Chapter 7 #4
“Then maybe—” Britta stopped. Looked out at the water. “Maybe calling my dad is the right thing. Get the Secret Service involved. Get professionals protecting me. Let you go back to your team, where you’re not responsible for keeping me alive every second.”
Everything she said made sense.
Logical. Practical. Smart.
And West hated every word of it.
Ribs screaming, face throbbing, exhausted and injured and completely out of his depth, West tried to figure out how to let her go when every instinct said to hold on tighter.
I won’t let anything happen to you.
She leaned against him. Just slightly. Just enough that he felt the weight of her. The trust.
West put his arm around her. And maybe, deep inside, in a place where he couldn’t admit it—he didn’t want to let her go.
He’d made a tactical mistake.
Alan lay on the bed in the dark, staring at the popcorn ceiling, and replayed the agreement he’d made with York on that beach four hours ago.
“Help me stop the next phase of the operation. Whatever Tomas has planned—tell me everything.”
“I don’t know—”
“You do this, and I’ll make sure you see Timea. Meet your daughter.”
York had expected every piece of intelligence. Every operational detail.
Problem was, Tomas was smarter than that.
Alan knew nothing.
Meanwhile, York had locked Alan in this ratty hotel and disappeared.
The AC unit rattled in the window, blowing recycled air that smelled like mildew and someone else’s cigarettes. The bedspread was rough under his palms, some synthetic tropical print that had been washed a thousand times.
They’d taken his phone. The one with the picture, the threatening text.
Timea and Fia would die because he’d made promises he couldn’t keep.
Tomas had probably already moved them.
But Alan kept replaying a what-if in his head. That moment when this could be over.
When York kept his promises.
“Hello?”
Alan closed his eyes. The ceiling fan creaked overhead, barely stirring the stale air.
“Ma’am? My name is York Newgate. I’m an old friend of your husband’s. I need you to stay calm, but I have someone here who wants to talk to you.”
“My husband is dead.”
Sixteen years she’d believed that. Sixteen years of grieving a man who’d been alive, killing people, trying to earn his way back to her. Yeah, no way she’d believe York.
“Ma’am, that’s what we need to talk about. He’s—”
In his thoughts, then, Alan grabbed the phone, his voice broken and desperate.
“Timea?”
So many responses flitted through his mind.
“Ethan?”
“Yeah. Yeah, it’s me.”
The sound he imagined—half sob, half gasp—hit him square in the sternum every single time. Like a knife sliding between ribs.
He put a hand to his chest.
“You’re alive. They said—they told me you were—”
“I know. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
“Where are you? Where have you been? Sixteen years, Ethan. Sixteen years I thought—”
In his mind, her voice broke. She dissolved into crying.
And his own eyes filled, and he realized he had no words. Nothing that could explain. Nothing that could make it right.
“I’m in Florida. I’m—Timea, I can’t explain right now, but I need you to know I’m alive and I’m coming to find you and—”
“Fia doesn’t know.” Timea’s voice turned fierce in his imagination. “She thinks her father died before she was born. You can’t—you can’t just—”
“I know. I know. But I’m going to fix this. I promise—”
Alan opened his eyes. The ceiling fan still turned. The AC still rattled. Outside, a car door slammed. Someone laughed—drunk tourists stumbling back from Duval Street.
He had to fix this on his own.
He sat up. Swung his legs off the bed. His feet hit carpet that was damp from the AC condensation leak he’d found earlier near the window.
The window.
Alan moved to it, tested the frame with his fingertips. The hotel had installed hurricane-rated glass after the last big storm. Double-paned. Reinforced. Someone—probably Ham’s team—had added a secondary lock to the interior latch. The kind that required a key he didn’t have.
He could break it. Maybe. But the glass was thick and he’d need something heavy. The chair wouldn’t work—wicker frame, too light. The lamp was bolted to the nightstand.
The connecting door was a better option.
Alan crossed the room. Pressed his ear against the door to the adjoining room. Heard voices. Two people, maybe three.
He went to the main door and tried it. The lock was commercial grade. There was a card reader on the outside, but they’d disabled it and added a physical deadbolt. He could hear it when he jiggled the handle—the bolt was seated deep, probably into a reinforced frame.
He knelt. Examined the gap between door and carpet. Maybe three-quarters of an inch. Not enough to slide anything useful through.
The hinges were on his side of the door.
Alan stood. Studied them. Standard hotel installation. Three hinges. Pins visible.
He could remove the pins. Take the door off from his side. With the pins gone, the door would tilt free of the frame.
He needed something thin and hard. A screwdriver would be ideal. Or a nail.
Alan searched the room. Checked desk drawers—empty except for a faded tourist map and a pen that didn’t work. The bathroom—tiny bottles of shampoo, wrapped soap, one scratchy towel. Nothing metal except the shower-curtain rod, and that was too thick.
