No—no— “Felix!”
She edged past Zara toward the tiny kitchen.
The teakettle sounded from the stove, the steam sweating the cupboards.
The kitchen had been destroyed, the table overturned, chairs broken.
Felix lay on the floor, bruises covering his face, his hands over his gut where blood streamed out between his fingers. The blindfold had been ripped off.
She grabbed a rag and shoved it against the wound. Deep, his intestines spilling out—he’d been gutted. “Felix—I’m here—”
He opened his eyes, seeing her, gasping, and let out a moan. “Go—”
“No, I’m staying—”
“Run!” His voice died, breaths coming fast. “Can’t . . . they can’t . . . find—”
Footsteps up the stairwell made him grab her shirt with his bloody hand. “Out the window—”
She was on her feet, pushing open the tiny window that led out to the clay-tiled roof. The red tiles broke off as she scampered across them.
She ran to the edge. The house dropped away into a thin alleyway, three stories down.
The next roof was six feet away.
She backed up, glanced behind her.
A man was coming out Felix’s window.
She turned around and sprinted off the roof. Bit back a scream as her arms windmilled, her legs running—
She landed hard, kicking off tiles, scrambling for purchase.
Found her feet.
The man had cleared the window, was running across the roof.
She jackrabbited across the top, the tiles sliding out beneath her feet. She fell and slid down the slanted roof, tiles flying off the top like dominos.
She stopped just as she careened over the side, her fingers digging into the sharp lip at the edge of the roof.
Kicking, she tried to hook her ankle on the edge of the roof. It slipped and she fell, one grip dislodging.
She pawed at the top, her left hand straining to hold her.
Footsteps ran across the roof, the man having also jumped the gap.
She looked down, her hold disintegrating.
A balcony jutted from below her, maybe ten feet down.
And if she missed it . . . the ground, another forty feet.
Jump, just be brave—
“Gotcha!”
A hand closed around her left wrist.
She looked up at her captor. She’d seen him at the cafe, the bicyclist in the skinny jeans.
Zara’s words from last night stabbed at her—“I also heard some rumors that there might be a contract out on you.”
This was not over.
Because the fate of the free world was at stake.
She lifted her leg and drew out her Ka-Bar from her boot, ran her blade across his knuckles.
He shouted, let her go.
She pushed off the edge.
Fell.
Dropped hard onto the balcony. Pain streaked up her ankle and maybe she’d twisted it.
She had lived through worse—much worse—pain than a little sprained ankle.
Gritting her teeth, she found her feet.
Yanked open the door to the apartment.
Footsteps thundered above as she banged through the flat. Empty except for a cat, which spooked and hissed at her.
She flung herself into the hallway, fled down the stairs.
Then she was out into the street, the pain a dull hum as she ran for her life.
CHAPTER TWO
HAM HAD GIVEN UP any attempt at sleep around three a.m., when visions of Signe running intermingled with Aggie’s crying and the screams of onlookers as she dangled from the Ferris wheel basket.
He might never sleep again until he knew his wife was safe.
After two hours of staring at the ceiling, he got up and made coffee in the Marshall family kitchen where he, Aggie, Jenny, and Orion were staying the weekend. A little winery-slash-farm outside of the cities near the town of Lester, Minnesota.
The kitchen was quiet, with a basket of oranges sitting in the middle of a black granite island that seated at least eight. The house was old—a farmhouse that had been added on to over the years and recently renovated. Beamed ceilings arched over a huge range with a double oven, probably used to make the apple and cherry pies the Marshalls sold in their tiny shop. A long farmhouse table with benches and chairs boasted a fresh arrangement of sunflowers in the middle.
All of it reminded Ham of his farm growing up, back when his mother was still alive. Maggie Jones had known how to make a home.
Ham stared out the window as the teakettle heated water, his travel French press filled with dark grounds, his eyes watching as the sky moved from black to blue gray, with hints of red and orange simmering across the horizon.
His mercies are new every morning.
The familiar verse from Lamentations filled his mind, overlaced the nightmares, and soaked into his bones.
He just needed enough wisdom, enough grace for today.
The teakettle started to whistle, and he turned it off before it woke the family sleeping in the many bedrooms upstairs. He filled his press and waited for the coffee to steep.
The town and the nearby communities had suffered a tornado a couple years ago. Ham had driven down with North for a day or two to help with cleanup, had met Garrett Marshall, the owner of the winery, and realized he knew his son Fraser who served with him on Team Three back in the day.
Funny how life worked. Now Fraser worked for Ham, deployed as private security for a humanitarian aid organization in an undisclosed area of the world. And Ham was making coffee in his kitchen, about to sit on the stone back porch to watch the sunrise gild the grapevines that grew in tall rows in the backyard.
Okay, more accurately acres and acres of rolling green. The backyard had a fire pit, a couple wine-barrel tables, a swing, and a patch of pretty landscaping for the occasional private weddings the winery hosted.
The smell of recently cut grasses from nearby fields drifted in through the open windows and stirred up memories as Ham pressed his coffee and poured it into a mug.
Memories of the farm in southern Minnesota. Of chasing Signe’s stupid rescue dog, usually with a stolen shoe, sock, or worse, his car keys, through the fields.
Memories of Signe laughing as she tried to ride his only horse, the one who blew up her belly whenever they saddled her so it would fall off.
Memories, too, of those cold days when he’d pull up in his father’s pickup on his way to school, holding his hands to the vents as he waited for her to emerge from her grandmother’s house.
He took a sip of his coffee, sinking into the sweet memory of her weaving her fingers through his as they sat on the haymow watching the fireworks arch over the Mississippi River. “Promise me we’ll always be together.”
Her words, not his. But he promised.
Of course they would.
Ham shook the memory away and headed outside, the stone chilly on his stocking feet. He found an Adirondack chair and sat down, fatigue embedding his bones.
Tired. Not just from his fruitless night, but tired of waiting. Tired of wondering.
Tired of ignoring his broken heart. And yes, Aggie healed it, mostly. But the ache was deep.
He took a sip of coffee and heard breaths, feet slapping on dry earth.
Garrett Marshall appeared in a pair of shorts, a long-sleeve shirt, and a hat, running down the pathway from the apple grove.
He ran by a classic red barn—their wine barrel storage—and past a new tasting portico they’d built since the tornado, then along the hosta-lined driveway.