Chapter 5 #2
Then he’d cradled her face in his hands and bent down to kiss her. She’d tasted of something sweet—maybe her morning yogurt, although it could simply have been the essence of Selah. Sunshine and light and peace and joy and, oh, she was exactly the package he’d wanted—needed—to return home to.
And he needed to stop waffling and propose already.
As if to make that point, Skeet came into the kitchen right then and whistled. “Man, I need a girlfriend.”
Selah had laughed as she broke away. “I made enough eggs for you too. And West, if he ever gets up.”
“He’s in Tennessee, visiting his family. Decided to detour on the way home from…”
She’d raised an eyebrow as she pulled a bagel from the toaster.
“Oops.”
“It’s fine. I know you were in Kazakhstan.” She’d pointed to a bag in the hallway that still held his check tag. “Airport code ALA. I think that’s Almaty, right?”
He’d wrinkled his nose at her. “You travel too much. And I plead the fifth.”
“I get it. You tell me, you have to kill me.”
Skeet had poured himself a cup of coffee. “No. North would just grab you up and disappear into the night.”
“Why? He’s not a killer?” She’d winked, but the words had hit him in the chest.
And it hadn’t helped when Skeet took a sip of coffee and said, “Oh no, he’s a killer.”
North had stared at him. What—
“All that lethal charm,” Skeet had said then, winking at Selah.
She’d rolled her eyes and turned back to the stove, and North had tried to eviscerate Skeet with a look. C’mon. The last thing he’d wanted his missionary girlfriend to associate with him was…well, the things he did OCONUS.
Things unmentioned and yet sanctioned.
Things needed for America to be safe.
He had lost his appetite.
He’d left to change clothes, and when he returned to the kitchen, Skeet had left.
Selah had sat at his kitchen table, sipping her coffee, wearing a distant look. But she’d smiled at him when he appeared. Set down her coffee. “You okay?”
“Yeah, why?”
“Just…I don’t know. Something…” She’d lifted her shoulder.
She could read right through him sometimes.
He’d sat down at the table. Reached for the bowl of eggs.
“I know you do dangerous things, North. I mean—you were the guy who rescued me in Nigeria.” Her hand had gone to his arm, squeezed.
He’d given her a look, sighed. Nearly added to her statement. But oh, he hadn’t wanted her to see…Well, certain pockets of his life were simply off-limits.
Except she’d reached out and touched the scar on his jaw. He usually wore a beard or a scruff of whiskers over it. That day, he’d shaved.
“How old were you when you got this?”
He’d told her the story before, although maybe not in detail.
“I was thirteen.”
“Playground fight, right?”
He’d sighed. “A kid named Bobby Jenkins had this fifth grader pinned against the monkey bars. Kurt Morris. He was maybe eleven, scrawny kid. Asthma.”
“And you just walked over…”
“Told Bobby to back off.” He’d smiled into his coffee as he picked it up. “Bobby didn’t. So I helped him back off.”
“And got this.” Her finger had traced the scar again.
“Bobby had a ring. Bled more than it hurt.”
What had hurt more was his father’s reaction. So much for being a hero.
“But you’d do it again.”
You’re a pastor’s son, Nolan! You don’t beat up kids on the playground.
“Every time.”
She’d leaned up and kissed him then, soft and sweet. “That’s why I love you. You see someone in trouble, you help. No questions asked.”
Now, slogging through mud in the dark, North barked out a harsh laugh. The irony burned worse than the rain. He’d fallen in love with her certainty, her vision of him as that protector. Then spent years trying to protect her from herself.
Until he couldn’t.
Lightning flashed again. Through the storm, he spotted a fence line. Dark shapes huddled under oak trees. Horses.
The nearest one lifted its head—a bay mare. Still wearing her halter, so she might have bolted from her barn or pen. Steam rose from her rain-slicked coat as she moved toward the fence, nickering softly.
North lifted a hand and she startled, then he lowered it over the fence and put it on her velvety nose. Her breath warmed his frozen fingers.
His phone buzzed. He pulled it out. Ham.
“North? Signal’s bad—you there?”
“Not so much. Got…detoured.”
“She’s on the move.”
Perfect.
Thunder rolled across the valley. The mare shifted, ears flicking.
“How far am I?” North asked, fingers finding the mare’s halter.
“A couple miles. You hoofing it?”
The mare’s dark eye regarded him calmly.
“I think I have transportation. Send those coordinates before my phone dies.” He stared at the phone until the message came through. Opened it. Spotted Selah’s ping in the woods east of her previous location.
