Chapter 9

CHAPTER 9

O ne minute. Wait one minute . Except Shep had seen London just down the hallway, and— sheesh, ten seconds out of his sight and?—

Forget this . He pulled out his phone and tapped on the flashlight.

Around him, people panicked under the darkness and the scream of the siren, rushing past him to find an exit, but he stood still, shining his light down the hallway to the bathrooms.

No London.

That didn’t make sense.

He spotted a slew of gowned women, but none wore the deep-blue V-necked dress that turned London into some kind of lady-in-waiting. He hadn’t known what to do with the sense that he’d stepped into a world way over his head as they’d gotten into the limousine.

He stood in the tourniquet of his monkey suit and cast his light around him, that sense crashing over him again. No London, and . . . shoot . He knew, just knew, this would happen.

“London!” He raised his voice, but the siren gobbled it.

Maybe she’d already headed to Cryptex. He took off down the hallway toward the stairs, following the map imprinted in his head.

No guard at the top, so perhaps York’s plan had worked. Shep raced down the stairs, then the next set to the ground floor, and found the glass corridor that led to the Cryptex entrance along with the external door to the palace.

According to York’s timeline, York would be standing on the other side of the door, in the courtyard.

Shep grabbed the handle and opened the door.

York stood on the other side, looking at his phone. He glanced up. “They’re trying to turn off the alarm, but Coco has hacked the system. We have maybe three minutes and then the entire system is reset.” He glanced past Shep, frowned. “Where’s London?”

“Not here,” Shep snapped. “She was in the hallway before the blackout. I waited—she never came back to me.”

“Maybe she’s already at Cryptex.” York pushed past him and ran down the glass hallway, Shep on his tail.

Please, please ? —

Darkness bled through the Cryptex door, and Shep looked inside the glass, through the entry to the lobby behind the barred gate. Just the eyes of the computers, glowing against the night.

“She can’t get to the inner area without help,” Shep said. “Someone has to hit the buzzer under the desk while she grabs the door.”

York turned away. “She’s not here.”

Duh. Still, the words sliced through Shep. He wanted to put his hand through the glass door.

Instead, he blew out a breath. “Let’s go back to the palace. I should have checked the bathroom.”

York nodded, and Shep took off back down the corridor to the palace entrance, flew up the stairs.

The lights flickered on, the siren cutting off as soon as they reached the second level.

People stood in the hallways, their hands to their ears.

Shep slowed, strode past them down to the bathroom, paused only a moment, then, “Man on the floor!” He shoved his way into the bathroom.

The door banged against the wall. Empty. “London?”

He stalked down one side, searching for a closed door. Nothing.

Repeated on the other side.

Turned and spotted himself in the mirror.

He looked like a man who would do violence.

York had followed him in. “Not here?”

“Not. Here.” He rounded on York. “Now what?”

“We can’t get into Cryptex without her card?—”

“Forget the mission, York! She’s in trouble .” He kept his voice low. “Someone took her.”

York’s mouth tightened. He whirled around and headed back out into the hallway.

Palace guards stalked the hallways, requesting the guests to assemble in the great hall. Fine —Shep headed toward the ballroom. Maybe ?—

York followed him. “We need to talk to their security, see if we can get any footage?—”

“You took that out, remember?” Shep didn’t want to say it, but frankly, he’d hated their entire stupid plan.

Hated the entire gig, really. And sure, he was all for getting London away from this Russian mob, but . . .

Breathe.

London, I’m still on mission. I’ll find you.

A number of the guests must have evacuated, because the crowd that assembled in the great hall was sparse. And no London.

Shep held in a word as Prince Luka took the dais. “Please, everyone, stay calm. There is no fire, simply a malfunction of our system. All is well?—”

“York.”

Shep looked over at the male American voice that called York’s name. A man, maybe six foot or more, came through the crowd. He wore a suit, not a tuxedo, so maybe security instead of invited guest. Tawny brown hair cut military short, blue eyes, and bearing a fierce, almost military demeanor as he pushed through the crowd to York.

“Fraser Marshall. What are you doing here?” York held out his hand, met Fraser’s with a quick shake, Fraser’s other hand gripping York’s arm.