He went back to the desk. Examined the chair. The wicker was held together with thin metal staples. Alan worked one loose, bending it back and forth until it snapped free.
Not ideal. But it would work.
He returned to the door. Knelt in front of the bottom hinge. Wedged the staple underneath the pin and leveraged it up.
The pin moved. Quarter inch.
The voices in the adjoining room grew louder.
“—should be sleeping by now—”
“—after what he’s been through? Doubt it—”
Alan worked faster. The pin rose another half inch. He adjusted his grip, pushed harder.
The pin popped free.
It hit the carpet with a soft thud.
The voices stopped.
Alan froze.
“Did you hear that?”
“What?”
“Inside the room.”
Footsteps approached the hallway door.
Alan moved to the middle hinge. Jammed the staple under the pin. Leveraged.
The hallway door handle jiggled from outside.
“Martin? You okay in there?”
The voice was familiar. Young. Maybe one of the overeager operatives on the Jones, Inc., team that he’d escaped.
Alan didn’t answer. Worked the pin up.
“Martin, I’m going to need a verbal confirmation that you’re not doing something stupid.”
The pin rose. Alan’s hands were sweating. The staple kept slipping.
“I’m calling this in.”
“Wait—” A different voice. Older. “Give me the key.”
“Protocol says—”
“Let’s check on him first.”
Alan got the second pin free. Moved to the top hinge.
This one was tighter. The staple bent when he tried to wedge it under the pin.
“Martin.” The voice turned calm and low. “Whatever you’re thinking, don’t. You run and York pulls the deal. You’ll never see your family.”
His hand slipped. The bent staple dropped soundlessly into the carpet.
“That’s it. I’m calling—”
“Already here.”
New voice. Deep. Authoritative. Hamilton Jones.
Alan stopped. Stepped back from the door.
Footsteps. Multiple people. More than just two of them.
A key scraped in the lock. The deadbolt slid back.
The door opened.
And fell forward off its remaining hinge.
Alan caught it. Held it at an angle, pins gone.
“Going somewhere?” This from a tall man with brown hair and dark eyes that considered Alan. Logan Thorne.
So the Caleb Group had shown up, joined the party. Alan recognized Colt Kingston beside Thorne, hand near his weapon. Tate Marshall, looking exhausted, dark circles under his eyes. And some reinforcements—Fraser Marshall, and even, yes, Hamilton Jones himself.
“Creative,” Ham said. His voice was mild. Almost conversational.
“How’s Signe?” Alan said as he set the door aside. It scraped against the wall.
“Glad that you’re in custody.” Ham folded his arms and stepped into the room. The others followed, fanning out. Colt moved to the window. Tate took position by the bathroom. Fraser leaned against the desk. Ham stayed by the door, free of its frame.
Logan remained in the hallway, watching. “Trying to escape the agreement with York?”
Alan shrugged. “Spies lie. You should know that.”
A spark in Logan’s eye suggested his own dark history with the CIA.
“York will keep his word,” Ham said.
“He locked me in here and disappeared four hours ago.” Alan’s voice came out rougher than he meant it to.
“He’s securing your family. Making sure they’re safe.”
“I’ll do that myself.”
“With what resources?” Colt spoke up. His voice had a western drawl, lazy and dangerous. “You got a car? A weapon? Cash? ID that isn’t burned?”
Alan said nothing.
“Thought so.” Colt shifted his weight. “So you were going to what—steal a car? Hope the Petrovs don’t have every asset in Florida looking for you?”
“They don’t know I’ve turned yet.”
Silence.
He sighed. “Here’s the deal. I don’t know the Bratva’s next plan. I’m on a need-to-know—and right now, I don’t have a clue about Tomas’s next move.”
“What about the yacht attack last night?”
“I was only there to…” He blew out a breath.
“To kidnap the president’s daughter,” Logan said.
Alan met his gaze. “I didn’t know anything about the bomb. I was sent for Miss White, not to blow up a ship. And for the record, I didn’t take her.”
More silence.
“Why does the Petrov Bratva want her?” Logan said.
Alan raised an eyebrow. “Really? To create leverage against President White.”
“Why?” Logan stepped into the room.
“I don’t know.”
“Not good enough,” Logan said.
Alan met his stare. “It’s the truth.” He took a breath. “But I do know that they’re not going to quit. Not until…”
A beat.
“They want a war. Between the US and Russia. One that Russia will win, or at least they believe that. And they’ll do anything—anything—to make that happen.
War is at the heart of the troika—the three men who really pull the strings in Moscow.
The Petrovs aren’t just working for themselves.
They’re well funded and globally motivated.
And…I’m just an expendable pawn in their game. ”