Without anything else to go on, he’d called in Baxter Carlyle, his second in command. Baxter had immediately gotten to work, and soon Ryan had video of her leaving from a neighboring store’s security camera. The quality was for shit, but Ryan had recognized her build, the angles of her face, even the way she walked.
He knew her; dear God, he knew her.
Felicia.
There hadn’t been a doubt in his mind. The woman on the video—alive and well—was the same woman he’d watched get shot in the gut and tossed off a train into a raging river.
The woman he’d failed more than a decade ago.
The wife who couldn’t possibly be there.
And yet that had been her image on the tape. Her, or maybe someone impersonating her?
But how?
More important, why?
Now, in the hotel elevator, the tightness in his gut that he’d been battling ever since he’d seen that video returned in full force. A tightness that had only completely faded when Jamie had come to him in London, playing the game that was so very Jamie. A game that made him smile as much as it made him hard.
A game that had let him escape from his fears and worries for just a little bit.
Christ, what the hell was he going to tell Jamie?
As the elevator doors slid open and he stepped into the lobby, he could imagine her voice. Everything, Hunter. Tell me every fucking detail right this second. Turn around, come back to the room, and tell me what the fuck is going on.
Except he didn’t know what the fuck was going on. Didn’t know the repercussions of Felicia coming back from the dead. Didn’t know what she even wanted.
He thought about her text: I need you again, Ryan. Now. Desperately.
Was it his help she needed? Or was it him?
A fist seemed to tighten around his heart, his mind whirling with possibility. He needed to think clearly, dammit. Needed to be logical. To rely on his training.
His long strides ate up the ground as he crossed the lobby, his attention only on the door, with not even the slightest glance toward any of the hotel staff. Walking helped, his thoughts clicking into place. The first thing he needed to question was whether the woman even was Felicia. She looked like her, of course, and the carefully worded text suggested that she was.
He thrust out his hand to hail a cab, his thoughts churning as he slid inside and gave the address of the pub.
If it was Felicia, that meant she’d survived. Which raised dozens of questions, right there. Her injury had been bad enough, but the fall alone would have been enough to kill her. If she was alive—and it damn sure looked like she was—then maybe everything that happened on the train was an elaborate extraction.
And if that was the case, then Felicia had never been an innocent girl who hooked up with the wrong guy. She’d been in intelligence, and Ryan had gotten thrust in the middle of God only knows what. Had she been complicit in Mikal Safar’s murder? In the coup itself?
Hard to believe, but he’d worked in intelligence long enough to know it was possible. And pretty much the only option for her to have not only survived but to have remained hidden for so long.
And what about the alternative? What if the woman was an imposter? Well, that raised different questions. Why would someone do that? More importantly, why contact Ryan?
Blackmail? About what?
Revenge? For what?
Was there someone out there who blamed him for Felicia’s death? Maybe, though he couldn’t imagine someone who blamed him more than he already blamed himself. After all, her own father was already dead. But immediately after the failed mission—even while he was still in the hospital—Ryan had told Randall everything that had happened in excruciating detail. He felt he owed it to the man.
Randall had never once suggested that Ryan was to blame. On the contrary, he’d thanked him for trying to help, and apologizing that he’d unwittingly sent Ryan into a hornet’s nest on the verge of exploding.
Of course, Randall Cartwright did have a stepbrother with whom he’d been close. Perhaps William blamed Ryan for the loss of his niece?
Maybe. But why wait all these years to do anything about it?
He shook his head; he didn’t know.
And the bottom line was that he wouldn’t have a single answer until he met with the woman, which was exactly why he’d run out on his wife and was heading to the pub right now, this very moment, before she could bolt again.
And, yes, he knew that the odds were good that he was about to get wrapped up in one hell of a shit storm. And yet…
He couldn’t ignore that tiny whisper of hope. Because if Felicia had survived—if she’d come to him for help—then he’d just been handed a second chance.
Maybe it was a setup. But maybe she was truly in trouble. And he couldn’t turn his back on that. Not when it might be serious. Not when this might be his chance to make right what had gone horribly wrong all those years ago.
An opportunity to repair the biggest clusterfuck of his professional career. To ease his guilt.
But at what price?
Because the bottom line was that he didn’t know a goddamn thing.
That reality smacked hard against him, and his blood ran cold. Not a goddamn thing. Not even if Jamie was legally his wife. Because if Felicia was alive, what did that mean?
Oh, Christ, no. Please, no.
He drew in a breath, pausing for a moment as a wave of renewed guilt swept over him. He hadn’t said a word to her about Felicia. Not about the first aborted contact. Not about what he’d seen on the video footage. Not about the text he was now chasing. Not even about that mission so many years ago.
And to top it off, he’d flat-out lied about his reason for walking out on her now, manufacturing a fake work crisis.
He’d never done that before. Never. And he knew damn well that he needed to tell her the truth. All of it.
But somehow he couldn’t manage to make that call.
Because right then, there were only two things he knew for certain. First, that their world was poised on a knife edge. One tip in the wrong direction, and they’d go spinning off into the abyss.
And second, that Jamie could easily push them past that breaking point. Because if he knew his wife at all—and he damn sure did—he knew that she was going to go completely off the rails. And while Ryan might be a man who liked to be in control of his surroundings, he’d learned a long time ago that he couldn’t control Jamie Archer. Not fully. Not really.
Despite everything, his lips curved into a smile. Because that was what he loved the most about her. That wicked independence. A delicious wildness that only he could tame. Because he was the only one she’d ever allowed to tame it.
So, no.
He couldn’t tell her. Not yet, anyway. And not only because the situation would undoubtedly spawn an explosion, but also because he knew enough to know that if the woman was Felicia—and if she’d crawled out of the grave to find him—that meant that there was something out there a hell of a lot scarier than hiding under the cloak of a faked death.
Maybe he was justifying his silence, but there was a logic to his bullshit.
The taxi pulled to a stop and he passed the driver the fare, then stepped out onto the sidewalk, for the second time standing in front of that same pub near Marble Arch. This time, he’d get answers.
And, yes, coming here was the right decision, no matter how much keeping such a fraught secret from Jamie ate at his gut. At least it was only for an hour or so. As soon as he got back to the hotel, he’d sit her down and explain the whole thing.