Dedication

Soli Deo Gloria

To my readers. For their delight and enjoyment.

Thank you.

I Will Find You

Of course the woman York loves has gone missing. He didn’t know why he expected RJ not to chase danger into trouble. But she’s in over her head, and he has to find her before criminal mastermind Alan Martin tracks her down.

RJ didn’t mean to leave York behind, but she’s on a mission to save a little girl caught in the crossfire of Martin’s terrorist plot. Now, she’ll have to find the girl and keep her safe while leaving clues for York to follow her.

But who will catch up to her first—York, or the man with a vendetta?

The gripping romantic adventure continues!

Chapter 1

At least she hadn’t been followed.

She thought.

Please.

RJ ducked into an alcove of a darkened pastry shop, the shadows hiding her, only her racing heartbeat to betray her, and waited.

Just like she’d seen York do in Paris a little over a week ago when she’d gotten them into this mess.

This terrible mess where now York lay recovering from a couple terrible stab wounds in a hospital in Italy. And she…

Well, she dodged in and out of shadows on the rain-soaked streets of Heidelberg, Germany, carrying a couple sandwiches in a greasy bag, taking a circuitous route back to where she’d left a ten-year-old, scared, little girl named Hana.

No one on her six, it seemed, even after ten long minutes, so she edged out. The air remained soggy after today’s shower. Puddles pooled in the cracks of the narrow cobblestone streets in this area of old town, darkness pressing the windows of closed shops—souvenirs, cafes, gelato, pastries, jewelry stores and other tourist stops. The ruins of Schloss Heidelberg loomed over the old city like a giant, toppled and defeated, its craggy parapets and towers a testament to the protection once offered.

It was a city of romance, of history, and epic stories.

Of course, she was here, alone.

And on the run.

It seemed her M.O. of late.

She shivered, the early June air brisk under the now cloudless sky, and cool, after-rain wind. Probably, she should have grabbed a jacket for this so-called “quick trip” to Germany. I’ll be right back.

The thought of her words to an unconscious York, the clink of her engagement ring landing on the stand beside his bed, the warnings shouting in the back of her mind only tightened her gut.

What. A. Fool.

The moonlight rippled on the waters of the Neckar River that threaded through the city. They’d spent the first night at a hotel across the old bridge, on the far banks of the river, a place that Ziggy had found them while she sorted everything out.

Ziggy had saved them, really, and RJ had never felt so far from the spy she wanted to be in the moment she’d realized she’d been betrayed.

By the one person she’d tried to save, of course, as all great stories went.

She came to the massive square, with the Gothic and Romanesque Church of the Holy Spirit rising from the center like a medieval specter. During the day, the square was a postcard—the mansard-roofed church with the cupola-topped steeple surrounded by storybook buildings. Red-roofed, with apartments over the ground-level shops, flowers spilling from sidewalk planters, and during the day, umbrella-topped cafe tables set up on the dark cobblestones near a number of quaint restaurants.

A place to linger, to ponder why she had this incessant ability to blow up all the good things in her life with an unquenchable need to fix, to help, to…rescue.

Movement from across the square had her stopping in the puddle of darkness beside the church. A couple, his arm around her shoulders, tucking her in tight.

RJ’s chest tightened.

Please, York, still be alive.

She’d picked up a burner phone in Frankfurt when she’d landed, but her call to the Sigonella Air Base had been routed to the hospital switchboard, and the call to York’s room went unanswered.

He was probably still unconscious after losing so much blood, and his traumatic surgery…yes, that had to be right because anything else had her shutting down, her thoughts careening together into a tight, inescapable knot.

But strange that Roy hadn’t picked up—especially since this op was of his making. She wasn’t exactly sure what Roy did for the Caleb Group, the clandestine private ops team that worked exclusively for American President Isaac White, but she had a guess.

One that gave him connections and resources around the globe.

The couple disappeared down a street and RJ took a breath, then braved herself out into the open, where the moonlight bathed the dark plaza, where anyone with a little heads-up knowledge and a little luck might center her in their sights and…

Well, and finish the job they’d started at KiTZ, the Hope Children’s Cancer Center just down the road. Again, if it hadn’t been for Ziggy—

She spotted the safe house just up the block, and three stories up, hidden in plain sight above an Indian restaurant called Raja’s. Turning in under the hanging sign, she walked past the restaurant, now closed for the night, the smells of cardamom, cloves, ginger, and coriander saturated the red brick floor, the ancient waddle and daub walls.

The stairs creaked as she ascended. The second story opened to a terrace on the backside of the building with a view to the river, a door to their apartment to the right. She knocked, twice, waited, then knocked again, twice.

A lock clicked and the door opened.

A brunette opened the door, holding a small handgun. “You sure you weren’t followed? You did everything I told you?”