“I’m here with Princess Imani and Creed. They’re with Pippa.” He lifted his chin, indicating someone across the room. Shep followed his gesture and spotted a woman standing in a dressy black suit, her dark hair back in a high bun, wearing an earpiece.

“I should have guessed,” York said.

“Pippa thought she spotted her old roommate, London, across the room earlier, and then I saw you. Something’s going down. What is it?”

“You know London?” Shep said, stepping up to the man.

“Shep Watson—this is Fraser Marshall. He’s a former SEAL, now works security for the Royal House of Blue from Lauchtenland. Fraser—Shep. He’s on the Alaska Air One Rescue team and is here with London, who is here visiting her parents. Her mother is the US Ambassador to Montelena.”

Fraser shook Shep’s hand. “I met your outfit last year during a rescue. Moose still at the helm over there?”

Shep nodded, but he was more interested in—“How do you know London?”

“She’s Pippa’s friend, really. Where is she?”

Pippa. Roommate. University . Her story came back to him.

“Bathroom,” York said.

Shep turned to Fraser. “Actually, she went missing in the blackout.”

Fraser frowned. “Missing?”

York held up his hand, but Shep was tired of the games. “Yes. And frankly?—”

“She’s not missing,” York said, giving Shep a glare. “She just evacuated with the others.”

Shep blinked at him, his mouth tightening. What was his game?

“We’re about to leave too.” Fraser raised an arm and gestured to Pippa, beckoning her over.

York had grabbed his phone, texting.

Hello, did no one get it? London. Was. Missing. With an assassin on her tail and?—

York’s hand grabbed his arm. He held up his phone. Shep read the text.

Coco

I got the GPS on her phone. We’re tracking her.

Shep stared at him and a terrible realization gripped him, brought him back to a conversation he’d had months ago with Colt Kingston, the man who had tasked Shep to watch London.

“You want someone to find her.”

“No. But we do want someone to make a move. We’ve been trying to figure out who might be behind some events that happened globally. And she’s the key to that.”

Now he turned cold as he looked at York. “You planned this?”

York’s mouth opened, then closed. “Let’s talk outside.”

Shep clamped his hand on York’s wrist, tightened his grip, then pried York’s hand from his arm. “I’m done with this.”

He turned and pushed through the crowd as the music started up again, probably an attempt to return the world to some semblance of calm and order.

Like the ensemble playing on the deck of the Titanic as it sank into the sea.

“Shep!” York’s voice, but he ignored it.

He spotted Prince Luka heading his direction through the crowd, but he was done with the bowing and the Your Highness es and the posturing.

He wanted London. Now.

Finding himself in the grand reception hall, Shep strode through it to the doors.

“Mr. Watson.”

He slowed, turned.

“Is everything all right?” Luka came closer, frowned. “Where is Delaney?”

“Good question,” Shep said as York pushed through the doors to the room, and behind him, his friend Fraser. “My girlfriend went missing in the chaos. I’m trying to find her.”

Prince Luka seemed genuinely concerned, his brow tightening, his chest rising and falling. “You think something . . . untoward happened?”

“Untoward—yes, I think something untoward happened. I think she was kidnapped.” He glared at York then, coming up to them.

“Let me get my security to look into this?—”

“We’ll find her, Your Highness,” said York. Behind him, Pippa came in, along with a woman in a ballgown and a tall tuxedoed man with dark hair. The woman wore a small tiara in her black curly hair.

“I should know that if the Caleb Group is around, there’s trouble.” This from Pippa.

“The Caleb Group?” asked Prince Luka. “What is that?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Shep said. “Yes, you can help. Search the entire castle.”

Prince Luka nodded.

“I’m going to see if she’s outside.” Shep stalked toward the door, hit the corridor, then pushed through to the entry yard.

The air held a crispness, the breath of snow, or rain, lacing the air. He noticed that York hadn’t followed, so maybe he was staying behind to help search.

He breathed in, listening to the banging of his heartbeat.

And tasted the disappointment that she wasn’t out here, waiting for him. A number of guests, however, stood shivering in the cold, waiting for limousines to fetch them. He scanned the group just to confirm, many of the guests now bundled in fur or wraps.

