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M
olly had figured he'd choose the path they'd been on before, so she'd chosen the other one. It had been a longer way down, but also more familiar to her. They'd been able to drive up that path with their equipment on a dig a few years past.

She was proud of herself. She'd done something to save David from getting in trouble and losing everything again. She didn't want him to have to worry about her.

Her plan was to make her way slowly to the US embassy by the time it opened, and to sit in the visa waiting area until someone noticed her. It was the best way not to be arrested by the Greeks or the Russians, but to be on sovereign American soil, and hopefully safe. It would also buy David some time to disappear. She figured that with all the sirens at the recent blast site, the number of police out looking for her might be halved or better.

She wandered Monastiraki as the moonlight faded and the slow rise of the sun started to brighten the sky. Shopkeepers were already sweeping the areas in front of their shops, slopping water over the sidewalks to get rid of take-out food remnants that partiers had dropped on the ground. If she wasn't so scared about what might happen to her in the next day or so, she could enjoy this time of day. The temperature was much cooler, and the air drier and fresher.

She pushed on through the back streets toward the National Archaeological Museum, a good mile or so away from the sirens and David. She'd stayed near there in a bed and breakfast when she had been studying at the American Archaeological School. She was familiar with the streets and rhythm of the day there. Also, her favorite coffee shop would be opening soon.

She hoped he would forgive her for leaving, but it was a matter of life or death for her that he not be involved anymore. It wasn't until he'd made fun of her when she mentioned marriage, that she realized he'd never made fun of her before…never really cracked a joke even. Until then. And she'd understood how hard he'd been working at keeping focused. He was great at his job—and in some ways she could see that it had been his salvation—and she wasn't going to allow him to lose it over her.

People started to populate the streets, and storefronts started to open, including her favorite coffee hangout. It wasn't really a hangout in the normal sense, it was a place with no chairs, just stand-up tables and a bar where people ordered their strong coffee and a pastry and watched a tiny TV screen in the corner as they drank and ate. Starbucks it was not. Most people stayed for no more than five minutes unless they were chatting to someone.

She slipped in an asked for an espresso and an egg custard pastry. The barista wasn't the same one who'd been there a few summers ago, but then Molly didn't really feel like catching up right now. She took her breakfast to one of the tables and sipped the hot brew. The news was playing on the television, and as she ate, she watched the footage of the explosion.

It had been at the Russian embassy. Her heart sank. She couldn't imagine anything worse, although thankfully it seemed no one was in the building at the time, except a security guard. She wondered if they were going to blame it on America, as they had before.

She took a bite of her still warm pastry and chewed slowly. Vanilla cream flooded her mouth with memories of better times. And then she choked. She couldn't imagine anything worse than the embassy being bombed? She could now. She inhaled and choked on a tiny piece of flaky pastry as her face flashed up on the TV screen. She didn't understand much—her modern Greek language was really rusty, but she didn't really have to. David's photo flashed up beside hers, and an icy cold dread washed over her. It wasn't just America that was being blamed, it was David and her specifically. And she'd left David without him knowing. What were the odds that he'd find himself somewhere with a TV? Shit. What had she done? She cleared her throat to try to get the remaining dry crumbs out of her throat, and noticed the barista was on the phone. He was ignoring four or five customers. How long had he been on the phone? Could he be…?

He looked at her, then averted his eyes quickly. Sirens sounded close by. Adrenaline rushed through her as she dropped her pastry and ran. Ran away from the sound of the sirens, and toward a residential area. Suddenly a silent police car pulled out of a side street with only its blue light flashing.

Crap. She dodged down an alley and booked it to the next intersection, straight across that one-way street and down another alley running diagonally. She heard squealing brakes, but she didn't look around. The roads were getting busier now, and it became harder to run past the other pedestrians without banging into them and creating more of a spectacle.

She tried to walk at the same cadence as the fastest walkers, trying to blend in, as David had showed her. She grabbed the light shawl out of her bag and draped it over her shoulders. At least if anyone was looking for a woman in a yellow sundress, they wouldn't see enough of the top half to recognize the color.

Two police cars swung around a corner and started to sweep either side of the road, driving slowly, looking at everyone's faces. Shit. Shit. Shit.

A short alleyway loomed ahead, and she took it slowly, not looking around as she so desperately wanted too.
Look straight ahead. Look straight ahead.

