Because, as usual, he’d failed everyone.
The memory of his mother’s rasps as she’d gulped for air on the kitchen floor could still send a razor through him, serrate his insides.
His last clear memory before that was looking at Glo’s beautiful eyes as Hardwin told them to pray, Hardwin’s words stirring in his head.
Lean in to each other, but lean also in to God. When all else is done, God is enough, everything, and always. Trust Him to give you what you need.
Tate needed truth.
He needed to know that he hadn’t killed his mother, hadn’t completely screwed up.
Hadn’t let an innocent man die.
The door to the bathroom banged open, and he turned to see Ford come in.
“Hey,” Tate said. He grabbed a couple paper towels and scrubbed his face, wiped his hands. No need to let his brother know he was completely unraveling.
“We have trouble,” Ford said.
And it was the way he said it that had Tate looking over at him. “Oh no—is Ma—”
“She’s fine, bro.” Ford took a breath. “It’s RJ. York just got a call—I think someone took RJ.”
“What—?”
“York said he’s going to get her back, but—”
“Where is she?”
“I don’t know. York took off a few minutes ago. He told me not to tell you what’s going down—that he was going to finish this, but yeah, right. We gotta help him.”
Finish this. And right then, York was in Tate’s head with his words, Martin is dead. Because I killed him.
He’d said it with such cold, dark precision it’d sent a chill through Tate.
Tate had been a soldier, so he understood what it took to kill someone. And, he supposed, York had been trying to defend himself from whatever was going down in that SUV.
Still, Tate agreed with Wyatt. He wasn’t so sure he wanted York in his sister’s life.
Except for now.
Because if anyone could find RJ and get her back, it was the man who’d kept her safe in Russia.
“Was it Gustov?” Tate asked.
“What about Gustov?” Wyatt came walking in.
Tate made the mistake of giving Ford a look.
“Aw, c’mon! I met him. Fought him. Hurt him. So, guess what, I get to know what’s going on.”
“We gotta go,” Tate said. “York got a call, told Ford that RJ had been taken—”
“Taken? As in kidnapped? And you’re still standing here?” He started moving toward the door.
“We don’t know where he went—”
“We can find out. Sheesh.” Wyatt shook his head as if he were talking to a couple rookies. “He went to find RJ. And we can track down RJ, right?” He had his hand on the door.
Tate had stopped, frowned.
“Coco put a tracker on her phone, genius. We can find her and intercept him. Or at least back him up.”
Ford raised an eyebrow as he started for the door.
“Don’t start. I went to Russia, I found my girl, and I brought her home. Hello.”
“Fine,” Tate snapped.
“I’m calling Coco,” Wyatt said and left the bathroom.
Ford looked at Tate as he caught the door. “He’s going to get hurt.”
“What are we going to do, sit on him? Tie him up?”
“I agree with Wyatt. We need to help York,” Ford said. He stepped inside, let the door close.
“No doubt, Rambo. But are you armed? Because I didn’t wear my shoulder holster to my wedding. I know, what was I thinking—”
“No,” Ford snapped. “But I’ll bet York isn’t either.”
“Oh, that’s fun.” Tate scrubbed his hands down his face.
“You okay—?”
“No, I’m not okay! I need to think. We can’t just run out of here like we’re on fire!” And maybe Tate should have schooled his voice. But he was just so— “I should have known better. I should have listened to her.” He wanted to punch the mirror. “Okay, just…I need to figure this out…”
“At the risk of getting hit—my team leader used to call me the lone wolf. Said I never asked for help.” Ford glanced at the door. “But I’m not the only one. Wyatt. Knox. You. Even Reuben went for years without coming home. We all work on teams, but we never seem to…”
“Work together,” Tate said. “I know. I’ve spent my whole life trying to be—”
“As good as your brothers?”
Tate looked away. “I guess.”
“Get in the freakin’ line,” Ford said. “But I nearly died this summer, and I’m tired of being the lone wolf. Remember that time Dad took us hunting for that wolf that was threatening the cattle?”
“He armed us with tranq guns and we sat in a snowbank for two days,” Tate said.
“Coldest I’d ever been,” Ford said. “But he was caught because he was alone. Separated from the pack. We’re Marshalls. And we are not alone.”
Tate looked at him. God is enough, everything, and always. Trust Him to give you what you need.
His family.
“Let’s get our sister.”
Ford reached for the door but pulled back as it opened.
Knox stood in the entrance. “What is Wyatt doing?” He came in. “I heard him on the phone. He’s tracking RJ?”
Tate looked at Ford. “RJ’s gone missing. And York’s gone to find her.”
“What—what?” And there was no schooling Knox’s voice. “Are you kidding me?”
Tate gave him a look. “Totally— No! Of course not!”
“Calm down!” Knox growled. “So, what are we going to do?”
“What we’re not going to do is stand around in the bathroom—” Ford said. “We need a plan.”
He made to push past Knox, but his brother stopped him with a hand to his chest. “This is not hard. How many times did Dad take us on roundup?”
“I hate roundup,” Tate said.
“I love roundup,” Ford said.
“Yeah,” Knox said, grabbing the door. “Roundup is our plan.”
He opened the door.
Reuben stood on the other side, flanked by Hardwin. “You were shouting,” Reuben said. “What’s this about roundup?”
RJ should have listened to her gut back in Moscow when it said run. Before the shots were fired that took down General Stanislov. Before she stepped up into the glow of the lamplight for CCTV to capture her and connect her to an international crime.
Probably even before that when her boss’s contact, Roy, tried to contact her boss regarding the information about the possible hit and she’d decided it might be a grand idea to meet him in Prague and stop an international catastrophe.
In fact, if she were going back to her regrets, maybe it was thinking she could be some sort of superspy. Thank you, Sydney Bristow.
Because if RJ had listened, she wouldn’t be lying on a cement floor, the night descending around her in bruised shadows, a chill seeping in through the fabric of her dress. The dim hue of faraway lights, along with the smell of fresh-poured cement, dirt, rebar, and woodchips suggested she was in a skeletal shell of a building. She made out the skyline and realized she was at least two stories, maybe three, from the ground. It had started to rain, the patter light upon the cement and the dirt and raising a breath of grimy mist into the air.