One night was nothing compared to one month.
“The coroner in Seattle sent the remains to the CIA in hopes they had York’s DNA on file,” RJ said quietly. “Until then…”
“Tate said you went through all the surveillance camera footage at the hospital the day York was arrested,” Ford said.
“I got a good look at the two goons who arrested him. He even recognized one of them—called him Martin. They said they were from the CIA, but my contacts at the CIA have no record of them. Vicktor said he thought that they might be from the Russian mob. He was cross-referencing them with all the known Russian mafia thugs in the area,” RJ said. “But then again, I don’t know what to think. My boss said she suspected there was some rogue faction inside the CIA trying to cause problems between the US and Russia, so maybe they took him. And, maybe her.”
“Except the Bratva tried to kill you in Russia,” Ford said.
“And York had a nearly lethal go-round with a couple goons a few weeks later. Of course they’d be out for revenge.” She swallowed. “But he’s smart. And tough. He wouldn’t just… I mean, that SUV went off the road at a high rate of speed. Who knows what was going on to make that happen.”
The car that the highway patrol had discovered burned down to the metal on the side of a mountain.
Even she couldn’t see how he’d survived.
But she believed it with every ounce of strength she possessed.
“Ham thinks that the Bratva is behind the assassination attempt you were blamed for,” Ford said.
“It’s because General Stanislov is a moderate. They want General Arkady Petrov in—he’s a hardliner who wants to turn Russia back into a superpower. War means weapons, weapons mean money, and the Russian mob is at the center of it all.”
Ford shook his head. “I still don’t know how you got involved in all this.”
She didn’t want to suggest the reasons that came to her head. Like her need to prove that she too could save the world.
Apparently that reason was simply part of her gene pool.
“The bottom line is, York was taken by someone posing as the CIA—maybe even part of this CIA faction. Maybe even in league with Damien Gustov, the assassin who framed me, who tried to kill me and Coco, and who probably killed my boss, Sophia Randall. And if I can just find a link between Sophia and Gustov—any clue as to how she got to Seattle, then maybe I can find Gustov.”
She took a breath, and Ford filled in the rest.
“And find out what happened to York.”
Close enough. She nodded. Broke the last peel off her orange. Then she met Ford’s eyes. “He’s alive, bro.”
Ford nodded, an unfamiliar compassion in his eyes.
“I got something,” Scarlett said into the silence. She set down the journal. “Sophia was investigating a near bombing in Alaska that involved presidential candidate Senator Isaac White a few months ago.”
RJ vaguely remembered hearing about it right before she left for Europe to meet Roy, her contact, the one who had sent her to York.
“Randall has an entire entry about the bomber. Apparently, the CIA got ahold of his computer. One of the things they found was a membership to a dating site. MyAmore.com.”
“A dating site?” RJ ate a wedge of orange. “Coco found a bunch of emails from a dating site on the information she recovered from Gustov. I tried to find a connection between the names, but I got nothing.”
“Sophia wrote down a phone number next to the site.” Scarlett turned the journal around. “And circled it.”
Indeed. Circled and starred and ran a balloon cloud around it.
“Yikes. Holy clue, Batman. Can anyone say, Call me?” RJ reached into her drawer and pulled out a flip phone. Dialed the number and pressed Enter.
“What. Are. You. Doing?” Ford rushed toward her and grabbed her wrist.
Oh, he had strong hands. She dropped the phone on the counter. “What are you doing?” She jerked her hand away.
“You can’t call that number—”
“Why not?
It was ringing. Ford scooped it up and pressed End. “Because what if—well, what if this is how the killer found her? Tracked her call—”
“It’s a dating site!”
Ford just looked at her.
“Okay, maybe I should call Vicktor and see if he can track Sophia’s phone calls and find a connection to this number.”
“That’s a plan I like,” Ford said. He picked up the flip phone. “What is this, anyway? A burner phone?”
She lifted a shoulder.
“Oh brother.” He flipped it shut. “Sis. I know you’ve always…well, I know I’m not the boss of you, but please, please stay out of trouble.”
She stared at him.
His mouth tightened. “Not a chance, huh?”
“York isn’t dead. And I’m going to find him. So you can tell Tate, or whoever has put a tracker on me, to lace up their tennis shoes.”
Scarlett smiled as she slid off the high top. “Yeah, she’s your sister, Ford.”
He rolled his eyes. Took Scarlett’s hand. Then he looked at RJ. Paused. “I’m here if you need me,” he said quietly.
“I know,” she said just as softly.
“Okay then.” He kissed her cheek and headed for the door.
She closed and locked it behind them, then swept the journal off the counter, bringing it to the sofa.
Read through Sophia’s handwriting about a man named Akif, including the typical profile of a man brainwashed, poisoned by the ideology of a deranged leader. Sophia had drawn an arrow from Akif to a bubble cloud with the Bratva sketched in the middle. And from that, another arrow to a set of question marks.
As if someone, or some group, might be controlling the Russian mob.
Hard to believe, but maybe.
RJ traced her finger across the number.
Looked at her phone.
First thing in the morning she was calling Vicktor.
Maybe hopping a plane to Seattle.
She picked up the remote and turned her television on to CNN.
Then she pulled her knitted afghan off the end of the sofa, lay down, and closed her eyes.
Sometimes it just helped to hear other people in the room.
Then she didn’t have to listen to the questions deep in her heart.
Oh, York. Where are you?
3
“You’ve had quite the night, son.”
The words came from the tall man standing by the nurses’ station. Chief of Police Jimbo Reynolds. Mid-fifties, balding, and with an aura around him that said he knew this town, its people, and all of it was under his protection.
He was Jethro’s best friend and the second on the scene standing beside Mack as they watched the brewery burn.
The Shelly fire department had arrived first, just in time for Mack to emerge from the building, nearly on fire himself. They grabbed him and Jethro and pulled them away from the flames, and then one of the firemen administered oxygen.
Mack had sat on the sidewalk across the street, watching as the EMTs revived Jethro. He’d wanted to weep when he saw the man start to cough, as the EMTs bundled him onto a board to take him to the small hospital in town.
Mack had refused to go—he was fine, thanks—and instead watched as the firemen battled the flames that crawled up the side of the building, into his apartment, and chewed away at the roof. The fire ate the wooden rafters but spared the brick and mortar, and by the time the dawn dented the pallor of night, nothing but smoke and char remained of the inferno.