The cool air slicked through him, cooled the sweat that Shep hadn’t realized he’d worked up, the one bead that dripped down his back.

London, where are you?

He lifted his gaze to the night sky, so many stars blinking down at him, a perfect thumbnail moon hanging over the faraway peaks. Lord, please help me find her.

How had whoever had taken her gotten her out of the castle? Except, this wasn’t the only door—he knew that.

And then . . . shoot . The tunnel.

He ran a hand down his face.

York pushed out of the doors.

“Why are you not searching the castle?”

“We are— they are.”

“You should try the tunnel.”

York frowned. “Tunnel?”

“There’s a secret tunnel into the castle. We used it yesterday to escape the assassin. Maybe they saw it, used it to get in—or out.” He shook his head. “I cannot believe you used London as bait. Who are you after?”

York gestured away from the others, moved over to a space away from the awning, in the shadows.

“We knew that Drago Petrov was after her—of course he was. But we also hoped that Alan Martin would poke his head out. We lost him after—well, he tried to set off a bomb in Lauchtenland a year ago, and since then, we can’t get a bead on him. We thought maybe getting London back on the grid?—”

Shep lifted his hands, then clenched them, put them back at his sides. Turned away. “If it is possible, as far as it depends on you, live at peace with everyone.” Fine. But oh, he wanted to put his fist into something. Or someone.

“Listen, we’ve got this?—”

“Clearly you do not have this. I cannot believe that you . . . that at the very least you didn’t tell us—tell me —of this possibility.”

York exhaled hard, and his voice bore apology. “Yes. Agreed. But we had this one chance, and we didn’t want anything to keep us from finding him.”

Shep blinked at him. “What if they kill her?”

“They won’t kill her.” York met his gaze, and Shep wondered just who this man was and had been, because a steely look came into it. Lethal and cold. “They need her seed code to get into her account.”

“They could hurt her to get it.”

York didn’t move. Then, “She’s a Black Swan?—”

“She’s not a freakin’ superhero! She’s a human being who—” Okay, breathe . He’d let himself off his leash a little there and now reined it back in. “She’s the woman I love.”

“And I get that. Better than you think. But you have to know that she does know how to handle herself. She’s tough?—”

“Tough enough to be tortured ?” Again, words he’d never thought he’d say. He had, however, cut his voice low.

York’s eyes bore the truth.

“Oh my—” Shep held up his hands, then fisted them. It did no one any good for him to strangle the man. “Where is she? Has your tracker found her?”

York held up his phone and clicked on a link. A GPS screen opened, and he zoomed out. His jaw tightened.

“What?”

“It’s looks like they’re heading east. Which means they’re in a chopper.”

“What’s east?” Shep reached for the phone. York yielded it, and he turned the view to satellite mode. Stilled.

“Mountains,” York said. “All mountains.”

Shep shoved the phone back into York’s hands. Then he turned and walked down the stairs and across the courtyard, into the darkness.

Stood for a moment in the cold, just to get his head on right.

Then he pulled out his phone.

The line picked up on the second ring, and he hoped they weren’t out on a call.

“Shep. Everything okay?”

Just hearing Moose’s voice felt like a handshake, firm and solid.

“No. London’s been kidnapped.”

Silence. And he didn’t know where Moose might be, but he dearly hoped he’d heard the question in Shep’s statement.

“What do you need?”

“A chopper. My team. She’s in the mountains, and I need to get her.”

“Okay. Sit tight. I’ll be in touch.”

He hung up. He looked up at the dark sky, the stars. The cold needled through him as the wind began to blow.

But he didn’t fear the cold.

No, he relished it to keep him sharp, focused.

And still on mission.

* * *

The last thing, the very last thing, Moose wanted to do was to fly halfway across the world and leave Tillie and Hazel alone.

Then again, the second to last thing he wanted to do was abandon Shep. And London. Poor Shep had sounded stripped and not a little wrecked, and Moose had never let a teammate hang out to dry, so . . .

“You have to go,” Tillie said from where she sat at his island, drinking coffee. She wore a pair of yoga pants and a long sweatshirt, her dark hair pulled back, having just returned from dropping Hazel off at school.

Because they were all apparently trying to pretend that someone hadn’t just tried to burn them to death.

