Roy was younger than him by a good five years, had a head of dark hair, no scars on his face—not yet, and was built like the SEAL he’d been. He defined dark and grim and the kind of guy you wanted with you when you walked into an alley. Or at a beer park with a known former Russian gangster.

Overhead, the sky had turned deep indigo, the air balmy. Wind reaped the fragrance of nearby linden trees, pots filled with geraniums, and the fried schnitzel from the nearby restaurant. The quaint community of red-roofed apartment buildings, rose around them, and inside the garden, families sat at the tables, jammed together, laughing, eating pretzels and pickles and boiled potatoes.

“Not even a little,” York said. “But if anyone knows where RJ might be—and if Martin has her, it’s Gregori Dumas.”

“Ex-FSB?”

“Ex-everything. Used to run with the Petrov Bratva. Probably still does, although he’s connected to everyone—the thirty-six Boys from Germany, the Camorra, the Roma gangs, even the Pink Panthers, ex-Yugoslavs who specialize in diamond heists.”

“And he’s what to you?” Roy asked, picking up a thick waffle fry.

“He owes me.” York scanned the crowd one last time for the pocked-faced man, about six-two, lean and grim, a scar that ran across his cheek. A real ladies man.

Except York had his own scar, from a bombing once upon a time, and frankly, different time, different place, he might be exactly who Gregori had turned out to be.

If not for RJ, really, who’d appeared in his life, a light that yes, he’d had to save, but in the end, she’d save him, over and over.

Mostly from himself. And the man he no longer wanted to be.

Until now.

“You should eat,” Roy said, indicating his untouched wiener schnitzel and bottled water. “Especially if you’re expecting to go on an impromptu field trip with this guy.”

“I just need him to listen. Maybe ask a few questions.”

“You’re not planning on getting a tattoo and taking any brotherhood oaths, are you?”

York had been watching a man with a woman, a little girl on his shoulders as they found a table. The man pulled the little girl down and tickled her before setting her on what York assumed was his wife’s lap.

He looked at Roy. “Not if I can help it.”

Roy set down his beer. “I was kidding.”

“If Martin has her, then…I’m getting her back, Roy.”

He met Roy’s gaze, even when Roy drew in a breath. “I see. And if it’s you in exchange for RJ?”

He said nothing.

“Can you trust this guy?”

York twisted the top off his water bottle. “No. But like I said, he owes me.”

“How?”

“I got his wife out of Russia, back when I was in the transportation business.” He took a drink. Capped the bottle.