As she turned the corner onto a new street, she dared look back down the alley. Two police officers were following her on foot, and when they saw her face, they started running.

How long could she be Greece's most wanted? Where was she supposed to run to? She took off, thankful that she was wearing sneakers and not flip-flops. Sirens came from the right, so she veered left. Suddenly an SUV with tinted windows screeched to a halt in front of her. Her heart sank. Okay, she couldn't run anymore.

The driver wound down his window. Holy crap. A familiar face at last. A friendly familiar face. “What…?” Molly said.

“Get in. I'm just glad I found you.”

Molly's heart pounded with relief. “Sure. I'm so happy to see you.”

“Me too. You have no idea. Get in the back so you can hide.”

Molly looked around for police, who seemed to be in the next street along, and opened the door. The Russian was in there with his gun pointed at her face.

“Get in, Ms. Solent, and you might live a short while.” All she could see was the shiny gray gun. She took one step backward and the driver door opened.

Her spine seemed to fold in on itself, as she registered a pinprick. Through her blurry focus she saw hands pushing her uncompliant legs into the car.

Shi…

He was absolutely going to kill her when he found her. David paced the streets, knowing full well that it would take a miracle to find her in this maze of a city. The heat swarmed the streets like thermals in the morning sun, deliberately finding him and making him sweat. Not that Molly's disappearance couldn't make him sweat enough anyway. Damn her. What was she planning to do? Turn herself in to the Russians? The Greek police, who were keen to appease the Russian government? The US embassy? David wasn't entirely sure that they wouldn't throw her under the bus to avoid a huge diplomatic catastrophe. No, he corrected himself. It was more than just diplomatic now. He suspected that this kind of incident at a G20 meeting, could do nothing less than take them to war if the Russians found any evidence of foul play.

He really only had one play left. And that was far from a sure thing. Damn it all to hell. Damn Molly all to hell. What had she been thinking?

He slipped the battery back into his phone and called the number on Brandon Peterson's card. It was a long shot, since it must be nearly eleven p.m. in DC. The call was picked up immediately.

“Mr. Peterson's office,” a soft voice said.

“Can you patch me through to him please? It's important.”

“Who is this please?” the voice asked with a hint of stress showing.

“I'm in Athens, and I think we both know that he is not sleeping. He has a broken nose, and I suspect he's been waiting for my call.” That was a total shot in the dark too. But he couldn't imagine for a moment that this wasn't already a huge topic of conversation in the State Department.

There was a couple of seconds of silence. “I'll see if I can connect you.”

David looked at his phone for a second and said a mental goodbye. Did they have the equipment on hand like that to trace his phone? The clock on the display said he'd been waiting twenty seconds. Thirty. How long did it take to dial a phone and transfer his call?

As he waited, he paused by a bus stop slowly crowding with people.

“Who is this?” Peterson's voice pierced the quiet in the street.

“How's the nose?”

“You better come in, Church. And bring the girl with you.” He definitely sounded as if he was trying to impress a room full of people.

“That's the thing, she's in the wind. If the Russians find her before I do, you know that's not going to be pretty, and you brought her into whatever fuck-fest you have going on, so you better fucking help me find her.”

There was a pause. Was he pumping his fist, or was he trying to figure a way to screw him? “Okay.” He sounded as if he was walking. “I have limited resources. But let's meet up and figure the best way to track her down before anyone else does. The police are already out looking for her, and there have been some unconfirmed sightings of her in the Psiri district. Where are you? I can pick you up en route.”

David was not down with that idea, but he had few choices with Molly in the wind. He cursed at her again. He would never let her forget this moronic move if they lived to be one hundred. If they lived. Jesus.

“Okay. Meet me at the corner of Sina and Skoufa,” he said, coming up with the only place he knew the location of.

“Be there in thirty.” Peterson hung up.

David deleted all his contacts, removed the memory card and slipped his phone into the pocket of a man at the bus stop as he walked past. He waited until the bus came and the man got on it before heading back toward the scenes of the crimes. As he rounded the corner, police sirens called out again, and he smiled as they rounded the corner and started following the bus. He hoped Molly had the sense to keep her battery separated from her phone as he'd asked her to.

He got to the restaurant that Victoria had invited them to—what was it, two days ago? Felt like a month ago.

