They crossed the street and returned to the cool air of the Golden Nugget Hotel.
Silence surrounded them as they entered the elevator. Tate punched their fifteenth-floor button on the elevator with more gusto than he needed. A couple of women, clearly inebriated, got in next to them. Pool water dripped at their feet. The women wore thongs, their tops too small, and one of them grinned at York through the mirror on the wall. He smiled back, nodded, not sure what else to do.
RJ got off first, glanced at York, and then shook her head.
“What?”
“Nothing.” She took out her key card and slid it into the door, let herself in. She was up the stairs before Tate closed the door behind them.
“Why is she angry?”
Tate glanced at him. “I don’t know. Maybe because she thinks you’re giving her the silent treatment. And now smiling at other women.”
“I’m not…” But he sighed. “Listen. Your sister deserves better than me—”
“That I can agree with,” Tate said. “Or at least the guy I see right now. The one I met a month ago, who’d do anything for her? That guy I liked.” He dropped his key card on the bar.
“Yeah, well, I’ve changed. I’m not sure I can be the guy she knew. Or want to. I kind of hoped I’d left him behind. And now I’m not sure I want to find him again.”
Tate looked at him. Nodded. “I get that.” He looked out the window. “I was a different man before I met Glo. She made me a better person, for sure. But sometimes, like now, I need the other guy, the guy I was before I met Glo, to show up and do what needs to get done.” He looked at York again.
“But the York I met a month ago knew what he wanted and why. He knew the happy ending was worth fighting for. He looked past the things he did to a better tomorrow. To hope. I think that’s the guy she misses. Frankly, so do I.” He turned and headed toward his room on the main floor.
York went to the window, staring out at the pool below.
Sometimes we find ourselves doing things in war that we would never do… But that moment doesn’t define me…
He heard a captured breath and turned. Stilled.
Slava—or at least the man York recognized as the one he’d grappled with on the porch—had a hand around RJ’s neck, a gun pressed to her head. He was walking her down the stairs.
RJ’s eyes were wide, her jaw tight, and shoot, but he knew it. Deep in his gut where his fears and vengeance and darkness lived, he’d just known something like this was going to happen.
And then, just like that, a flash of memory spurred into his brain, nearly sending him to his knees.
A woman, staring at him, her eyes wide, a man wearing a black nylon mask over his face, his hand around her neck, forcing her down.
He held a thick metal bar, raising it over her.
Run, York!
“I don’t want her,” Slava said, snapping him back to now. “But if she has to die because you’re stupid, that’s okay.”
York held up his hands. Breathed out. “Don’t hurt her.”
RJ’s eyes glistened. “Sorry. He was in my bathroom.”
Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted Tate, just a shadow behind his door.
Slava must have seen his quick glance because he pushed RJ down to the bottom of the stairs and turned her, his back to the window. “Come out, Tate, hands up. One move, and she dies.”
Tate came out of the bedroom, his jaw tight, hands up, eyes fierce. He glanced at York, back to RJ.
One of them had to jump Slava, get him away from RJ.
Even if it meant getting shot.
A quick shout should do it—something to distract Slava while the other tackled RJ.
He swallowed, glanced at Tate, who drew in a breath.
Please let the guy be reading his mind because once upon a time Tate had been spec ops and York had no doubt he wasn’t going to sit around and let RJ get hurt.
York shouted and lunged for Slava.
As if RJ and he were in sync, she slammed her fist back, hard, aiming for Slava’s groin. He was onto her and dodged, but she slammed her foot into his instep, then twisted out of his grip.
Tate launched himself at her.
A shot went off, the sound muffled with the silencer screwed to the end but still bright enough to galvanize York as he took down Slava.
The shot missed him. But he didn’t look to see where the bullet went, too busy dodging Slava’s fist to his face.
York deflected it, then grabbed Slava around the neck. The man had a good three inches on him and was clearly used to grappling because he rolled and slammed his body onto the floor, landing on York.
York’s breath whooshed out and he lay there like a fish.
Slava whirled around. His fist came at York like a locomotive.
RJ whacked Slava with a lamp, jerking him off course. The blow landed on York’s shoulder, and pain seized him.
He gulped for air, wheezed hard, but in that second, Slava hit his feet and rounded on RJ.
Where in the world was Tate?
Slava grabbed the lamp away from her as if she might be a small child. She took one look at him, turned, and fled up the stairs.
Slava turned to follow her, but York hooked his foot around him and tripped him.
York found his breath, the air coming in hard just as Slava scrambled to his feet. The man was a freakin’ prize fighter the way he came at York, and he had a memory of the man in Moscow stringing him up and using him like a hanging bag.
Just a quick, dark flash, but fury ignited him.
York launched at Slava, ducking his fist, sending his own into Slava’s midsection.
Slava grabbed him around the throat with both hands, cutting off his air.
York hit him again, this time in the face. Drew blood.
Slava’s grip tightened.
York’s eyesight was getting blotchy. His next punch pushed the big man against the window.
His fingers dug into York’s neck. The room shadowed.
A shot shattered the glass.
York broke away, falling.
Slava swore and turned.
RJ stood on the stairs holding a tiny handgun, her aim shaky. “Let him go!”
Slava glanced at York, blood on his face, in his eyes.
York was a dead man.
Another shot.
Slava jerked hard, blood exploding from his chest, and he fell forward, to his knees, one hand out to catch himself.
He was dead before he landed.
York was on his feet, staring up at RJ. “You shot him.”
“No—I didn’t. I didn’t!” She came down the stairs. Her hands still shook, and York took the gun from her.
Checked the clip of the 9mm.
Full, except for one.
“Then—how—”
“Get down!” Tate said from somewhere behind them. “The shot came from the other building!”
York grabbed RJ’s wrist and pulled her down, practically landing on top of her behind one of the leather sofas.
Then he covered her body with his, his hands over her head.
“York, I’m fine.”
“Stay down,” he growled.
Silence, just his heartbeat as he waited.
Nothing but the wind against the drapes.
Tate made a sound, something of a grunt, and he looked up. The man was shrugging off his jacket, his teeth gritted, his arm bloodied.
RJ, too, had looked up. “Tate! You’re hit!”