“Have we been?”
“I don’t know. But the train never fully stopped. Hopefully that means we haven’t been.”
But that promising possibility was shot down—literally—by a spray of automatic weapon fire that riddled the ceiling. Ryan yanked her to the floor, covering her body with his. He was unarmed, having been searched three times before boarding the train. Smuggling a weapon hadn’t been an option. He’d wished at the time that there’d been another way. He wished that even more fervently now as at least a dozen men in full combat garb rushed toward them.
“Move,” the burliest of the group said, his English heavily accented.
Ryan shifted position and lifted his hands, revealing his own gold band. “Please don’t harm my wife. We’re newlyweds. We came here for a vacation mixed with some business. We’re trying to get back home.”
The man raised his rifle, then aimed it right at Ryan’s chest. “Move,” he repeated. “Or your blood will stain the woman before we kill her, too.” A malicious smile slithered over his face. “But first we shall enjoy her, no?”
Ryan heard Felicia’s whimper. It didn’t take long to calculate his odds. All things considered, he had exactly zero in his favor. Without a choice, he nodded, hoping that the thug’s superior would be more reasonable.
With Felicia walking on trembling legs in front of him, they were ushered through the next carriage. It was a freight car, with the sliding doors open. The night loomed beyond the car, and the river churned beneath them, dark and ominous, and altogether too far away for Ryan to be sure of survival.
Felicia stopped, her hand seeking his. He took it, knowing immediately what had made her halt. In front of them, he could see a cluster of passengers through the doors connecting their car to the next—and each and every person was writhing as bullets from unseen assailants riddled their bodies and they collapsed out of sight, dying ignobly on the hard, cold floor of the freighter.
“Mikal Safar,” the burly man said from behind them as Ryan took a step closer to Felicia, the icy burn of his training warring with hot, liquid fear. “The girl is his,” the man growled. “And he is scum.”
The dissident’s rifle pressed into Ryan’s lower back, pushing him closer to Felicia. “We’re jumping. Be ready.” Ryan’s whisper was little more than breath, and he hoped she’d heard and understood.
Another hard push of the barrel, powerful enough to bruise Ryan’s spine, as the other men around him laughed and crowed. “And you, pig, are nothing but meat.”
Ryan forced himself not to shudder as he gathered his strength, a split second of time seeming to pass like minutes. He hoped she understood the risk he was taking. Hoped she knew it was the only way. They probably wouldn’t survive the fall, but at least they would have a chance. At least they would be choosing. If they stayed in the car, they’d be dead within minutes at these bastards’ hands. Probably seconds.
He didn’t count to three, just launched himself sideways, grabbing Felicia by the arm as he threw both of them toward the open doorway. At the same time, he twisted his body away from the gun, his muscles crying out in protest against a maneuver that even all of his training and hours in the gym couldn’t have anticipated.
He felt the cool rush of air on his face as they neared the door, then the stabbing pain and liquid heat from the blood that poured out of his side. He’d moved enough to save his spine, but not to escape the bullet.
Still, if they could just get through that freight door…
The thought was still in his head as he felt the slam of the hard, hot surface of the carriage floor beneath him. And then the shooting pain of a metal-toed boot landing hard against his ribs before crushing down on his wrist, forcing him to release the death-grip on Felicia’s arm.
She lay beside him, a bubble of blood on her mouth, her hands pressed to a gaping wound in her gut. Another wave of pain cut through him. Not physical this time. The pain of loss. The pain of knowing that he’d failed her.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered, the word cracked and barely audible, but echoing his thoughts with perfect clarity. “Should… never… have… come.”
He struggled, trying to move, the world growing dim around him, his arm screaming from the pain of the heavy boot holding him down. And then it was him screaming, too, his throat raw from the sound of his agonized protests as three of the men hauled Felicia to her feet, the wound gushing so much blood he knew she would never survive the injury. At that point, though, it didn’t matter. Whether it was the wound or the river, he knew that she was dead. His mission. His responsibility.
His wife.
As the gray cloud of unconsciousness settled over him, he watched them push her off the train and into the dark, forbidding water of the river.
Chapter One
Many Years Later
“This is Jamie Archer,” I say, after tapping the ear bud to connect the phone that’s tucked away inside my purse on the far side of the room.
“Your professional name?” Even over the phone, I can hear the surprise in Nikki’s voice. I understand why, too. After all, I’d told her what I had in mind for tonight, and there’s not a shred of work on the agenda. “Does this mean you abandoned your plan?”
I hear the hope and bite back a frown as I shimmy into the red silk dress I’ve bought for this evening. “Hardly. It means I’ve been playing phone tag with Carson Donnelly and didn’t check caller ID.”
“Let me guess. That’s somebody big in Hollywood.”
“Do you hear that thudding sound? That’s me banging my head against a wall. Honestly, Nik,” I continue over her laughter, “considering you’re friends with some of the biggest stars in LA—not to mention the city’s hottest entertainment reporter—you have to start paying more attention.” As billionaire Damien Stark’s wife, Nikki rubs shoulders with movers and shakers in all industries, including mine. But except for projects that her friends work on, her knowledge of Hollywood caps off about the time that Hitchcock was directing Jimmy Stewart in Vertigo.
It’s a massive character flaw in my best friend, but I’ve learned to live with it.
“Why should I work at paying attention when the city’s hottest entertainment reporter tells me everything I need to know? Like who Carson Donnelly is.”
“He, my ignorant friend, is currently the most celebrated director in town. And I interviewed him for that special I’m producing. We ended up hitting it off, and he’s seriously considering casting one former actress turned entertainment reporter—initials JAH—in his next movie.”
“No way!”
“Way,” I say, then actually giggle. Which is pathetic because I am so not the giggling type. “I love my job, but acting is still on my bucket list. And think of the access it would give me for more interviews.”
“Like you need more access. You’re already the hottest entertainment reporter in town, which means every actor and director is banging down your door for an interview.”
“I am awesome, aren’t I?” I zip the dress and slip my feet into the waiting sandals with four-inch heels. Then I examine myself critically in the full-length mirror, and I’m pretty damn pleased with what I see.