He tried to piece together the pieces of a puzzle that had been worrying him. The inscription on the pen, “BP,” which he was now sure didn't belong to Brandon Peterson. Having met him, he knew he was what he said he was, a low-level wonk—no way could he have rigged those explosives. The reporter covering the tri-cities. Peterson's girlfriend getting drunk and spilling the beans on an op. But what if she wasn't a US agent? What if she was a Russian agent recruited because Peterson was on the Russia desk? It wasn't that far of a stretch. He'd have to meet a lot of Russian companies and people. David also remembered the second SVR man telling him “
Spasibo
” in the temple. “Thank you” in Russian. And then he realized—ice shivered through his blood—BP, in the Russian alphabet, stands for VR in roman letters. Victoria Ruskin. She wasn't an agent, she was a full-blown SVR officer.

And then he hated himself. The last piece to the puzzle. The second shot at the cocktail party. Why shoot again if your target had been killed with your first shot? Unless your real target had crouched down to retrieve a dropped note?

He'd been so fucking stupid.

W
hen Molly awoke, she was tied to a chair, with something nasty-tasting over her mouth. The side of her neck stung, possibly from the drug Victoria had given her. Victoria.

She struggled against her bonds, looking around the dimly lit room. No, it wasn't a room, it was more like a warehouse. She was tied to a chair in a freaking warehouse. Her brain shifted for a second as if she was watching a movie. She was in a movie. That was the only explanation for this level of craziness.

She blinked several times. Nope, she was still there. And she needed to pee like whoa. And nausea rolled in her stomach. She took a deep breath through her nose. Must not puke, must not puke. With tape over her mouth she'd probably drown in it. Her whole body was rejecting the scene in front of her, and she couldn't blame it at all. So Victoria was Russian? But she'd had such a normal accent. Nothing about her suggested she was anything other than what she'd said she was.

Molly wondered if she was a plant just to sit next to her on the plane, or if she was a real Russian spy who worked for a news show in America. But why was she wondering about Victoria when she should be wondering how she could get out of here alive?

She tried to see how she was tied to the chair. Looked like a mess of duct tape on her wrists and probably over her mouth. So why would they gag her if she was alone here? If they'd gagged her, there must be someone close who might overhear her.

There was a bang of metal on metal, and Victoria and the Russian man entered the warehouse from a door on the far side. It took them forever to walk to her, and in that time, her heart and stomach started pumping pure terror through her. She could feel herself shake, but she couldn't do anything about it.

Victoria ripped off the tape on her mouth. Her eyes were sad, somehow. Molly had been expecting some kind of viciousness that…well back to the movies again. In the movies, Victoria would have shot out a kneecap by now.

Why did her brain keep insisting that this was some kind of movie?

“I'm sorry, Molly. But you really should have come to the Media Club with me. We could have avoided all this.”

“What? I don't understand,” she rasped.

The Russian passed Victoria a bottle of water, who in turn held it to Molly's lips. As she sipped the water, she continued.

“It was a shame you got involved in our—I suppose you could call it—our strategy for a new Europe.” She crouched next to Molly.

“I can get you out of the country in a matter of hours, if you give me what Doubrov passed you.”

Molly's heart raced. “I don't understand. He didn't pass me anything.”

Victoria leaned in close to her ear and whispered. “I don't have time for this. This isn't a negotiation. You tell me, or you don't tell me. The latter would be no good for you.”

“I'm telling you the truth. He didn't give me anything.”

Her captor said nothing, just stood and turned her back to Molly. She spoke Russian to Mr. SVR who shrugged and walked back to the door through which they'd entered. It banged.

Victoria turned back to her, and Molly expected her to make some kind of plea. Some woman-to-woman request that would make Molly confess. But instead she just pricked her with a needle again, and before Molly could say anything, the world went black.

David scoped out the rendezvous point. First from the alleyway in which he and Molly had hidden from the Russian, and then from as many vantage points as he could manage, including from the roof. Peterson didn't seem to have sent an advance team. Maybe he could be trusted after all. God knew he needed someone he could trust right now. He needed to find Molly before Victoria found her.

He waited for Peterson, berating himself for not piecing this all together before now. She'd said her boyfriend was a policy wonk, and what the fuck “tri-cities” were there in DC? He'd been so stupid. So fucking slow. Jesus. If he couldn't get to Molly in time, he didn't know what he would do with himself. He figured his future at Barracks Security was over. He couldn't even trust himself to keep an innocent woman safe.

