He cleaned his face, then balled up the napkin. “What’s your next step, York?”

He considered Roy. The man had been tortured by the Taliban, escaped and then been forced into service for the CIA. Still, he’d made a sort of peace with his life, it seemed. As if he knew who he was, was content with where he woke up every morning.

“I know I love RJ.”

Roy nodded. “And she loves you, I know it. But you do need to figure out if that means you two belong together.” His mouth made a grim line. “I’m hitting the head. See you in five.”

York finished his sandwich, his coffee.

By the time he finished his coffee, Roy had moved the car to a pump. “Just thought we should fill up.”

York scanned the parking lot. No motorcycle, just a couple big tankers and a few family sedans.

The sun had sunk behind the city as they drove through it then away from the shore. Shadows cast over the road as they climbed into the hills, past farmland. Night fell, the land dotted with lights from far away houses, the moon rising, an orange ball to the east.

Roy’s phone buzzed in the panel between the seats and York picked it up. “Logan.”

“I got your message. What’s up?”

York filled him in on the hunt for RJ, and his meeting with Gregori. “He said there’s a bounty on me. I’d like to know who put it out there.”

“Sure. I’ll get Coco on it. Where are you guys right now?”

“Italy. Headed up to a friend’s villa in Tuscany.”

“It’s ninety degrees and smoggy here. I should be on a plane.”

“You and me both.”

“Eat some pasta for me.”

York grinned and hung up.

Maybe he should just calm down. Of course he and RJ belonged together. He was just tired, strung out, still hurting, maybe a little paranoid—

“Lights, behind us York.”

He glanced in the mirror. Three lights, a large one in the middle, two on the side. “A motorcycle.”

“Think it’s our friend?”

Roy said nothing as the lights suddenly moved up on them. Closer.

“Put it down.”

“It’s on the floor,” Roy said, glanced in the rear-view mirror.

Now York really wanted Roy’s Maserati.

The motorcycle edged up, then sat on their bumper.

“Brakes?”

“What if it’s not…anyone. I’ll kill him,” Roy said.

Then the cyclist pulled out. Ahead, the road was clear, so he could be passing—

The window behind Roy shattered. York ducked, and Roy swerved, hitting the ditch, slamming his brakes. The cyclist sped by.

“What was that?”

Roy flicked on the interior light as York turned. A rock the size of a softball lay on the seat, surrounded by glass. “Why would —”

“He’s coming back.” Roy flicked off the lights even as York turned around.