She’d listened with a grim look as Moose spoke to Shep on speakerphone.

Now, Moose ran his hands down his face. Aw, he hated this. “We haven’t gotten the fire report back yet. What if it was arson? What if someone is trying to kill you?”

“Like who, Moose? Rigger is dead.”

“Like Harry Benton! He threatened me—and everyone I care about—at the courthouse.”

A beat, then, “That’s still playing in your head? C’mon, Moose, the guy was angry, not serious. Most likely, it was my ancient furnace finally giving up the ghost. They said the fire started in the garage.”

“Which might be the easiest place for an arsonist to get in?—”

“Just cool your jets.” She slid off the stool, came over to him. Oh, he liked it when she put her hands on his chest, stepped up to him, into his orbit. The action always settled the swell of emotions swirling inside him.

Like anger. Or frustration.

Panic.

“You’ve let Harry Benton and his words win. He is long gone, back to Illinois. And Hazel and I are fine in your fortress here, so just . . . get on a plane already.”

She and Hazel had moved back in, taking the two guest rooms, and with Axel still hanging out in the basement, a sort of permanent chaperone, it felt like everything might sort itself out.

He still hadn’t come around to asking her again, or maybe for the first time, really, but he would. Soon. Now he wrapped his hands around her upper arms and met her beautiful brown eyes. “Maybe I’ll call Oaken and see if he can come over.”

“What’s he going to do, hit Benton over the head with his guitar? I have more personal security skills in my pinky toe than he does in his entire toned, cover-model body. Seriously.”

Probably, and that made him smile a little.

“There it is, the Moose smile that makes the whole world feel better. No wonder Shep called you.” She looped her hands up around his neck. “He seems pretty freaked out. And that is not Shep. He doesn’t unravel.”

“No, he doesn’t,” he said. “But if you went missing . . . oh wait, you were. . . .”

She narrowed her eyes, and he leaned down, his lips just a whisper from hers. “And I unraveled.”

“And then you found me.” She lifted herself up to kiss him.

Technically, she’d found him , but he wasn’t going to argue. Not when she tasted of coffee, smelled of something floral, maybe her shampoo, and felt so perfect and right in his arms. Like she’d always belonged.

Should always belong.

Tillie, please marry me.

The question lingered in his chest as she deepened her kiss.

Oh. Boy .

And yep, that’s when his brother’s footsteps sounded on the stairway from the basement.

Tillie let Moose go and stepped back just as the basement door opened.

“I knew it. As soon as Tillie moved in, it’s like, ‘What’s around door number one? A little snoggin’?’ You guys need to hang a sock on the doorknob or something.”

“No sock needed,” Moose said, and stepped away. “But maybe we should attach a bell to you.”

“Yeah. Meow. Meow . Just marry her already.” Axel came over to the fridge and opened it, grabbing the milk.

But Tillie had gone quiet, glancing at Moose, and he’d put a hand around his neck and . . . shoot. Bad timing, again.

Axel shut the fridge door. Glanced at the couple. “Something I’m missing?”

“Don’t drink out of the carton. And Shep called. London’s missing.”

Axel set down the milk carton. “Again?”

“Really?” Tillie said. “Axel.”

“I’m just saying, what is her deal? Talk about needing a bell.” He reached for a glass in the cupboard.

“Shep said she’s been kidnapped.”

Axel set down the glass.

“Shep is freaking out,” Tillie added.

Axel picked up the carton to pour. “Shep doesn’t freak out. He might go all dark and scary inside, but he does not do freaking out.”

Silence.

Axel looked at Moose. “Wow. It’s really that serious?”

“Really.”

He picked up the glass. “So, what, are we saddling up?”

Moose looked at Tillie, who’d folded her arms, staring at him. He sighed. “Yes.”

Axel was mid-drink. He put the glass down. “Yes? I was sort of kidding. What, we’re jumping a plane for . . . where’s he at again?”

“Montelena. It’s a country near Switzerland and northern Italy, south of Austria?—”

Axel held up his hand. “Europe. Check. And we’re supposed to do what ?”

“Shep said they’d tracked her into the mountains, so . . .”