He stood with his back to the wall watching all ways at the small crossroads until he saw Peterson come into view and advance up toward the meeting point. He seemed nervous, checking behind him every few paces. David stepped forward to meet him.

Peterson acknowledged him with a slight nod.

Five steps. He'd taken five damn steps before Peterson's eyes widened and his pace stuttered.

Ice seeped into David's veins. He didn't need to look around to know he was about to be taken, and that Peterson probably knew nothing about it. He felt the heat of a large van behind him, and he knew he was too late to run, and clearly was at a disadvantage. A gun cocked.

Shit.

He held his hands out by his waist to minimize any tough-guy heroics these people might decide they need to perform. He took a breath and turned, hoping to see police as the lesser of two evils.

Nope. Three sets of eyes behind three balaclavas looked back at him from the sliding door of a van. Semiautomatic guns aimed at him. Yup. Nothing to see here. He turned back to Peterson, who was looking at his phone in disbelief.

Hands grabbed him and pulled him into the van. David went limp, hoping to keep from getting hurt in a way that might incapacitate him. As he was wondering if Molly was safe, and if he was at least being taken to her, a pinch at his neck filled him with warmth and tiredness.

“David. Wake up.
David
,” a voice said, over and over. His shoulders hurt, not an unusual occurrence. His mouth burned as if he'd had really bad heartburn. Tasted terrible.

He tried to open his eyes, but couldn't manage to get them all the way open. And then he was lost in sleep again.

The next time he woke, a sharp pain ripped him from sleep. His shoulders felt like they were being ripped from his sockets.

“You like that?” a male voice asked.

Fuck. What was going on? David opened his eyes. He was in a warehouse, hanging from his hands. He twisted to see who was winching him up. He spun around on the chains. The Russian fucker. He was suspended so high that he could only touch the ground with his toes. And only if he got his shoes in the right position.

He'd been in this position exactly six years ago during his SERE training. He'd been captured, as they all had been, and subjected to questioning by the instructors. In that situation though, he knew they were supposed to hurt him, but not too badly, or with any lasting consequences. Just enough to make it real.

Not so much here.

He tried to kick out at the tall man, but he easily avoided David's attempt. All the KGB guy did was nod over to the corner.

He spun around again. Molly. His heart clenched.

“What did you do to her?” he growled. She was tied to a chair with some kind of tape, head lolling to one side as if she was asleep. He forced his brain not to consider the possibility that she might be dead. But his heart went there anyway. It was as if his heart was being gripped and wrenched out of his body. Pure anger and frustration poured out of him in a howl of rage.

Before he could test his binds, Molly roused, unfocused and bleary-eyed. “What? Who's there?” She shook her head several times as if to clear her vision. “What…? David?” She moaned. “I thought it was a dream. I wanted so much for it to have been a dream.”

Relief spiked through him, bringing a calming influence on his body. He still wanted to fucking rip that guy's head off. Fucking Russians. But at least Molly was alive.

The man in the gray suit popped his cuffs and rolled his neck. “I'm going to leave you two to get reacquainted.” He sauntered to the door as if he didn't have a care in the world. He probably didn't.

“Are you okay? What happened?” David tried to see if she'd been harmed. He couldn't see anything obvious.

“I'm fine. They just keep sedating me with something. I don't know what it is. One prick and I'm out of it. Are you hurt?” Her voice sounded normal but tense.

“I'm fine,” he said, trying for his own normal voice. “Just, you know, hanging around.”

She choked a laugh, and then reprimanded him. “That's not funny.”

“Sorry. How did you get here?” He wasn't going to mention her escape, he didn't want to remind her that she didn't trust him…because trussed up like a dead cow on a hook, he probably didn't instill trust now either.

“Victoria. My reporter friend? She offered me an escape route when the police were closing in on me, and when I opened the car door, he was holding a gun on me.” She nodded toward the door he'd disappeared through. “Are you really all right? You look like hell.”

He shrugged and then winced. “My shoulders is all,” he said, trying to position himself on his toes to relieve some of the strain.

“This is bad isn't it? They can't let us go now. Victoria has basically outed herself as a Russian…what? An agent? Collaborator?”

“I suspect she's an SVR operative, like the suit. Probably deep undercover. She'll either have to go back to Russia, or yes, eliminate anyone who knows who she is.” There was no point sugarcoating it. “But I'm going to get us out of here. So don't worry about that.”

