“Somebody get help,” Ry said.
“You got it.” A new voice—familiar, somehow. Alan couldn’t place it.
He turned his head and saw . . . well, he knew this bunch—Navy SEAL Ford Marshall, his CIA sister, Ruby Jane, and York Newgate entering the kitchen.
York.
The man looked exactly as he had in the ballroom—composed, controlled, lethal. But his eyes, when they found Alan’s, burned with something cold and endless.
Another man followed them in. Leaner, sharp-featured. He smiled when he saw. “Hey there, Orion.”
“Roy.” Orion’s voice held surprise. “What are you doing here? You okay?”
“Yeah. I’m good. Especially now that you got this guy. We’ve been trying to pin him down for a while. All those missives sent by Signe to the CIA? Martin intercepted them. Redirected them.”
Yeah, he had. But that was old news.
The Bratva had moved on to other crimes, dragging Alan along.
York walked over. Bent down in front of Alan, close enough that Alan could see the scar on his jaw. “Hey there, pal. Remember me?”
Alan said nothing.
York looked up at Orion. “Last time we met, Martin tried to kill me.”
“Get in line,” Orion said.
“Search him,” Roy said. “Make sure he doesn’t have anything lethal.”
Ford patted him down, rough and efficient. Came up with the cell phone and the key card. The phone was locked.
“What’s this?” Ford held up the key card. “Where does this go?”
Alan closed his eyes. The linoleum was cool against his cheek. The pain was distant now, almost peaceful.
“It doesn’t matter,” he said.
“What?”
“Whatever you’re trying to stop.” A laugh bubbled up—broken, bloody. “You’re all too late anyway.”
But even as he said it, even as they hauled him to his feet and zip-tied his wrists and marched him toward whatever dark room awaited, Alan felt something he hadn’t felt in months.
Relief.
The running was over. The masks were off. Whatever came next—prison, interrogation, a bullet in a quiet room—at least he wouldn’t have to pretend anymore.
It was over.
TEN
The Hunter Valley’s romantic charm was starting to feel like mockery. The wine was excellent, the fireplace was warm, and Dakota had spent the entire day searching rooms and finding nothing.
Riley’s suitcase had been gray, rolling, and completely wrong—different brand, different wear pattern, a luggage tag from a cruise line Jayden had never mentioned. The Novaks’ bags were travel backpacks. Vic’s bag was stuffed with IT equipment and what looked like an entire pharmacy’s worth of anxiety medication. Gerald’s contained nothing but birding guides and binoculars. Howard’s bag was filled with vitamins, compression socks, and three identical pairs of khaki shorts.
No sign of rifle components. No sign of the gray nondescript bag that had started all of this.
So yeah, that was just fantastic. Their assassin could be on the way to Sydney right now.