Page 49 of Wyatt

“Big enough for you? No. But I have a sweatshirt that might fit.” She swung her backpack down and pulled out a black sweatshirt.

He barely squeezed into it, pulling up the hood. He looked like a freakin’ teenager, so he pushed up the arms. It didn’t help, but he wadded the shirt up and shoved it into the front kangaroo pocket of the sweatshirt.

“Here.” She handed him a bottle of water. He washed his hands, wiped them on his pants, then took a drink.

His hands were shaking as he replaced the lid. Handed the bottle back.

She took it without words and slipped it back into her backpack.

“Let’s go.” He led her out of the alley and quick-walked toward the train station.

It had all happened so fast, neither of them said anything for a long moment. Not until he walked past the train station and turned down a shadowed street.

“What’s going on? How did you find me?”

“You called me, remember?”

“I…but, who was that? I saw her on the train—”

“She works for Gustov. One of his assassins, I think.”

Her breath shagged out, ruffled and thick.

“You’re going to be fine. We just need to lie low until we can figure out our next move.” They passed Lenin Street and then turned down a side street—Partizanskaya Street for the patriots. He spotted a two-story blue-and-white building with the Gostinitsa over the door. Hotel.

Out of the way, cheap, but by the sign, it had internet and a café.

The lobby was empty, and Kat wandered over to a fish tank as he booked them a double room. Two beds, second floor, near the end of the hall.

York came over to stand by her. “C’mon.”

She drew in a breath.

He hadn’t seen her in a month since he’d dropped her off at Roman and Sarai’s apartment, and now he took a good look at her. Thin, pale, and not a little shell-shocked. Yeah, well, being on the run did that to a person.

“I’m a fish,” she said quietly. “Just swimming. Going nowhere. People watching me.”

“Oh brother. Let’s go.” He put his arm around her, and they took the stairs to the second floor.

The room was clean, the wallpaper gold, the bedspreads a light blue. He turned on the lamp between the beds, and the light pooled on a wooden floor, a thin scatter rug.

She sank down onto the farthest bed as he walked over to the window and drew the shade. Then he turned to her.

“What are you doing in Belogorsk?” He didn’t mean his tone—except, maybe he did because frankly, he was still shaking a little from the knockdown with Tanya, her blood in the cracks of his hands, despite the brief washing.

“Aren’t we going to talk about the body we left back there?”

He just looked at her a moment, then headed to the bathroom, tore off the sweatshirt, and washed himself. Then he pulled out his sodden shirt and washed it out. Blood ran down the drain, but he scrubbed his shirt as clean as he could, then wrung it out and hung it over the shower.

He grabbed a towel, draping it around his shoulders as he emerged and leaned against the doorjamb.

She was staring at him.

“My question first.” He raised an eyebrow.

“I came to visit my son.”

If Tanya had risen from the dead and burst in through the door, it would have surprised him less. He blinked at Kat, trying to wrap his—