Axel closed up the milk carton. Put it back. Closed the fridge. Turned. “Just so I got this right. We’re flying over there so we can . . . sneak into the lair of an international terrorist and rescue a woman who is a little like the female version of James Bond. This is like calling in the Boy Scouts for a mission to help SEAL Team Six, but whatever. I’m in.”

“Good. I have a couple favors I can call in and get a plane.”

“A private plane?”

“Remember that favor I did last year?—”

“The one where you flew into Russian airspace and dropped a couple hitchhikers out into midair to parachute into Kamchatka? The one where you broke a couple international laws and nearly got fired at by ground-to-air missiles? Yep, I remember that one.”

“Thanks for that.” He glanced at Tillie, whose eyes had widened. “Long story.”

“Can’t wait to hear it.”

He turned to Axel. “I think I can get the same plane.”

“Nice. Want me to call Boo?”

He looked at Tillie. “Yes. And Oaken. See if they’ll both come over while we’re gone.”

Tillie sighed.

Axel glanced at her, back at Moose. “Oh, I see. We’re still freaking about Tillie’s house.”

“Hello. It exploded .”

Axel lifted his hand. “Not arguing. I talked with Flynn yesterday, and she says it’s still an ongoing investigation. So yeah, maybe you want to call Dawson and see if he’ll camp out here too.”

“Not a bad idea.”

Tille looked at Moose. “We’re fine.”

“Yeah, well, maybe I’m not.” And oops, maybe he shouldn’t have said that in front of Axel, but, “Every night I wake up with the nightmare of you inside that house, Tillie. Burning to death. If you hadn’t smelled the gas and gotten out of the house, you might have been.”

He walked over to her. Took her hands. “I just . . . I’m just trying to keep life from crumbling beneath us.”

Then he pulled her to himself, wrapping his arms around her, holding her. Wanting to never let her go.

“I’ll be packing,” Axel said. “That’s your ten-minute warning.” He left them in the kitchen.

Tillie raised her head, met Moose’s gaze. “It’s going to be okay, Moose. I can take care of myself, and Hazel, and we will be here waiting when you get back.”

Waiting for their tomorrow to start.

And maybe that was the problem. Every time he took a step, the world slid out from under him. How could he ask Tillie to marry him when he didn’t know what kind of future he could give them?

“As long as you promise to come back.”

He kissed her, slow and long and giving her every promise he could make.

Except the one he wanted.

And ten minutes later, he walked out the door with Axel, praying he wasn’t making the worst mistake of his life.

* * *

London opened her eyes, stared at the creamy plastered ceiling, light filtering in through a small window too high for her to see out of, too small for her to climb through.

Aw, they’d brought her to Castle Petrus.

The twelfth-century fortress in the mountain on the edge of the Austrian-Italian border in the high Dolomite Alps, near Tyrol, Italy. Built into the mountain and seated on a narrow outcropping, it was accessible only via a tunnel through the rock. The castle itself sat one hundred and twenty-three meters from the valley floor, a sheer drop from the high window in her room, and it clung to a cave that contained passageways for escape.

But from the outside, impregnable.

Especially since she was still wearing her dress. Torn, the skirt ripped, the sequins torn off in areas, at least the sleeves were intact.

And she was barefoot, so that was uber fun.

The smells of the castle—aged wattle and daub, wood fires from ancient days, and even the scent of the high firred mountains around her—filtered through the thick walls.

She lay on the wooden floor of the room, the door closed, just the strip of light to ward off the chill, just her heartbeat as company. Her neck throbbed where Tomas had dosed her—and?—

Shep .

She sat up, her pulse in her throat. Please, don’t let Tomas have . . .

She closed her eyes. Reached inside. Steeled herself. Because she knew—just knew—that having Shep involved would only get him killed.

Please, God .

The door opened and she climbed to her feet as a brute of a man stood at the door. Six-foot-gigantic, he had the girth of a Brahman bull and held a taser. “ Davai. ”

“Let’s go” in Russian, so . . . back to the Petrov Bratva, apparently.

She pressed back her hair, then pulled it out of the unraveled French knot, shook it out, and stepped into the persona of the only one who could save her.

Laney Steele.

