Page 39 of Wyatt

“I know who you are, Rubes.” Reuben kissed the top of her head. “And if you need time to get yourself back together, you’re welcome to stay right here on this sofa.” He picked up the remote. “Even Sydney Bristow needs rest in between saving the world. Now, hand me those Doritos.”

5

“That’s about the closest I ever want to get to a gulag. Thanks for that, Wyatt.” Deke was folding down his bed in the private compartment of their train car. The man looked—and smelled—exactly like Wyatt. As if he’d spent the night in his clothing on a hard, wooden bench in some chilly cement Russian prison cell with urine stains in the corner. They’d eaten Wyatt’s definition of gruel for breakfast—runny oatmeal with specks of brown he dearly hoped were raisins. His gut clenched with the memory.

At least someone had packed his gear. He’d found it deposited in his train compartment when the militia dropped him, Deke, Kalen, and Jace off at the train station.

Wyatt had received an extra-special escort by a quiet and large FSB agent to his train car. A glance out the window revealed said agent wasn’t taking chances on his escape.

“Sorry about that,” Wyatt said. “I don’t know why they felt the need to detain you guys too.”

Deke opened his duffel bag, also packed by someone on the team, and retrieved his headphones. He glanced at Wyatt. “I got your back, Guns. But next time you suggest a goodwill trip to Russia, I’m out.” He settled the headphones around his neck. “And I don’t understand why we couldn’t fly of out Khabarovsk to Seattle.”

“We have some sort of meet and greet in Vladivostok the consulate set up,” Wyatt said, scrolling through his phone, which he’d found in his duffel bag. No calls from York or his sister.

Or Coco. Not that he expected one, but…

Please let her be okay.

He’d spent the night replaying his conversation with the FSB agent—Roman?—in his head.I’ll keep her safe.

Yeah, maybe.

The train jerked, then eased forward. Wyatt braced his hand on the wall, still staring out the window.

I know we have something. We always have, and I…I want you to come to America. With me. I want us to be together. Be happy.

He should just sit down, let the train take him away from this nightmare. Leave the shards of his broken heart in his destroyed hotel room.

Deke leaned against the back wall, legs on the sofa, arms folded, eyes closed. The guy could sleep anywhere—he’d snored himself into REM last night on a chipped wooden bench. Jace and Kalen had been in the cell next door, and Jace had shouted a couple times, not nicely.

Jace wouldn’t even talk to Wyatt as they drove to the train station.

Yeah, this would be a fun trip home.

Except maybe he shouldn’t go home. Maybe—

You should just forget about me.

That would be like forgetting how to breathe.

Wyatt pressed his hand to his chest and sat on the bench seat. Stretched out and closed his eyes, trying to ignore the deep ache in his hips. Oh, Russia was so very fun.

The train bore a rhythm that reminded him very much of the countless bus rides, early in the morning or late at night. The rides he’d learned to sleep through, exhaustion embedded in his bones. Now, he lay on his back, forcing himself to stop thinking about the fact he’d failed.

Oh, he’d failed.

Failed to bring Coco home. Again.

Please don’t go.

His voice tugged him back through time to that moment by the elevator in Moscow when he’d seen the rest of his life, everything he wanted, right there within his grasp.

A pro career doing what he loved. Travel. Money. And…Coco.

He couldn’t believe it when he’d opened the door and saw her standing there in the Russian hotel hallway, as if she’d simply materialized.

She looked good. The kind of good that stopped his heart, stole his breath, shut out the rest of the world. She’d cut her red hair short, and her gray-green eyes wore just enough surprise, just enough fear for him to see the girl he’d wanted to protect back at the ranch.

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