Ford by Susan May Warren

Author:Susan May Warren
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Susan May Warren

7

This just might be the longest seven days of his life.

York lay in the cramped bottom bunk of the train compartment, watching central Russia slide by as morning broke in the east. They were passing a river banked on either side by thick pine, elm, and maple, and the dawn skimmed off it in glorious reds and golds.

He’d never been this far east. North to St. Petersburg, yes. And west to Finland, for a conference Tasha dragged him to, but east had always meant Siberia, and no one willingly went to Siberia.

But they weren’t going to Siberia—but beyond it, to Far East Russia, where apparently David Curtiss had a friend who would get RJ and Kat on a ship and point them even farther east, to Alaska.

The whole thing sounded old-school. But he knew the CIA would be looking for them on a plane. The CIA and the FSB and who knew who else.

Damien Gustov.

In the bunk above him, he heard typing—Kat, awake and working on her computer. She’d barely spoken to either York or RJ since being kidnapped, as she deemed it, although no one handcuffed her to get on the train at the station.

Okay, maybe a little because the general had sent a couple of his men with them—thankfully not the ones York had tussled with, or there might have been a do-over.

His ribs still hurt, his lungs chafed from the dunking in the pool.

Never mind that it had been for naught because RJ hadn’t obeyed anything he’d said. Had instead gotten herself pulled into the pool and used as leverage against him.

This is why he worked alone.

He blew out a breath.

Across from him, RJ groaned and rolled over in her bed. Pocketed her hands under her head. Sighed.

“You okay?” he whispered, and her eyes opened.

She looked at him. With the dawn breaking through the window, it cascaded over her body, turned her skin a warm hue. She wore Coco’s runners, along with a sweatshirt she’d borrowed and with her dark hair in bedhead tousles and no makeup, she looked about seventeen.

At thirty-two, he felt ancient next to her, his body protesting every position of comfort he’d tried to find.

“Yeah. Just a little sore from saving your hide yesterday.”

He stared at her.

She smiled.

It lit up her entire face and drove light into the darkness inside.

He refused to smile, however, and turned away.

“Really? Nothing? Not even a little nibble? No ‘Sorry schweetheart, but I had it all under control’?”

“You were told to run.”

She sat up. “And leave you to drown? Hardly. Besides, what was I supposed to do once I got away? Hope that nobody thought it was a little weird to see a disheveled American tied up and wandering around in the woods? Although, this is Russia, so who knows what secrets other people are hiding. Maybe they’d just think…Vat do you know? Another Russian spy escaping from Uncles Boris’s place…” She affected a Russian accent, rolling her Rs.

He looked up at her, fighting a grin.

She glanced to the upper bunk.

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