from hours of SEAL PT. He was dressed in black, wore an earpiece and night vision goggles, and now grabbed her hand. “Run!”
“How—”
“Not now!”
Then they were fleeing down the boulevard between connected rows of townhomes, in and out of puddles of light. He pulled her into an alcove and planted her beside him. “Shh!”
Her heartbeat could give her away, but she said nothing as two figures darted past them, toward the home she’d just escaped.
“What are you—”
He put his hand over her mouth, turned to her ear, just a whisper. “Stay on my six.”
Huh?
Then he grabbed her hand again and took off.
They ran across the yard, through a narrow walkway between units, and out into the opposite street.
A van sat parked under a cherry tree and the door opened. Ford pushed her inside. He climbed in after her, pulled the door shut, and they streaked away.
The van’s seats had been removed, so she scooted back along the wall, trying to find herself.
“Hey, RJ.”
RJ stared at Scarlett, the petite brunette who had been Ford’s SEAL team communicator, sitting in the passenger seat.
Next to her, in the driver’s seat, sat Ford’s teammate Trini, a large, dark-skinned man from Trinidad. He drove as if on a casual Sunday drive, his fingers tapping on the window.
“I don’t—how did you—”
“Tate told me what you were up to,” Ford said, pulling off his earpiece.
How did Tate, her overly protective bodyguard brother—okay, they were all overly protective—know where she was? Or what she was doing…
“Wait…he’s working with Vicktor in Seattle, isn’t he?”
Ford had pulled off his night vision goggles. Ran a finger and thumb across his eyes, then blinked. Looked at her. “I don’t know. I just got a text from him with this address that said you were in trouble and that you needed an exfil.”
She stared at Ford, her eyes adjusting to the darkness, the DC neighborhoods outside the van’s back window sentried by the gnarled limbs of barren cherry trees, their leaves turning to dust in the autumn air. She was surrounded by brick homes, manicured yards, tidy lives.
She’d had a tidy life, once upon a time.
A tidy, safe life where no one needed to rescue—or exfil—her.
“I had everything under control.”
Ford’s mouth tightened around the edges. Even in his all-black attire, she could make out his too pensive pale-green eyes.
See him unmasking her lies.
Except it wasn’t a lie.
She got them into this mess.
She was going to get them out.
Besides, “You, better than anyone, should know that when people try and rescue me, they only get hurt. Or…” And she looked hard at him. “Killed.”
Then, with the accuracy of a knife to her heart, Ford took a breath, looked away.
Virtually agreeing.
She deserved that.