Igor pushed her ahead of himself, and she walked down the hallway, the stone on one side, a worn brick floor beneath her feet, to a stairwell that curled down around the edge, the expanse in the middle falling down five stories. At the next story down, he pointed along a hallway, and she headed toward a large room with a massive stone hearth. Windows overlooked the valley below.

She didn’t know why she expected to see Drago Petrov waiting for her. The very name had evoked in her the image of Ivan Drago, the Russian who’d fought Rocky in the fourth installment of the movie—thick, tall, spiky blond hair, indestructible. She’d never met Drago Petrov, but his reputation had built in her head enough to make her exhale when she spotted Tomas standing alone in the room, his hands in his pockets.

This room was attired like a ski lodge—a thick wool rug, a couple leather sofas, a worn coffee table, and a fire in the hearth—minus, of course, the ambience.

So, maybe the lair of a possessed king, like in Lord of the Rings, and thank you very much, Shep, for putting The Hobbit in her head. There, and maybe not back again.

Outside, it seemed winter had found this higher elevation, snow on the mountains as far as she could see.

“Where’s Shep?” she said as she came into the room.

Tomas wore a pair of black jeans, a white woolen sweater, had shaved and cleaned up from his short-term captivity. Now he just frowned at her. “Shep? Why would we bring him?”

Oh. But she didn’t exhale.

“Although, he and I do have unfinished business. Goodbyes we didn’t say, so . . . perhaps you’re right. That was a mistake. Next time, we’ll make sure he joins us.” He winked then and gestured to the sofa, as if they were on holiday.

“What’s going on?” She sank onto the sofa. Igor came over to stand beside her. Probably held the taser on her, but she didn’t look. “I thought we were working together.”

“Until your people decided not to trust me.”

She raised an eyebrow.

He held up a hand. “I know, I know, but it was a perfect plan. And then you had to go and create your own virus.” He put a hand to his chest. “I’m hurt.”

“You lied to us. Your virus was a heist.”

“And it would have worked.” He sighed. “It’s okay. At least you have a fresh bio card.” He pulled it out of his pocket. “Or I should say—I do.”

Her mouth tightened around the edge, but she raised a shoulder.

“You won’t get the seed code from me.”

“Really.” He tapped the card against his hand.

“Tomas, what do you want?”

“Besides the seed code? How about . . . justice? Or would it be called retribution?”

“For what?”

“Leaving me to die in Zermatt.”

She leaned back. “So now what? Take the money and run? The Bratva will follow you.”

“Oh, I know they will. Day and night, like a bad odor.” He perched on the arm of the opposite sofa. “Almost like they’re in my head.”

She stared at him as he smiled. Slow and . . .

Wait . “Where’s Drago Petrov?”

“It’s hard to be the leader without any clout. And when all your money goes missing . . .” He raised a shoulder. “And when you have the money, you have the power.”

She frowned.

“It’s more of a position than a person.”

No . “You killed him?”

“Not personally. But I knew people who wanted him dead. You don’t count the Petrovs’ money without knowing who they double-crossed.”

He crossed his arms. “You’re looking at the leader of the Drago Petrovs, yes. And I want my money back.”

Her mouth opened. “You weren’t . . . I mean?—”

“Yes, darling. Drago Petrov died the day you stole his money. I thought it would be easy—blame it on you.”

And suddenly, it all clicked. How Alan Martin had found them, betrayed them. And how Tomas had so easily “obtained” the seed code. And even why he’d stayed behind at the foot of the mountain in Zermatt.

He’d sent her up on the mountain for Alan to kill her. Maybe even serve her up as a trophy.

“You faked your own death. You weren’t even at the chalet for the avalanche.”

“No. Watching. And when you went missing . . . well, I went back for my money. The last thing I expected was for you to have already transferred it to your own wallet. Tricky, tricky girl.”

See, there was a reason she hadn’t told him about the transfer, she just hadn’t known it.

“Why didn’t you kill me when you first met me?”

“We needed to see who you were working for. And eliminate them. And it worked out better than I thought—or would have. Drago is a ghost, and I can walk in and out of any country I want, no questions asked. It’s amazing what you can do when you’re dead.” He leaned forward. “Although, the key is to stay dead, darling.”

Her mouth tightened. “You sent the Orphans after me.”

He shrugged.

“You betrayed me.”