The screen went black.
“Great.” North pocketed the useless phone. He searched the field for a barn, a house.
Nothing. And now he was turning into a horse thief. Well, it was just a couple miles, right?
The mare watched him climb the fence, landing with a splash beside her.
“Easy, girl.”
No saddle. No bridle. Just a halter and a lead rope. But he’d ridden more than once on the farm he’d worked at during his summers in South Dakota.
The mare stood steady as he gathered the rope into makeshift reins.
Her back rose like a mountain when he swung up, rain-slick and broader than he remembered horses being.
However, she moved off at his nudge, picking her way across the wet grass.
Her hooves splashed through puddles. The rain stung North’s face as she broke into a trot.
His thighs burned, unused muscles screaming as he found his balance. Wind whipped her mane against his hands. He found a gate and opened it, then closed it and climbed back on.
The mare’s hooves drummed against asphalt.
Ahead, mountains rose into storm clouds.
Where are you going, Selah? Are you running? In trouble?
Lightning split the sky. The mare crow-hopped, nearly unseating him. North grabbed the mane, thighs clamping as she settled.
“Easy.” He leaned forward, speaking against her ear. “You’re not the only one who doesn’t like this.”
The mare’s stride stretched out, eating up ground. Rain became needles against his face. His hands ached from gripping her mane, but he could feel her power building. She wanted to run.
He let her.
They thundered up the road and then around a bend. Through sheets of rain, North caught glimpses of another house. This one with a wraparound porch, a large garage. A barn.
Lights from the windows.
And beyond the house, woods, a trail breaking through.
He rode up the driveway. Wind howled through pine trees, driving the rain sideways. North’s legs trembled with cold and effort. He’d lost feeling in his fingers.
He’d never felt more like an idiot.
Something moved in the shadows—a cat, startled by their approach. It darted back into the garage, but the mare spooked sideways, losing her footing on slick rock.
She reared.
North tumbled back, the mare’s body slippery, and just like that, he landed in the mud.
Pain exploded through his hip, and he fell back, his head slamming against the driveway.
The mare bolted.
And he lay there, the world spinning, Selah’s voice in his ears. That’s why I love you. You see someone in trouble, you help. No questions asked.
Yeah, well, he had questions. Plenty of them.
And it started with…Was this the life he really wanted?
Then the rain and storm took him, and the world went dark.
* * *
Eighteen or so years ago…
Of all the places to be on New Year’s Eve, stuck at a Moscow ball without the woman he loved seemed a terrible way to start the new year. Especially if this night cost him his life.
Alexander Steele stood at the edge of the embassy ballroom, holding a glass of champagne, the drink untouched. Snow fell against leaded windows, and somewhere in the darkness beyond, the spires of St. Basil’s Cathedral pierced a sky heavy with Cold War–era secrets.
The embassy ballroom sparkled with new money and old power.
Crystal chandeliers threw light across women draped in designer gowns, diamond necklaces.
Young oligarchs in Italian suits clustered around elderly diplomats who still wore Soviet-era medals.
Somewhere, a chamber orchestra played Tchaikovsky while servers circulated with beluga caviar and hundred-dollars-a-bottle vodka.
Just a week ago, he’d been in Budapest, watching Timea hang ornaments on her family’s Christmas tree.
Her father had read Dickens aloud while snow fell outside, and Timea had curled against Alexander’s shoulder, her hair smelling of cinnamon, her smile holding promise.
For one evening, he’d let himself believe in the lie of their tomorrows. A happy ending for a spy.
Now, watching York Newgate dance with his wife, Claire, Alexander’s chest ached. Claire’s laugh floated across the ballroom, pure and sweet, so like Timea’s. Both women carried that same light, that innocence that made this job harder every day.
“Wisconsin farm boy cleaned up nice.” Tom Crowley materialized beside him, his voice carrying a hint of lingering disapproval. “And I have to admit, he’s good at his job.”
“Best deputy security chief the embassy’s had, according to your man, David Curtiss.” Alexander kept his tone neutral, watching York guide Claire through the crowd. The man who’d married Crowley’s daughter without permission had earned his position the hard way—competence that couldn’t be denied.
“I wouldn’t go that far.” Crowley sipped his drink. “But he’s loyal. To Claire, if nothing else.” His eyes tracked to the other side of the room. “Speaking of loyalty, your boy Damien’s been making some interesting choices lately.”
