“How did you get it away from Tsarnaev?”
Oh, that was a story she didn’t want to detail. The short of it, however, was, “I blew up his yacht. Stole a dinghy, dropped my daughter on shore, and ran.”
It was just as terrible as it sounded and she looked away, outside, across the red-clay roofed buildings.
Zara had paused then, turning to look at her. “Hamilton’s child.”
She’d only been barely pregnant when they’d been attacked, but even before that, Zara had been there when Ham reappeared in her life and nearly wrecked Signe’s big plans.
Nearly made her abandon her vision, her ideals, and run into his arms.
She’d been strong for her country.
No, she’d been a fool. And clearly was still a fool. Because what if she’d stayed with Aggie and returned home, with Ham?
Well, really, maybe they’d all be dead.
“Did he know about her?” Zara asked.
“Not a clue.”
Zara raised an eyebrow.
“I couldn’t jeopardize my cover with Tsarnaev. So . . .”
“So you raised your daughter in a terrorist camp.”
Signe’s mouth tightened, and she looked away. “It wasn’t like that.” But yes, it felt like it. “When I realized I was pregnant, it was too late.” She looked back at Zara. “At least she’s safe now.”
“With that SEAL.”
“He’s not a SEAL anymore, but yes. Hamilton has her. Nothing is going to happen to her on his watch, I guarantee it. He’s like a Doberman about the people he loves.”
About her, really.
Oh, he hadn’t deserved the way she treated him.
“Which is a good thing because I’ve got a target on my head. If I step foot in the US, they’ll either label me a terrorist, because of my years with Tsarnaev, or the company will grab me and . . . well, you’ve heard the rumors, right?”
Zara had gone back to stirring. “About a rogue faction in the CIA who have aligned with Russia and are trying to derail the election?”
Uh, yeah?
Zara glanced over her shoulder. “I also heard some rumors that there might be a contract out on you.”
Signe stilled. But she should have expected that.
Zara had lost weight after her escape from Chechnya, but then again, being nearly kidnapped by a warlord probably sent her into some kind of PTSD. The fact that she met and married Felix made Signe wonder what kind of counseling Zara had received. Felix had been in the KSK, German special forces, but now sold books at a local used bookstore.
Right.
Now, with the meet a bust, the last thing they needed was trouble invading their lives. She’d have to figure out somewhere else to lie low—
“Signe.”
Her name on the man’s lips stilled her, and she cringed, painfully aware of her stupidity. She kept walking.
“Roy sent me.”
No, no—she didn’t stop. Because he’d have to say—
“The sparrows don’t fall without someone watching.”
She stopped, glanced over her shoulder. The man was a few steps behind, his hands out where she could see them. Okay, so maybe . . .
He gestured into a walkway between the buildings that led out through a park.
Stores had begun to open, a bus stopped nearby and let out passengers. A few wandered through the square.
And from the churchyard, Felix was watching. Please, follow me . . .
Except, maybe not. Because people who followed her usually ended up getting hurt. The last thing she wanted was to see one of her oldest friends get burned, or worse.
But maybe, if this wasn’t a setup, and she played the game right, they’d all be safe.
She could stop running.
And maybe, someday, go home.
“Don’t try to find me.”
Her words to Ham still burned her throat.
So she slowed and let the man catch up.
“Where’s Roy?”
“Something came up. He sent me.”
“Who are you?”
“The name’s Martin. Do you have it?”
It was the way he said it. Not the words as much as the tone. Reminded her way too much of Pavel, of the way he’d get when he was annoyed.
And then people got hurt.
She had learned how to handle him. “No. But it’s close.”
“Didn’t trust Roy, huh?” He ended with a chuckle, as if the lives of two hundred people working as nonofficial CIA operatives undercover around the globe was something to be dismissed.
Yeah, it irked her.
“There’s a lot at stake,” she said calmly, as they came out to the street. Across the street, a cafe hosted breakfasters under red umbrellas. Cars slowed as they drove by on the cobblestone. “The security of our government.”
“Which is why we need to get it into safe hands.”
Right.
“I’ll get it, and meet you back here in an hour.”
He grabbed her wrist. “Or, you could take me with you.” His fingers bore into her bones. She wanted to twist out of his hold, but here they were, in the middle of the street.
And that’s exactly what Pavel would do. Get her in public where she couldn’t run and start the threats. Threats that became reality in private.
“Let go of me,” she said softly.
“Give me the list,” he said, closing the gap between them.
She pressed the nose of the Luger into his gut. “Step back.”
He raised an eyebrow, and for the first time, she got a good look at him. A scar across his right eyebrow shadowed dark brown eyes, and pockmarks on his face betrayed an acned youth. Maybe six foot, he bore the brawn of a thug in his shoulders and eyes.
He smiled. “I walk away, and your friend dies.”
She drew in a breath.
He pulled his phone from his pocket. Showed her a snapshot.
Felix, blindfolded, wearing the clothes he’d had on when she’d left his flat. Clearly, he’d been taken from the churchyard, and now a gun was held to his head. It looked like . . . yes, he was in his flat, in his kitchen, which meant—
“Don’t make us kill him with the wife watching.”
Oh—see, this was why she couldn’t go home. Because no matter where she went, trouble followed.
People died.
She swallowed hard. “You work for her, don’t you?”
Martin cocked his head. “We both work for her.”
She shook her head as he put the phone away. “I never wanted this. This was not the plan—”
“I’ll count, if that makes it easier. One—”
“This is treason, you know. People who gave their entire lives for their country—”
“Two.” His hand went around her gun and drew it out of her grip. Smiled.
A car drove by. Pigeons scattered.
“Three—”
A shot cracked the air and Martin jerked back, away from her.
Signe spun, not looking to see if he was wounded, and took off. Back through the alleyway, into the square, up the hill toward the church, past it, along a footpath to a restaurant. Up the back stairs, three flights.
The apartment door hung open. A whistle shrilled the air.
“Zara!”
Her friend’s body lay in the foyer, the blood sticky, drying from the wound across her neck, her eyes glassy.