He’d probably never really escaped them. Just tucked them into his back pocket while he desperately tried to be someone else. Mack Jones, local burger flipper, bartender, bouncer.

A guy who wanted a regular life. A family.

He’d seen the dream fade hard yesterday when he’d woken in an Italian hospital to the news that RJ had not only gone to Germany without him, to rescue the daughter of a scientist wanted by two terrorists at the least, and maybe an entire country—aka Russia—at the worst, but that RJ, along with said scientist, was missing.

He had put on pants, slipped the ring into his pocket, and grabbed a bite on the plane that his boss, Logan Thorne, director of the Caleb Group, had provided a few hours later. His appetite had vanished, however, when they’d arrived at the hospital, procured the CCTV tapes and glimpsed a small throw down in the hospital parking lot.

“She’s with Ziggy. I’m sure of it,” Roy said now as the woman he’d talked to disappeared into the back of the restaurant, probably the kitchen.

“The same Ziggy that you’ve tried to call a dozen times?” York’s mouth tightened around the edges, probably what elicited Roy’s sigh.

“I don’t know why she’s not answering, but we’ll find her.”

“How do you —”

Roy held up his hand and turned as a man emerged from the back. Burly, dark-blond hair, brown mustache, he wore an apron but reached out a beefy hand over the counter that could crush a windpipe. “Roy.”

“Johan.” He glanced at York, gestured at him with his chin. “He’s one of ours. York Newgate”

Johan lifted an eyebrow. “I have heard of him.”

York drew in a breath, hoping he hadn’t translated the man’s words correctly. He’d spent the last three years trying to dodge the man he’d been.

Then again, it just might be that man who could find RJ and get her out of this mess.

“Have you heard from Ziggy?” Roy asked.

“Liverwurst on rye, sauerkraut on the side.” He reached under the counter and pulled out piece of paper, scratching an address on it. “An hour ago, maybe more.”

Roy took it between his pointer and index finger. “Danke.”

Johan reached into the glass case and pulled out a sandwich on sourdough bread. “For your friend.” He wrapped it in paper, then handed it to Roy.

He gave it to York on the way out. “You’re looking pretty gray. You might need a nap.”

York had managed a couple pain pills on the plane, but they may have worn off. “I’ll worry about sleeping after we find RJ.” He opened the sandwich. “What is this?”

“Liverwurst. It’s good. And this —” he handed York the paper. “Is the address where they’re staying.”