Her expression was blank, and he suddenly saw what she saw. A helpless washout, hanging from a meathook in a disused warehouse. How could she possibly have faith in him?

He hoped he could prove her—and maybe himself—wrong.

Hoped.

“I'm so sorry to get you involved in this, David,” she said. “This is all my fault.” She couldn't even look at him.

“It's not your fault, it's Peterson's fault. And the fucking Russians' fault. But don't worry, we're going to take the whole outfit down when we get out of here.” He hoped he sounded confident, but the frown didn't fall from her face, so probably he didn't manage to convince her.

The door slammed again, but he didn't have the energy to spin around and lose his tenuous grip on the floor with the toe of his shoes.

He looked inquisitively at Molly who mouthed “Victoria” at him.

“You're both awake. That's great,” she said in her perfect East Coast accent.

David wondered how long she'd been undercover. He wasn't going to say anything unless pressed. Chatty Cathies never won the day. Made it too easy for their captors to get what they wanted.

“So,” she continued, as if they were all at some kind of cocktail party. “My people tell me that Doubrov passed you something before he was shot.” She paused for a second as if collecting her thoughts. “He asked to see you, didn't he?”

Molly started, and David went still. Doubrov asked to see Molly? She hadn't told him that. A bad feeling wafted through the warehouse like an unwelcome draft. What else hadn't she told him?

Victoria noticed her response. “I see I am right.” She also seemed surprised. Molly needed to learn a poker face or she was going to give Victoria everything she needed.

“I'm not telling you anything,” Molly said. Her voice wavered but her gaze didn't. She was one hell of a woman. He looked around for something to use as leverage. Anything that would get him free.

“You have to, sweetie. We don't have much time. If you tell me what I need to know, I'm going to let you go. Leave you here, obviously, but you'll be free eventually. I think the warehouse workers start work at seven a.m. on Monday.

David shook his head at Molly from behind Victoria's head.
Don't believe her.
It was a convincing effort from Victoria. Hardship, pain, starvation, but no death. It sounded plausible, but he didn't believe her for a moment. He willed Molly not to fall for it. But in all honesty, half of him wanted to know what she knew too. Obviously she'd been keeping things from him too. More evidence that she didn't trust him. Okay. He steeled himself. He probably couldn't ever persuade her that she could trust him. But he could persuade
himself
that he was trustworthy.

The only thing he knew was that if the Russians wanted information, he wasn't going to give it to them. Wait, what had she said?
Time was running out?
That didn't sound good. Not good at all. There had to be a larger picture. The big operation that Russia was planning at the G20 meeting? Had to be something huge. Devastating.

David ran through everything he knew. Victoria becomes Peterson's girlfriend to get the in on the DOS end of their diplomacy. Maybe she gets drunk, and says enough to tip Peterson off. Peterson taps Molly to pass Doubrov a note warning him that the Russian finance minister was going to be taken. But by whom? Why? It all sounded too Cold War to be plausible.

The engraving on the pen that had been used as the connection point of the improvised explosive. Victoria was the hardcore operative he and Mal had discussed. She'd killed Doubrov… His mind stuttered. He remembered what he'd been thinking about when he'd been drugged. The second shot. The first shot had taken Doubrov out, but only because Molly had bent down to pick up the note.

Molly had been the target. Victoria had been trying to kill Molly.

Jesus, the pain was really focusing his mind. “Don't tell her anything, Mol. She's the one who tried to kill you, but got Doubrov instead.” He needed to get Victoria's attention on him.

“Did you get into trouble when you accidentally killed Doubrov instead of Molly? Are you tying up loose ends by killing us both? Will you also kill Peterson? Your boyfriend? You want to know how I knew it was you? You used your own monogrammed pen as your trip-wire contact blocker.”

It worked. She snapped open a baton and wacked him across his stretched ribs. His feet gave way and he swung, the pain humming though him like the echo of a choirboy's last note.

“That wasn't my fault. I had to improvise. My target spotter couldn't spot his own ass in a mirror. I know who you are, Sergeant David Church. Explosive Ordinance Disposal. If it had been anyone but you, my bombs would have gone off as planned and none of this would have happened. It's all your fault. It's all your fault.” She punctuated each word with a lash of her baton.