RJ wanted to take offense as Ziggy’s words, but frankly after everything that had happened over the past forty-eight hours, all she could do was nod. Hope.

She brushed past Ziggy, who shoved the tiny PDP Walther back into her belt, behind her.

“How’s Hana?” RJ said as she walked into the tiny apartment. A small hallway led to two bedrooms, and a tiny bathroom with a skinny shower. The place felt like a safe house, clandestine and secret in the attic of a building.

“Sleeping.” Ziggy said, but RJ checked for herself by going to the small bedroom with two single beds. Hana was a ball in the middle of the bed, her blonde hair shining under the light of the moon from the skylight window.

RJ nodded then turned to the kitchen. The lights were off—Ziggy’s orders—but she knew it from the daylight. The place had sloping walls, and a window that cut into the mansard roof overlooked the building across the street. A small two-burner stove, a microwave, a micro fridge and a bare cupboard suggested that no one expected a long-term stay.

Ziggy leaned against the door frame to the kitchen.

Of course the spy who saved her was gorgeous. Long black hair, pulled back revealing regal cheekbones, piercing, golden-brown eyes, dusky light-brown skin. Lean and toned, she wore a pair of cargo pants, runners and a black tee-shirt that practically melded her into the night.

A female James Bond. Or maybe an actual Sydney Bristow.

That was a little slap in RJ’s wanna-be confidence.

RJ looked like a tourist. Jeans, that she’d purchased at the airport, a white blouse, practically a neon glowing light, so again, very much not a spy.

No wonder Ziggy asked if she’d been spotted.

“Maybe you should have gone,” RJ said, pulling out the sandwiches. “Liverwurst on rye, like you asked.”

“And sauerkraut on the side. You used those words.”

“I used those words. Here you go.” She pulled out a to-go container of the fermented cabbage. “Gross. I got a cheese and ham for me. And pastrami for Hana.” She pulled them out of the bag. “And this.”

She handed a piece of paper to Ziggy who smiled. “Good job.”

“What, is he your courier or something?”

“Or something.” She read the note. “Okay. The safe house is ready for us.”

“I thought this was the safe house.”

“It belonged to a friend. Now his brother rents it out on Airbnb, but he lets me use it. In case of an emergency.” She went over to a drawer, pulled out a matchbox, lit a match, then the paper and dropped it in the sink. “Let’s wake Hana.”

“We’re going tonight?” She’d put the sandwiches on napkins. “Is Hana strong enough?” They’d pulled her out of a cancer ward, after all.

“Yes.” Ziggy had a slight accent—RJ couldn’t place it, but it sounded Italian, maybe. Or Greek. Which might be where she got her dark, exotic European look. “She doesn’t have cancer.”

A beat, and RJ frowned. “But —”

“Another one of Mad’s lies,” Ziggy said and took the sandwich from RJ. “Johan has the best liverwurst.”

For a moment, RJ was back at the hospital, walking out with Hana in a wheelchair, the little girl confused but silent as her “father” fetched her from treatment—for her own safety.

RJ had thought herself a hero. Thought herself brave and crafty and smart, having outwitted Ruslan Gustov, a Russian scientist-slash-assassin, and Alan Martin, ex-CIA global terrorist. She’d gotten to Hana first—she and Mads—had rescued the little girl from being used as leverage.

Instead, they’d used her as bait. Because as she and Mads walked out under the cast of the late afternoon sun, a man had come up behind them and pressed a gun into her spine.

“Get in the van.”

RJ’s heart stopped on the voice of Alan Martin.

How—

Then, a van pulled up, doors opened.

She wasn’t sure how it all went down behind her because suddenly Martin grunted, the gun left her spine and Mads, who RJ thought might reach for Hana to protect her, lit out for the van.

Leaving her and Hana on the sidewalk. RJ had grabbed the wheelchair and whirled around intending to run for the hospital.

Instead, she spotted Martin lying right there on the ground, bleeding from a gash on his temple, then glanced at the woman who’d felled him—she carried a crowbar—and froze.

“Roy sent me. C’mon.” She gestured with her head, then took off.

It was then that Hana got up out of her chair, looked at RJ, and started to run.

So, not crippled, wasting away, about to die as Mads said.

RJ glanced over her shoulder at the van where she spotted Gustov, with his long blond hair, tall, imposing build—getting out.

Roger that.

She took off at a sprint, and noticed that Ziggy had grabbed Hana’s hand, was pulling her along. Lights flickered on a late model 2-door BMW and Ziggy opened the door and practically shoved Hana in.

“Hurry up!”

RJ didn’t look behind her, didn’t think, just rounded the car and jumped in.

