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Please, God.
The passengers shuffled out, and Ned followed the Shae look-alike down the air-bridge and then into the customs area where she headed to the line for Fins.
“We’re over here,” Fraser said and lined up with the other foreigners. Dogs on patrol roamed around the passengers, sniffing.
“Did you rent a car?” Ned said, turning to Fraser.
“Uber. I didn’t want to have to wait in line.” Fraser turned over his wrist, glanced at his Casio watch.
“Please tell me you didn’t bring any contraband with you.”
“Of course. My Sig Sauer is packed with my socks.”
Ned looked at him.
“Sheesh, calm down, bro.” Fraser pushed him forward.
Calm had long ago left the building.
In fact, calm had packed up while Ned stood in a hospital in Montana, having flown out to Mercy Falls, where Shae’s uncle Ian lived, because he thought she might not be talking to him. Thanks to their fight.
Thanks to his fears of, well, exactly this.
But back then, exactly two days ago, he’d simply been worried he wouldn’t be able to put the ring back on her finger. He’d rehearsed his apology a hundred times by the time the plane landed in Kalispell.Please, forgive me. I’m sorry I’m so controlling. Of course I trust you.
The words had sort of died when Fraser had texted him the footage of Hansi grabbing Shae.
He’d gotten the first flight back to his home in Chester, Minnesota, and arrived less than eight hours later. And by then, Fraser had contacted his boss, former Navy SEAL Chief Hamilton Jones, who had contacted one of his former teammates, a man who ran a think tank slash black ops organization called the Caleb Group.
Logan Thorne had appeared on the Marshalls’ doorstep with a dossier on Hansi as well as alias IDs for Ned and Fraser, who had insisted on going with Ned despite his role safeguarding a princess who just happened to be staying with the Marshalls—but that was a different story. And it was then that Ned realized he actuallyknewLogan, from a bygone time when Logan had been a MIA-declared-dead soldier from Chester.
And then all of that didn’t matter because, six hours later, Ned was on a plane for Helsinki, a last-known address for Hansi in his grip, Fraser on his six, a lunch from his mother for the plane in his pack, and prayers in his heart.
The man in front of Ned had cleared passport control, and Ned stepped up and slid his worn passport, the one with a few stamps and frayed edges, through the small window. Looked at the officer, hoping he resembled a Bruce Danielson.
From Cincinnati.
Traveling here for the convention on therapeutic heat.
He even swiped off his Bengals baseball cap and smiled.
The man stamped his passport, and Ned didn’t look at Fraser, aka Vinnie Danielson, as he passed through the swinging gate.
Instead, he plunked his backpack onto the Helsinki Airport custom’s baggage scan belt and stepped into the scanner, arms up, legs spread, as if he might be a criminal.
Maybe. Because Ned had entered the country with something akin to murder in his heart.
The officer on the other side motioned him through, then held up a hand for him to stop. He wanded him, slowing at the spot where Ned had recently been wounded, and maybe just a little irradiated with some rogue caesium-137.
But he was fine, just fine and—
“You’re good to go.”
Ned picked up his bag, shouldered it, then turned to wait for Fraser.
And that’s when the dog barked. He looked down to see one of the patrol shepherds barking at his bag, alerting.
What?
