Page 22 of North

“Yes.” York’s voice dropped low, meant for North’s ears alone. “Yes. It sounds like Alan Martin.”

“How?”

“He’s suave. Even when we started working together, he had a sort of James Bond debonair smoothness. Very disarming for the ladies.”

“Not Selah. She’s not⁠—”

“On the rebound and hurting?” York raised an eyebrow.

DON’T HIT HIM!! North actually shouted it in his head.

“Listen, I’m not sure how he’s tangled up with Selah, but he’s…”

“Dangerous.”

“Connected to too many terror plots to count.” York ran a hand through his grimy hair. “Bombings. Assassinations. The kind of jobs that leave high body counts.”

The fluorescent lights suddenly seemed colder. “The train crash—was it a terror attack?”

“We’re looking at that. Logan is sending in a team—there might be a connection to the Petrov Bratva and cargo on board.” York looked away, his jaw working. “But if Alan has her…”

“I’m leaving for Cashmere.” North was already moving, his body humming with desperate energy. “Now.”

“North—”

“She’s in the hands of a killer, York.” He stopped, turned back. The words tasted like ash in his mouth. “A killer who’s had her for hours while I’ve been driving across the state, while we’ve been searching the wrong hospital.”

York blew out a breath. “I’m supposed to stay here, wait for Logan…”

North held out his hand. “I got Selah. You stay and talk to your super-agent team and figure out why a terrorist would be on a train in Washington State with my girlfriend.”

He didn’t even bother to correct himself.

“North.” York’s voice stopped him again. “Be careful. Alan’s not just dangerous—he’s smart. If he has her, there’s a reason.”

North bit back a word and strode down the hall, then pushed through the emergency-room doors into the dark parking lot. The predawn air bit cold and sharp, carrying the scent of pine from the mountains.

He fired up his rinky-dink, tin-can, Yabba-Dabba-Doo car and pointed it east.

Toward Selah.

Toward whatever Alan Martin had planned.

And yeah, now he was mad.

* * *

Twenty or so years ago…

He was made for this.

Jack Cooper crouched in the shadows behind a broken-down Chevy, the autumn wind cutting through his black tactical gear. The Farm sprawled before him in the predawn darkness—nine thousand acres of Virginia woodland turned into a covert training ground for the CIA. Leaves scattered across the gravel beneath his boots, whispering into the dark. A crow called from somewhere in the dense tree line.

The weight of his father’s words settled in his chest. Watch the calf’s ears, Jackie. They’ll tell you everything you need to know.

Back on the farm, he’d spent hours learning the behavior of their roping calves, learning to read the twitch of muscle, the flick of tail. Now, just four months after the accident, he used those same instincts to track human prey through the Farm’s makeshift Eastern European village.

His target—another recruit playing the role of an assets handler—had passed through ten minutes ago. The guy’s footprints in the mud told the story: hesitation at the corner, a sudden change in stride length. Fear leaked through the movements.