Page 66 of Ford

Run? Run where?

Away, clearly. She was on her feet, obeying him without thinking, heading toward a doorway in the opposite direction.

Only problem was—he didn’t follow.

When she reached the door, she turned and spotted him running straight for two men now sprinting toward them and shouting.

“York!”

He slammed into one of their pursuers like he might be a defensive back. He knocked the man over, spun, and delivered a roundhouse kick to the other.

Oh. My.

For a second, she was simply stunned by the stellar action hero moves.

The next, she was screaming as the first man found his feet and tackled York into the pool.

Oh—oh—she stood frozen, watching as York and he struggled. Somehow York had gotten his hands in front of him—maybe in the water—and now he surfaced and jumped on the man, his arms around his neck.

The second man went into the pool to help—what, drown him? The fight dragged them into the deep end of the pool, all three men going down for so long RJ ran to the edge of the pool.

Stopped. Oh—

The old, crazy fear reached up to throttle her, hit her in the chest. But this was a pool, not ariver—

York surfaced in the arms of one of the assailants, sputtering, kicking. Drowning.

Do something!

She spotted the pool net used for skimming off debris and grabbed it off the wall. Extended it over the pool.

York emerged again, this time with the other man, who slammed his fist into his face. Blood inked the water.

He had his hands around York’s throat, pressing his thumbs in, and RJ threw the end of the net over the man’s head, yanking hard.

The man fell back, away from York, who kneed him in the gut and threw up his arm in time to block the hit from the second man.

Her netted prey turned and yanked hard, and suddenly RJ launched into the pool.

The water sucked her down, cresting over her, thick with chlorine, cold and clammy against her skin.

She sank hard.

Kick, RJ!Ford’s voice from the past, igniting her panic.

But she was drowning, trying to find bottom, trying to kick.

Ford!

Then hands grabbed her arms and yanked her to the surface. She recognized the man she’d netted. She screamed, writhing in his arms, but he turned her and wrapped his arm around her neck. She dug at his forearm, but her feet couldn’t touch the bottom, and her kicks landed ineffectively against him.

York was wrestling with the other man, his hands around the man’s neck, dodging—or absorbing—his punches.

“Perestan!” her assailant shouted. “Perestan!”

York looked over at them, and the look on his face could undo her. Horror. Defeat.

Surrender.