“Oh no.”
“The train blew up before the doors closed. If I’d made it to his car, I would be dead. As it was, I nearly died.”
“And you think Martin was behind it.”
“I’m sure of it. But I was in a Russian hospital for a couple weeks and by the time I got out, more so-called suicide attacks had happened in Moscow, and a jihadist group in the Dagestan region, near Chechnya, claimed responsibility.”
“But you think it was this CIA faction.”
“Think about it. Blow up a train. Cause unrest. Violence. And more violence would lead to a greater need to protect, which would create more police force, which only leads to more control, and eventually they’re back to a police state, right? Hello, Stalin.”
“I suppose it makes sense, right?”
“It gets worse. Do you remember the name Viktor Ginkut? He was a high-ranking officer in the Black Sea Fleet.”
“No.”
“Well, by the time of the bombing, he’d left the Navy and was commissioned as General Boris Stanislov’s head of security.”
She raised an eyebrow at the connection.
“Ginkut was killed in the attack.”
The realization slid over her like a cold hand. “He was replaced by FSB Colonel Natalya Smolsk, the woman who tried to kill you and Coco.”
“After setting up the assassination attempt on Stanislov and trying to pin it on you.”
RJ stared at him.
“It’s just a guess,” York said.
“A terrifying one that suggests that this is a very long game this group is playing. But why would this jihadist group claim responsibility for the attack?”
“Maybe they’re working together. Remember, Arkady Petrov, the man poised to take Stanislov’s place, is a member of the Russian mob. Which has very long arms. Even into Chechnya.”
“And America,” RJ said, and her mind was webbing out to all sorts of possibilities. Like the Bratva manipulating elections by murdering candidates so they could create more unrest on this side of the world. More arms. More money.
More power.
And maybe not just for the Bratva.
“When you were in Russia, you couldn’t cause problems, but the minute you brought that information home to America…oh, York, you need to call Crowley.”
He blinked at her. “Tom Crowley? Claire’s dad?”
“Yes. The former ambassador to Russia—the one who now works for the CIA. He needs to know what you just told me about Martin.”
“I’m sure he already knows. And besides, Martin is dead.”
She made a face, shook her head. “No, he doesn’t know. And…Martin might not be dead.”
York’s expression went blank. “What—? How do you know?”
But she never got a chance to explain because a shout lifted from the house, carrying across the morning air.
“No, Tate! Stop—no! Don’t kill him!”
Somewhere in the back of his head, Glo’s voice registered, but Tate reacted on pure adrenaline, pure fury when Glo opened the front door to let a murderer into his home.
Where his family lived.
It took him less than two seconds to cross the room, grab Sloan by the throat with one hand, use the other to grab his hand and turn it out, forcing Sloan to his knees.
With everything inside Tate he wanted to put a knee to Sloan’s smug face, but he refrained and simply forced him to the ground, put a knee in his back.
“Tate! Let him up!” Glo shouted, her hands pulling on his shoulders.
“Not. A. Chance.”
For his part, Sloan wasn’t resisting—but how could he? His cheek was being smashed into the front porch, his body twisted under Tate’s force. Still, the man just kept his voice calm, breathing through what had to be pain.
Oh, Tate hoped it was pain.
“Get off me, Tate, I come in peace.”
Hardly. “What are you doing here?”
In the back of his head, where he’d partitioned Glo’s screaming, he knew that the likelihood of Sloan showing up on his front doorstep to turn himself in was close to nil. “Are you crazy?”
“Yes, clearly! I knew I couldn’t get close to you if you were traveling with Jackson, and Glo said you’d listen if I showed up to talk, and somewhere in my brain, I believed her.”
“Glo said—?” And this was when he looked up at his fiancée.
She had covered her mouth with her hands, her eyes wide. And shoot, she was nodding.
“Glo. What the—”
“He’s telling the truth, Tate. I believe him.”
“What do you believe?”
“That he’s being set up. That he didn’t try and kill you in Vegas!”
“Which. Time?” Because right now Tate’s wound had started to really hurt, and he might have ripped open the glue, and yeah, that was a pretty picture.
Sloan still wasn’t struggling. His arrogant jaw was gritted, though, and a sweat had broken out across his pretty face.
“Were you in Vegas Wednesday?”
And although he expected it—it was like asking a dog if he ate the leftovers—Sloan shook his head. “No, I was in Nashville!”
“He was, Tate. I told you—he came to see me in my dressing room on Tuesday—”
And now, again, Tate just stared at her. “And Wednesday, we showed up at Imagine, Inc., it was cleared out, and someone shot the only connection we had to Sloan. Do the math, Glo—there’s plenty of time to get to Vegas after seeing you in your underwear.”
“I was clothed! Sheesh, Tate.”
He knew that, but still—
“I wasn’t there, man!”
Yeah, sure.
Now others had joined him—York blew in from the backyard, standing beside him. Knox and Reuben had come in from the barn, covered in grease, clearly still wrestling with the tractor. Coco had gotten up, gone around the island to stand with Ma. He hoped Mikka wasn’t around.
But it was RJ who made him ease off Sloan. “Let him up, Tate. Let’s hear what he has to say. Because I think this thing is bigger than just Sloan Anderson and his jealousy.”
She stood with her hands on her hips, that sort of tone her voice took when she knew what she was talking about.
Like the time she’d zinged him for his not-so-hidden need to keep up with his brothers. Which of course wasn’t at all true, except maybe it was, sometimes, and…okay, she could usually sift through the facts to find the truth.
It was weird that Sloan had shown up. Either he was stupid, he was using Glo, or he had something to say. “He doesn’t leave my sight,” Tate said and hauled the guy up.
Sloan shook out his arm. “Hey, Glo.” He went to hug her but Tate stepped in the way. “Are you kidding me?”
Sloan drew in a breath. “Right. Okay. But really, Tate, I wasn’t the one—”
“Zip it, pal.” He caught him around the back of the neck and pushed him toward the den. “RJ, York, you’re with me.”
“And me,” Glo said.
Aw, he didn’t want Glo anywhere near Sloan Anderson and their little talk.
Because in his heart, Tate knew the guy wasn’t innocent. And he wasn’t sure what he’d have to do to get the whole truth out of Sloan, but he didn’t want Glo around to see it.