Page 18 of Ford
“For the record, I don’t think you should separate, Scarlett,” Sonny said. “You were always an asset to us. Ford said you were the best. Always had his back. But I also think you’d make a great Rescue Swimmer.” He gave her a wink, then headed toward the shed.
Nez was swinging his keys, looking away from her. He seemed to be considering something. Finally, he sighed. “For what it’s worth, I think Ford has a pretty full plate right now. But when he gets back, I’ll bet you hear from him.”
It wouldn’t matter. Her life in the military was over.
She was off the team.
The only team she had left was Gunnar.
“Thanks, Master Chief, but I think it’s time for me to move on. Give the team my best.”
His mouth made a thin line. “We’ll miss you. Be safe, Scarlett.” Then he turned and joined his team in the shed.
And she went home to wash her face and figure out the rest of her life.
Ruby Jane was trapped in a spy novel.Escape from Russia.It felt like a Cold War–era thriller, same plot, same desperate heroine.
RJ stood at the window overlooking the courtyard—rutted cement, a broken swing set, a mangy dog sniffing at a cardboard box—her hands wrapped around her waist.
Wow, had she made a mess of things.
Not only that, but she needed a change of clothes, her cell phone, and a decent meal. But maybe her hunger and the grimy clothing were what she deserved for thinking she could actually do something brave and significant and save the day.
Like her twin brother, Ford.
Okay, not that she was competing but…
Fine.Of courseshe was competing. Because that’s what the Marshalls did—competed. Maybe they never voiced it, but the fact was, every single one of her brothers wanted to prove they were as good as—no,betterthan—the ones who had gone before, including their father.
And that competition reached its pinnacle in her SEAL brother Ford, Mister I-Can-Save-the-World.
Yeah, well.Shehad stopped an assassination of a Russian general.
Top that, bro.
Except, what was supposed to be an easy tip-off to her contact in Russia, someone who could then relay the news of the threat to General Stanislov’s people, warn him, and save his life, had turned into an international man—er, woman—hunt.
She’d seen the grainy picture on the news but could easily recognize herself.
Someone had set her up.
It just might be the man currently holding her captive.
Although, she hadn’t exactlyseenher captorsince he’d rescued her from the FSB, led her through the streets of Moscow, on subways, down alleyways, doubling back, circling around, and finally ending up here, in the three-room flat with log cabin wallpaper, orange carpet, and two twin beds, one in each room.
Stay here, don’t go out, don’t turn on the lights.
Don’t breathe, probably.
Only after he’d left, only after he’d dead-bolted the door behind him—she couldn’t leave if she wanted to—did she realize he’d spoken English.
So, she’d slept. Listened to the news. Read a book on the shelf,The Brothers Karamazov.
That Russian language minor had finally come in handy.
She wished she still had her bag with her, but that had been lost shortly after the assassination attempt, as she’d fled the scene.
Fled. The. Scene. No wonder her picture ended up on television.