Maybe she read RJ’s mind because she smiled. “I’ve never met him, but he’s a bit of a legend.”

Huh.

“I never really introduced myself. Ziggy Mattucci.”

“RJ Marshall. Are you CIA?”

She laughed. “Never. You?”

“In a different life.”

“Not so different from this one.”

“I was an analyst.”

“Oh. So maybe a little different.” She winked.

“Thanks for what you did. I don’t know what would have happened if you hadn’t shown up.”

“I’m sure you would have” — She stilled, looked past RJ. Then — “Get down!”

She leaped for RJ just as the window shattered behind her.

“You shouldn’t have let her go alone.”

York wasn’t sure who, exactly, he was talking to—Roy, or himself—as they exited the rental car and crossed the street to Schlemmer-Markt, a tiny, semi-lit deli with thick blocks of gourmet cheese and hanging sausages in the window. A hush fell over the streets, the twilight already dissolved into the moon swept river. The air hinted of the earlier rain, still dour, looming, and it only made York’s insides ache.

Then again, he was two days out of a nearly lethal stabbing, blood loss, and emergency surgery, so maybe it wasn’t the rain. Or just the rain.

Or maybe the ache was deeper, in his bones, in his heart.

RJ had left him.

Left. Him. Ring on the nightstand in his hospital room, left him. And sure, he had a deep and faint memory of her voice saying, “I’ll be right back,” but then again, maybe he simply hoped it.

Maybe, instead, her desire to do more, be more, live bolder and wilder had finally taken over and pushed her permanently out of his arms.

Out of the life he’d hoped for them.

“Hindsight,” Roy growled. He wore his signature black—black jeans, black shirt, black jacket, black countenance. The man had grim and lethal oozing out of him, and it had only gotten worse as their hunt for RJ over the past twenty-four hours turned up empty.

They crossed the street and Roy opened the door to the deli.

“Not real hungry.”

Roy just grunted. York followed him as he headed up the counter, past a couple tables, occupied with people plugged into their cell phones, a woman and her son eating sandwiches, a couple sharing a pizza. The scent of fresh bread, thyme, rosemary, sausage and frothy beer pulled him in and awakened a hollowness inside him.

Maybe he might be a little hungry.

But how could he think of food when the woman he loved—and he’d always love RJ, despite their dismal ending—could be hurt, or kidnapped or…

Or maybe just, finally, ditching him.

“I need to speak to Johan,” Roy said to a woman at the counter. He said it in German, but York knew enough to understand it. His clandestine years swooping in to save the day.