“That’s rich.”

She looked away.

He got up, put his hands in his pockets. Smiled. “So, I’ll start with manners. I’d like my money back, please.”

“Seriously?”

He nodded to the man behind her, and Igor pressed the taser to her neck.

“Tomas—”

“You will give us the seed code, sweetheart. Because if you don’t, you’re not the only one who will suffer.”

London’s eyes widened as another version of Igor came into the room, this time guiding a woman by the arm, her hands tied behind her back. Her long dark hair hung a little disheveled from a ponytail, and she wore all back—black leggings, black tunic, black boots.

“Ziggy!”

Blood pooled at the side of her mouth, her eye bruised, and she winced a little when the man shoved her down on the sofa beside London.

“What—”

“Sorry I’ve been incommunicado. Got tied up.” She winked.

“What are you—” She turned to Tomas. “What is she doing here?”

“Your legendary Black Swan leader? Oh, she’s been causing trouble for me for years. I thought it might be time to come to an agreement.”

Ziggy narrowed her eyes at him. “What kind of agreement is that?”

“Oh, not with you, darling. Her.” He nodded at London.

London stilled.

“You tell us the seed code or we beat her to death.” He looked at Igor. Nodded.

Igor slapped Ziggy. She slammed into the cushions even as her foot came out and kicked her attacker in the knee. He stepped back, cursed, and rebounded, his fist pulled back.

London leaped up, threw herself in front of Ziggy. “Stop!”

A thousand volts hit her back, stiffened her body, and every muscle contracted. She fell to the floor, paralyzed, her breath shucked out.

“That’s enough, Staz.”

The volts instantly stopped, but her muscles refused to recover, and she lay immobilized, pain clogging her breaths, her brain.

Ziggy called him a name in some language London didn’t know.

“You Black Swans are supposed to be invincible,” said a voice.

She knew that voice. It nudged something deep in the back of her brain, but she couldn’t . . . seem to . . .

Her breath came back with a whoosh, the paralysis shaking out of her limbs, which turned prickly and sharp. She lay on the floor, just breathing, fighting to get her strength back.

First rule of fighting: wait for an advantage. She’d been stupid, impulsive, and, well, so very London.

C’mon, Laney. Find your way back.

The man who’d spoken knelt down, and a hand pushed her over to her back.

And then she stared up at him.

A scar over his forehead, dark hair—she remembered thinking of him as handsome when she’d arrived at the chalet, before she knew he’d killed her handler. He wore a wool winter coat and a pair of leather gloves, and Ziggy breathed his name even as London tried to form it.

“Alan Martin. I should have known you were behind all this.”

As London watched, he stood, looked at Ziggy. “Miss Mattucci. Lovely as always. And tenacious. Oh, and bloody. My goodness, I hope you don’t lose a tooth.”

He stepped back, and Ziggy’s Igor hauled up London and set her down on the sofa again beside Ziggy.

Alan stepped back, reached out to shake Tomas’s hand. “Sorry it took so long for me to get here. What did I miss?”

“I was just asking Laney for her seed code.”

Alan took off his gloves, put them in his pocket. “Oh good. I hate to miss anything.” He undid his jacket and sat on the opposite sofa. Folded his hands.

Tomas glanced at him, just a hint of a frown, then got up. “Are you sure we need to make this difficult?”

London froze. He wouldn’t . . . She looked at Ziggy, her tight jaw, her dark eyes. And Ziggy looked back at her.

“Assurgo.”

Stand up. But . . . even as she stared into Ziggy’s eyes, she saw it.

Help was coming.

She nodded, and Ziggy closed her eyes as if steeling herself.

And then everything inside London turned to ice when Alan Martin said, softly, “Proceed.”

Igor took a step toward Ziggy.

London froze. And then— nope. Not happening .

Her body buzzed, still on fire from the taser, and fury flamed inside her. She dove at Igor, hand out, her palm slamming against his chin.

He fell back, just a little, enough for Ziggy to come alive. London heard—no, sensed?—

the scuffle between Ziggy and Martin even as muscle memory kicked in.

She was bleeding from the mouth, barefoot, and dressed in rags, but inside her, Laney Steele raked to life.

Help was coming.

No. Help was here.