Her hands were taped behind her, a rope scraped her neck, nearly cutting off her air.
She gasped as the full weight of her capture bore down on her.
She was alone—no one knew where she was.
“Stop struggling, RJ. It’ll be over soon. We’re just waiting until your boy gets here.”
RJ lifted her head, the world spinning slightly, probably an aftereffect of the drug she’d been given.
Footsteps echoed, coming closer, and hands grabbed her arms, setting her upright. “Let’s get you up so he can see you.”
He. Your boy. York?
Oh no. “I led you right to him.”
“Thank you for that. When you said he was still alive, I didn’t dare hope. But you are tenacious, RJ. You would have made a good analyst.” He stepped around her, and for the first time she confirmed what she already knew.
Director Tom Crowley. He wore suit pants, a dress shirt, which he’d rolled up to the elbows, as if reluctant but willing to get his hands dirty.
And right then, she knew she was going to die. Because there was no way that Director Crowley was going to let her live after she’d figured him out.
Crowley, the leader of the rogue faction that wanted a new cold war. Crowley, who’d been the ambassador to Russia, seen the corruption taking over New Russia, and wanted a return to the old ways.
At least then, Russia would be labeled the threat they still were.
This was RJ’s working theory as she wrestled with the tape around her wrists. “I am a good analyst. And so was my boss—she put the pieces together, didn’t she?”
Probably RJ should shut her mouth, just like Wyatt said. But if she was going to die, she wanted all of it. “You had her kidnapped, then killed.” Shoot—she hadn’t even considered looking at the source of the other numbers on Sophia’s call log.
“She just didn’t play well with others,” Crowley said. He reached over and picked up the end of the rope, cutting off RJ’s air. “And neither do you.” He threw the end of the rope over a girder above them. “But it doesn’t mean you weren’t helpful.”
He pulled on the end, drawing up the slack, yanking her up to her tiptoes. She whimpered.
And selfishly wished York might show up. Tears pricked her eyes.
No.
“This isn’t about the senator, is it?” she rasped.
“This is about the safety of the world.” He dragged over something, the metal scraping against the cement as he stepped back in front of her. A metal sawhorse. “Up we go, now.”
He grabbed her arm with one hand, the noose with the other, and tugged, cutting off her air until she acquiesced. She climbed up on the narrow sawhorse, no more than six inches wide, and stood there as he took up the slack, again pulling her up to her tiptoes.
“Why are you doing this?” she gasped.
“Did you know that my daughter was tortured before she was killed? By the Bratva. They brought her to an empty building where her screams couldn’t be heard, and…well, her body was nearly unrecognizable when the militia found her.”
“This isn’t just about politics. This is personal. This is about York.”
He spoke from behind her. “York brought this on himself.”
“By marrying your daughter. By getting her killed.” RJ shook her head. “Only it wasn’t his fault. He was betrayed.”
“It’s always York’s fault, sweetheart. And now York deserves to hear you scream. Watch you die.”
She searched the darkness, not sure if she should pray he’d be there or not.
“You had Martin kill Tasha, didn’t you? Or was it Damien Gustov?”
He laughed. “Tasha knew too much.”
“She knew about the affair between Jackson and…who? Tsarnaev? Stanislov?”
“Oh, sweetheart, you know too much too. You should have left well enough alone, let Sophia answer her own calls.”
“So that was your plan—send Sophia to Russia, let her take the fall for the assassination. Start an international incident. But she was onto you.”
“She didn’t know what she was onto. And neither do you.”
“I know you’re trying to influence the election—”
“This is way bigger than the election or you or York.”
She drew in a ragged, burning breath. “This is about money. About power.”
“Money is power.”
“No, truth is power.” And probably she shouldn’t have said that because he set his foot on the sawhorse. Pulled a handgun out of his belt.
She was already struggling to breathe. “You’re not going to get away with this. York will find you.” And with her words, she knew it in her bones.
York would find him.
And kill him.
And never escape the past, become the new man he longed to be.
Her eyes filled. I’m sorry.
Wyatt was right. She had gotten them all into this freakin’ mess—and they’d probably all come running to save her. Except, of course, they had no idea where she was, so there was that.
And maybe her mother was already dead, too, because RJ heard her now, showing up to whisper in her head. Her heart. God will show up even when we’ve made a mess of things. Even when it’s our fault—He will show up.
Right. Please, God. Show up.
He was your father. Of course he’d save you.
Her eyes blurred.
Because that’s who He is—He loves us by choice, not because we deserve His help.
“I’m counting on it,” Crowley said to her threat.
“Tom.”
And even though she expected it, even though she knew in her bones that York would show up, seeing him emerge from the shadows turned every muscle weak, her body longing to dissolve into a puddle of relief.
There’s no if…just when. And His timing is perfect.
“York,” she gasped.
He still wore the suit from today’s wedding, his jacket shed, and in the glow of wan light from the moon looked exactly like the man she first met in Moscow. Dangerous. Confident. If you want to live, follow me.
Anywhere, York. Across the world, even to Small Town, Washington State.
He glanced at RJ tied up, balancing on the sawhorse, and something flickered in his eyes, just a hint of the fury igniting deep inside. “Let her go, Tom. This is between you and me.”
Crowley trained the gun on York and moved around behind her. “Do you ever think about how she died? Ever think about her screams echoing off the cement? How she probably called your name?”
York didn’t move.
“They hung her after they finished with her. Left her in the darkness—”
“I know,” York said. “I found her body.”
RJ looked at him. He hadn’t told her that part.
And now he was here to find her body too.
“You should have stayed away from my daughter, hot shot,” Crowley said. “Get on your knees.”
“No—!” RJ shouted
The sawhorse wobbled and she gasped, the rope burning her neck. She was a fish, gulping for air.
“Stop!” York held out his hands. “I’m getting down.” He lowered himself to his knees, his hands behind his head. “Just let her go.”
“Oh, there’s not a chance of that, son. The question is, who will die first—you or her?”