Damien Gustov held court near the caviar table, his Brioni suit worth more than a month’s pay. A circle of wannabe oligarchs surrounded him, gold watches flashing as they gestured.
He’d done well. Two years after agreeing to the employ of the US government, Damien had proven not just useful but steeped in potential. If he could just get a handle on his money. Live a little less large.
“Deputy minister’s son.” Crowley’s voice dropped. “Living well above his means.”
“I noticed.” Alexander took a sip of the champagne. It burned his throat. Last week, Damien had been spotted at the Hungry Duck with known Bratva members.
“We need eyes on him.” Crowley watched his daughter dance, his jaw tightening slightly. “Someone who won’t be bought. Someone with everything to lose.”
Alexander’s phone vibrated in his pocket. He let it go to voicemail.
“York may not be my first choice for a son-in-law,” Crowley continued, “but he’s proved himself. Clean record. Moral compass. The kind of man who’d die before betraying his country.” A ghost of a smile touched his lips. “Let me know how it goes.”
The chamber orchestra shifted to a waltz. Alexander’s phone buzzed again. Timea, again. Not now.
Nine minutes later, Alexander pushed through the heavy bathroom door. York stood at the sink, adjusting his bow tie.
“We need to talk.”
York glanced at him. “Do I know you?”
Alexander kept his voice low. “We need to discuss Damien Gustov.”
“The deputy minister’s son?” York glanced at the door, back at Alexander. “What about him?”
“You’ve noticed the changes. The unexplained meetings. The new friends.” Alexander stepped closer. “The money that shouldn’t exist.”
“I notice everything in this building. It’s my job.”
Funny. York didn’t sound like he was from Wisconsin. More British, really. Crowley wasn’t telling him something.
“The question is,” York said, “who are you?”
“Someone Crowley trusts.”
“Crowley doesn’t trust anyone.” But York’s stance eased slightly. “Especially not with his daughter’s safety. Again, name.”
Right. “Al”—er—“Alan. Martin.” His mother’s maiden name. Felt like something he could remember. He held out his hand. “And clearly Crowley trusts you, because here you are. The man who married her without his blessing, now running his embassy security.”
York shook Alexander’s hand even as his jaw tightened. “I’m just the second in charge, but I earned that position.”
“Yes. You did. That’s why we need you.”
Alexander’s phone buzzed again. His chest tightened.
“We?” York’s eyes narrowed.
“Your country needs you to watch Damien. Report his movements. His contacts. Especially his new Russian friends.”
“I don’t know. I have a family. Claire’s pregnant.”
“And your wife and child will be safer if we stop whatever he’s planning.” Alexander thought of Timea, of her laugh when he’d given her the crystal ornament for her tree. “Sometimes we have to lie to the ones we love to protect them.”
York considered him, his mouth a grim line.
“Take the night. Think it over.” He pulled out a card—no name, just his number. “But don’t wait too long.” In his pocket, his phone hummed again.
York took the card, tucking it into his jacket. “You should answer that. Might be important.”
Alexander waited until York left before pulling out his phone. Three missed calls from Timea. He answered. “Babe—”
“Where were you? I’ve been trying—” She broke off, choking back a sob. “It’s Papa. He had a heart attack. He’s in critical condition.” Another sob. “Please. I need you.”
Memories of his own father’s death slammed into him. Seven missed calls on his cell while he partied on some Galveston beach. The voicemails, his mother’s broken voice.
“I’m on my way.” He was moving before the words left his mouth. “Hold on, love. I’m coming.”
He burst out of the bathroom, nearly colliding with Crowley.
“So, how’d it go—” Crowley started.
“Family emergency.” Alexander headed for the coat check. “I have to get to Budapest.”
“And York?” Crowley grabbed his arm.
He met his eyes. “He’s our man. You’ll see—he’ll say yes.” He jerked his arm from Crowley’s grip. “Trust me.”
Outside, snow fell harder. St. Basil’s had disappeared into the whiteout. Alexander’s breath frosted the air as he flagged down a taxi.
“Airport,” he said in Russian, sliding into the back seat. Through the window, the embassy’s lights turned fuzzy.
He’d started this night preparing to recruit a man to lie to his wife. Now he was racing across Moscow to comfort the woman he loved, carrying his own lies like stones in his chest.
The joke really had been on him. He’d thought he was the one who would break Timea’s heart.
Instead, she was breaking his, one heartbeat at a time.
And if he wasn’t careful, it might cost him everything.