So he sipped his coffee and scanned the outdoor skating rink that was just outside the city. The scratchy sound system was playing music, and the crowd was getting thicker with people lacing up their skates, kids calling out watch me, watch me! But he wasn’t worried that he’d miss her. No. Zoe was never going to be invisible to him ever again. The only question was had she changed her hair? Would she still be dressed like Alex? Or would she look like the woman from the snowbank? Maybe like Mrs.—
“Michaelson!” At first he thought he’d willed the name into existence—that he’d dreamed it. “Paging Mr. Michaelson to the concession area. Paging Mr.—”
“I’m Michaelson,” he told the girl in the booth. “You paged—”
“Your wife left something for you.” The girl scanned him up and down, as if trying to decide if he was worthy, then she held out a small padded envelope and popped a bubble with the gum he hadn’t even realized she was chewing.
“Where’s my wife . . .” He was looking around. “Where is Mrs. Michaelson?”
“Oh”—the girl’s mouth curved into a curious grin, like sitting behind that desk was an interesting job all of a sudden—“she’s already gone.”
The words hit Sawyer so hard that he was turning—he was already walking away before he remembered the package. He ignored every bit of his training as he ripped it open and tipped it out and a small silver ring landed on the palm of his hand.
Even though he knew it couldn’t still be warm from her skin, it burned him, searing into his flesh like a brand, a mark that only he could see and feel but would last for the rest of his life.
Whatever sliver of hope he’d held on to died in that instant. He was a guy who did bad things for good reasons and that was never going to change. Someday soon, he’d get Alex back and take Kozlov down. But there would always be another Kozlov and another cover and another mission until the man he’d been with Zoe faded away forever.
Good. Let him die, Sawyer thought just as a phone began to ring. He dug back into the envelope and pulled out a burner.
“Zoe!” Sawyer’s pulse was in his ears as he answered. “Are you okay?”
“Is my sister alive?”
“Are you okay?” he asked again because how was he supposed to say anything else? That mountain she’d fallen down was eight hundred meters high. He knew. He’d looked it up. And now her voice was on the other end of the line—he could even hear her breathing. “Are you hurt?”
Someone must have fallen on the ice because an ambulance was approaching, the sirens so loud he heard them in stereo. Here. And also through the phone. Which meant that Zoe was close. Zoe was there.
It was like diving into freezing water, looking through the dark. He hadn’t been able to see her that night in the river. He’d felt her, sensed her. Known her. So he took off at a run, following the sound of the sirens. Through the people and around the buildings then into the trees at the edge of the—
“Zoe?”
The sound must have scared her because she whirled and tried to step back but there was no place to go and she banged into a tree.
“Sweetheart?” Sawyer tried to keep his voice low as he dropped the phone and held up his hands. “I’m gonna give you something, okay?” Slowly—very slowly—he pulled out his Glock and tossed it on the ground in front of her. “That’s for you.”
But Zoe just stood there, staring and confused. “That’s your favorite gun.”
“I know.” He laughed softly—something he hadn’t even known he could do until he met her. “It’s yours now. Shoot me with it if you need to, okay?”
She didn’t stoop to pick it up, but she kept it between them, like it could protect her, there on the ground.
“Are you okay?” he asked again because nothing else mattered.
“I’m fine.” She sounded tired and annoyed and he wanted to kiss the little crease between her eyes until it smoothed away. “Is my sister okay?”
“She’s alive. She sent me to find you. Those were her exact words: find her. So I’m here. And, for the record, I don’t blame you if you don’t believe me.”
“I don’t know what to believe anymore.” He heard pain in her voice. Not fear. Fear he could have handled. But he thought about a baby no bigger than the palm of his hand. He thought about a four-year-old in a hospital gown. She was fearless. Of course she was. She was never going to be afraid of him. He was nothing in comparison.