Page 69 of North

“Not me.” Damien moved away from the window, his reflection fragmenting in the medical equipment. “Your own people. The CIA doesn’t like it when their assets try to…retire.” His lip curled on the word. “Especially assets with your particular skill set.”

The monitor’s beeping increased. Why had he used his real name? Stupid!

“You didn’t think Crowley—or the CIA—would just let you walk away? With everything you know?” Damien pulled a chair close to the bed. The scrape of metal on tile sent shards of pain through James’s skull. “They’ve been watching since Budapest. Since you fell in love with a professor’s daughter and forgot who owned you.”

The truth settled like ice in his veins. They’d known. They’d always known.

“Tom Crowley signed the order himself.” Damien’s voice dropped low, intimate. “The same man who stood at his daughter’s funeral. Who watched them lower his grandson into the ground. You thought he was your friend.”

James turned his face to the window. Gray sky pressed against the glass.

“The bomb was CIA,” Damien continued. “The fishing boat that fired the second shot? CIA. They needed to be sure.” He leaned forward. “They’ll say it was an engine malfunction. A terrible accident. They’re very good at writing fiction, your former employers.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“Because I’m offering you something they never will.” Damien’s smile returned. “Revenge.”

James snorted. Oh, that hurt. “You expect me to believe the Bratva wants to help me?”

“The Bratva wants what the Bratva wants. But for now…” Damien stood, brushed invisible lint from his sleeve. “For now, our interests align. You want to hurt the people who took your family. We want to hurt the United States. It’s a mutually beneficial arrangement.”

“And if I say no?”

“You won’t.” Damien moved to the door. “Because right now, revenge is all you have left. That, and the question that will haunt you until the day you die.”

“What question?”

Damien smiled. “Whether Timea might have survived. Whether someone pulled her from the water while you were unconscious. Whether somewhere”—he paused in the doorway—“somewhere, your child still grows.”

James went cold.

“Welcome to your new life, Alexander. Or James. Or whatever you want to call yourself. We don’t care as long as you answer the phone. Welcome to the Petrov Bratva.”

The door clicked shut.

Outside, a ferry horn sounded again, mournful against the daylight that was too bright in his eyes.

Alan. Call him Alan Martin. Because it seemed the role he couldn’t escape.

Besides, he wanted them to know who was after them.

Who would find them.

And who would make them pay.