Then Crowley kicked the sawhorse. It wobbled for a second, then went over.
And she dropped.
“No!” York leaped for RJ, catching her and holding her up. “It’s okay. I got you—I got you!”
He was holding her with one hand, prying at the tape around her hands with another.
And that’s when she spied Crowley behind him. “York!”
Her voice came out strangled, but strong enough for York to brace himself as Crowley swung at him with a two-by-four.
He hit him broadside across the back, and York grunted.
“Stop!”
Because she got it now. Crowley would make him choose—hold her up to let her breathe or protect himself.
And in her heart, she knew what he’d choose. Because he was a good man, the kind of man who would gladly sacrifice himself to save her.
Crowley hit him again, this time in the legs. York stumbled—
“Hey, you!”
The voice came from behind her, but she jerked, recognizing it.
Knox!
Crowley backed away, his gun out, aimed at York. “Stay back.”
“Sorry, bud, no can do.”
Reuben!
Crowley pointed the gun at RJ. “I said stay back.”
“Probably not.” The voice came from ahead of him. Wyatt.
They were herding Crowley, or at least confusing him.
Because Tate was out there, too, hidden in the darkness.
Only, not Tate but Ford exploded from the other side of the building, jumping on Crowley like he might be a calf in need of branding. He swept the tall man’s feet, jerked his gun away, sent it spinning across the floor, and took Crowley down so fast he was bouncing on the cement.
York set up the sawhorse, climbing up beside her, fighting to loosen the noose. The tension locked it tight.
RJ got her hands loose. She put her hands on York’s shoulders, pushed up, and he yanked the noose from around her neck.
The movement took out the sawhorse, already precarious, beneath them.
RJ went sprawling, hitting the cement hard.
She didn’t know where York had landed, but she rolled to her knees, her head spinning.
York must have gotten his hands on the gun because she heard his voice. “The thing is, if you pull your weapon, you have to be willing to use it. Ford, back off him.”
She found her feet and saw York with Crowley’s gun trained on the man.
“York,” she said quietly. She took a step toward him, put her hand on his arm. “York. You’re not this man anymore.”
He drew in a breath, shook his head, his eyes hard. “I’ll always be this man, RJ.”
“The man who shows up. The man who believes in justice, yes. The warrior God created, yes, but not this man, who kills out of revenge. This is not you. This has never been you.”
He looked at her then, swallowed.
Lowered his weapon. Took a breath.
A shot pinged off the cement girder behind her.
“Get down!” York turned to grab her, but she’d already hit her knees, scrambling away toward the shadows.
A hand grabbed her hair. “I told you we were going to have fun.”
Her breath caught.
Because for a moment, she was on a train station platform, a man’s face caught in the glow of the platform lights right before he kissed her. Just a peck, but enough to sour her gut and make her want to retch with the memory.
His arm went around her neck and the cold press of a gun barrel screwed into her neck.
“Gustov.” York’s voice, not far from her. “Let her go.”
“It’s time, don’t you think, for us to end this game? Gun, down.”
Her fingers clawed into his arm. “I should have guessed you two were working together.”
York put down his gun, held up his hands.
Crowley rolled over. “What took you so long?” He climbed to his feet, breathing hard, picked up his gun, and pointed it at Ford. Raised his voice. “Any of you try anything and I will end him.”
A crash sounded in front of them and Gustov jerked.
Another one, this time behind them. Gustov stepped away from the sound. “Stay back.”
She glanced to the side and spotted Wyatt in the shadows.
He pressed a finger to his lips.
Then he shouted. “Remember me?” Wyatt stepped out of the shadows. “Let’s have another go.”
Gustov jerked her around, pointing his gun at Wyatt, then York. Back.
She wasn’t sure where Tate came from, but in a second he materialized and swung a two-by-four at Gustov.
York lunged for her.
Ford rolled away from Crowley’s aim.
A shot fired off, a howl, and then she couldn’t see anything with York’s arms around her, dragging her away.
Another shot and it pinged off a metal girder.
“Neutralize him, Wyatt!” Ford yelled.
She spotted Wyatt just as Gustov slammed his gun into her brother’s head. Wyatt staggered back, fell. Tate was scrambling to his feet, growling, clearly injured.
Gustov pointed his gun at Tate.
And right then she knew it.
Gustov was going to kill them. Tate, then Wyatt. And probably Ford, and maybe even Knox and Reuben as they rushed to save her brothers.
Her.
And she would have led her entire family to their deaths.
“No!” She jerked away from York. “No!”
Tate glanced at her, frowned.
And then, before she could move, follow the impulse inside—York rushed Gustov.
To her rising screams, he grabbed Gustov around the waist, took two more steps—
York tackled the Russian over the open side of the building, sailing out into the darkness.
And was gone.
Roy hadn’t called York the Bird for nothing.
York tasted the night air, bold and ripe with the smell of pine and the decaying loam as he sailed out into the blackness.
Free.
Forgiven.
The kind of man he always was and would be.
A warrior, a man who loved justice. And Ruby Jane Marshall.
All the way to eternity.
The thing was, York didn’t think it through. Not really—he just saw Tate on his knees, spotted Wyatt groaning, and didn’t stop to think about anything past Gustov putting a bullet in Tate’s head.
Right in front of RJ.
Yeah, no, that wasn’t happening.
York was armed with nothing but his bare hands and the crazy urge to end this. To take Gustov out even if he had to die doing it.
If ever he needed a little divine help, it was now.
Please, Jesus. Help me finish this.
So he’d launched himself at Gustov. Locked his arms around him.
Took him over the edge of the building.
The ground came up quicker—and softer—than he imagined, and even as he lost his breath, he realized—
He’d landed in a massive pile of wet sand.
And on Gustov.
York rolled off the man, down the mound, over and over, until he lay on the ground, his hand on his chest.
Still alive.
His breath wheezed in through his constricted lungs.
But, yes, alive. And so was RJ and Tate and—
Gustov landed on him. Cuffed him across the face, put another fist in his gut.
And that was just enough.
York was tired of evil winning, of its relentless pursuit, its unfair games, its no-rules tactics. Tired of running, tired of looking over his shoulder.