York shook his head, stared out toward the river, the city that spanned the far side of the river, with its quaint red roofs and cobblestone streets. Romantic. Epic.

And the woman he loved was out there, without him. Possibly hurt. Possibly even being tortured and killed by the men who hunted him.

Still.

He leaned on the ledge, breathing hard.

“Hey, York—you okay?”

Not even a little. But he would be. He had to be.

He drew in a breath. Stood up. “You’re not the only one with friends, Roy. It’s time to do things my way.”

Then he turned and headed back down the stairs.

Chapter 2

Time to stop kidding herself.

This wasn’t a game. Wasn’t fun. Wasn’t even an adventure.

This was real stakes, real bullets.

Real blood.

RJ just wanted to get off the train.

And not just the imagined one where people were trying to kill her, but the actual one that now carted Ziggy, Hana and herself to parts unknown.

At least to RJ. Ziggy seemed to know exactly where they were going. She sat across from RJ on a bench, trying to ease her jacket from her bloodied arm, where only three hours ago, she’d saved RJ’s life.

Tackled her onto the kitchen floor, catching the bullet meant for RJ’s head, probably, leaving a terrible gash across her upper arm.

It had bled fast and profusely, Ziggy’s hand over it as they’d scrambled out of the apartment. RJ still couldn’t remember scooping up Hana, or even grabbing a towel for Ziggy’s wound, but somehow, she did both. Even tied the towel around Ziggy’s arm as she fought with the fire escape off the balcony.

“The stairs might only lead to an ambush,” she’d said as the stairway dropped.

Yep. RJ had done that math, too.

Hana had climbed down without a word, without fear in her eyes, and without a sound.

Which made RJ wonder just exactly who this little girl was, and what she harbored behind those big blue eyes and closed mouth.

She now sat on the train bench, her knees pulled up to her chest, her arms around them, staring out the window at the black night, the shapes of silver-tipped pine trees cascading past the window.

“Let me help,” RJ said and grabbed the end of Ziggy’s jacket arm, holding it so she could shrug out of it. Only the slightest narrowing of her eyes, the tightening of her jaw evidenced pain. She’d ditched the bloody towel at the train station and had pulled on the jacket to conceal the wound in the bathroom, out of her backpack.

RJ had grabbed her backpack too, but only because Ziggy had practically thrown it at her on their way out of the flat.