Page 67 of Ford

He let go of his victim-slash-attacker and held up his hands. “Let her go,” he growled. “Let her go!”

She wanted to weep as his assailant grabbed him and led him onto the deck. He threw York down, shoved a knee in his back. York lay immobilized, his cheek pressed to the cement.

She closed her eyes as the man zip-tied his legs, then rolled him over to retape his mouth. Her captor brought her to the edge of the pool and pushed her up the steps. Held her captive with his arm around her neck again as York’s wrist ties were cut, then his arms resecured behind him.

His captor stood up, wiped his face, and turned.

Looked at her.

Why hadn’t she run? She was supposed to be at the edge of the forest by now, maybe farther, running for her life. Running for help.

I’m sorry, York.

“Idi Sooda,” the man said quietly.Come here.

York’s eyes held so much frustration, so much lingering fight she had to look away as she obeyed.

The man cut her cuffs and motioned her to turn around.

She held in her grunts when they resecured her wrists, tighter this time, retaped her mouth, and put the hood over her again. She was led over to the wall where they pushed her down to the floor.

Grunting, and the sound of dragging, and York was deposited near her.

He growled, despite his gag.

She rolled over to her side, into a ball. Tried not to weep.

What a fool she’d been to think she could—what? Save the world?

She wasn’t a soldier, wasn’t fierce and brave, and—truth was, she’d probably tell themeverything.

For a moment in the darkness, she was right back there at the cave, clinging to Ford’s hands in the clammy darkness.Please don’t leave me.Her cowardice had nearly cost them both their lives.

And now York had put his life on the line for her—and she’d been too scared to leave him. To run and maybe even save them both.

She should stop pretending to be someone she wasn’t and just admit that she was a coward.

And now a good man was going to die because of her.

RJ lay there on the cold cement, shivering as water dripped off her, and with everything inside her, prayed she’d make it home.

She wasn’t sure how long she lay there, listening to her heartbeat, trying to hear York’s. He groaned a couple times, and she wondered if he’d broken ribs in his battle.

The far door creaked again. Footsteps.

She braced herself when they stopped in front of her.

The hood was yanked off her head, and a woman squatted down in front of her. Late thirties, with long, dark brown hair pulled back into a severe bun. She wore a black jacket, a white shirt, and held a gun.

The materialization of RJ’s wildest KGB nightmares.

RJ looked around and spied York lying on the floor beside her. He wasn’t moving.

“Hey! They’re not supposed to be tied up!” A second female voice, speaking in Russian, but so familiar RJ would have recognized it anywhere.

“Coco?”What—?

Her foster sister walked over to her, wearing a pair of jeans, white Converse tennis shoes, and a T-shirt. “Get those cuffs off her,” Coco snapped, again in Russian. Then she met RJ’s eyes. “I’ll explain, I promise.”