In moments, she was in a Bond movie, peeling out of the parking lot—reaching for the belt, of course, and making sure Hana was belted too—and winding through the streets of Heidelberg at high speed.

The car was sleek—black interior, stick shift, sunroof, and the woman at the wheel knew how to lose a tail.

They left the van after the second block and then spent the next two hours roaming the city, finally parking in an underground garage near the restaurant.

Hana had barely said anything, her green eyes rounded, her blonde hair breaking free of the braid that held it. She wore a pair of leggings and an over-sized shirt with Tweety Bird imprinted on the front, ballet slippers.

“Are you okay?” RJ asked when they finally got out. The sun had set, and she had no bars on her phone.

Hana had nodded, still wordless and frankly, RJ got it. She herself had no words for the way Ziggy had quick walked them to the apartment, then swept it—gun out—before she locked them inside. Disappeared.

RJ had called the hospital in Sicily for the first failed time.

Then she’d stood in the darkness, Hana curled on a sofa with a blanket over her, trying to unravel the mess she’d made of their lives and how it had all gone wrong.

Bottom line. She should have never left York.

Ziggy finally returned with rice and chicken from the restaurant on the first floor. They’d eaten in silence, Ziggy not offering anything in the way of an explanation.

And RJ hadn’t any answers either, except the obvious.

Mads had betrayed her. But why? She’d rescued the scientist—twice.

Forty-eight hours later, she still hadn’t pieced it all together. And now, “Hana really doesn’t have cancer?”

Ziggy had taken a bottle of water from the fridge. “Nope. I tapped a friend who dug into the hospital records. Hana was there for observation only. And had been for about a month.”

“Observation for what?”

“It isn’t listed.” Ziggy took a drink. “But my guess is that she was part of Mads’ cover.”

“He said he was her father. And that her mother had died—no, been killed in Paris. I even saw the body.” She wouldn’t long forget the gray corpse she’d watched fished out of the Seine. “Has she said anything?”

“Not a peep. She made a few origami animals from paper she found in a bookcase, then played with them for a while. I get the feeling she wasn’t allowed out of her room much.” Ziggy had taken her sandwich and brought it over to the table, sat down. “Poor kid. There is definitely something up with her, but she seems healthy.”

“Could be shock. That first night, she slept with the covers over her head. I tried to talk to her, but she ignored me.”

“Sometimes I feel like sleeping with the covers over my head,” Ziggy said. Smiled.

RJ smiled back.

“So. According to Roy, you thought Mads had been kidnapped?”

“It’s a long story, but yes. After Alan Martin escaped from prison, we spotted him in Paris where I then followed a known terrorist to a hotel. Watched him march Mads out of the building, and then I tracked them to a small hamlet about an hour away—one without Internet or cell service.”

Ziggy wiped her mouth, her sandwich half eaten. “Why?”

“What why are you referring to? The why Mads was kidnapped? Or why the village, or even why did I think I could be some sort of hero and rescue him?” She shook her head, bringing her sandwich over to the table too. “Because that’s who I am—I leap before I look, and I get people in trouble, and maybe I am running from something like Giselle said, and I can’t believe I left York in Italy, fighting for his life, and even worse I took off his ring and told him something stupid like I’d be right back to get it, when in fact, I’m stuck here in Germany, on the lam from international terrorists, eating a cold dinner with…well, as much as I appreciate everything you did, I don’t know you and….” She put the sandwich down. “I just don’t understand why Mads betrayed us.”

“Okay, that covers a lot of it,” Ziggy said. “And, to your question, I work, sometimes, with Roy, and he asked me to meet you at the hospital. I saw what was going down as soon as I spotted you—Roy gave me a pretty good description of you, and it wasn’t hard to figure out that you were in trouble, the way that man came up to you. The rest was instinct.”

“Does Roy know where we are?”

“He will. My phone died, but…he will find us.”

She didn’t know how.

“He will find us.”

RJ sighed. Took a bite of her sandwich. European bread could make her eyes roll back into her head.

“Who is Giselle?”

RJ wiped her mouth. Took a sip of her own bottled water. “A wise Uber driver from Paris who said that I was running from wanting to be a wife and mother.”

Ziggy raised a dark eyebrow.

“York took me to Paris about a week ago to propose. Which he did. And I said yes. But now I’m thinking—what if I subconsciously didn’t mean it? I mean, I did leave his ring behind.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know.”

Ziggy nodded, looked out the window past her. “You were the one who stopped the assassination of that Russian General.”

She looked at her then, stilled.

“We all heard about it. Brave.”

“Or stupid.”

“Might have stopped a war.”

“Nearly got myself and my brother killed. Not to mention York.”

“York knows how to stay alive.”

Her comment lodged inside RJ. Yes. Yes, he did.

But how did this woman know that?

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.

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.”

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