If Homeland Security and FBI involvement was Morgan’s best-case scenario, the SVR was his worst. The organization could bring to bear measures he’d have a difficult time countering: FLIR imaging, for one, which could literally tell them how many warm bodies were in the house and where. Overwhelming force was another possibility, in which every living thing in the house would be obliterated. A massive explosion was another possibility, as was a trained sniper taking him out any time he ventured out of the house.
On the other hand, if the Kingsleys were dealing state secrets to the SVR, the Russians wouldn’t want to call attention to the organization or the connection. If anything went wrong—and something almost always went wrong, in some way—the repercussions would far outweigh the benefits.
Morgan mentally rolled the situation around, decided the SVR’s involvement wasn’t likely. Neither was the Russian mob’s. Higher on the probability scale was a professional, but when secrecy was essential, involving others was a risk.
The most likely move they’d make was much closer to home. One of them personally would come to do the job.
Again, he necked down the probabilities. Joan Kingsley was the least likely, with her husband only slightly more likely, because he knew both of them on sight. Then again, maybe they both had unsuspected skill with weapons, which they would count on to take him by surprise. Yartsev himself was another possibility. He for certain would be weapons trained, and likely also trained to disguise himself. Though Morgan would have photographs and possibly video to study soon, he’d seen Yartsev in the flesh only once, and at a distance.
So—Yartsev was the most likely, followed by Dexter Kingsley, then Joan Kingsley. Or Yartsev and Dexter working together. Or all three of them.
Despite Yartsev’s training, Morgan thought that was something he could handle. His own training was far beyond anything Yartsev would have experienced, at least in weapons and strategy. The SVR man dealt with espionage and intelligence; Morgan dealt with devastation—two very different disciplines.
He would prepare for three shooters; if only two, or even just one, tried to take him out, he’d be overprepared, which wasn’t a bad thing.
While he’d been mentally sorting through all the details he’d been running full out, and now he slowed to a jog to cool down. A glance at his watch told him he’d been running for an hour; he was soaked with sweat, but all in all he felt pretty good. He was all systems go, heart and lungs working hard but smoothly. His legs weren’t up to snuff yet after enduring two months of enforced inactivity, but every day he was adding distance to what he’d done the day before.
If they came here expecting to find a broken-down wreck, they were in for a surprise.
That said, he couldn’t afford to feel cocky about his chances. His good physical condition would be easy for them to find out if they did even the most rudimentary fact-finding before acting. He had to assume they would if Yartsev was involved. The Russian wouldn’t walk blind into his own bathroom. The Kingsleys . . . maybe, if they were acting on their own.
He took an easier pace heading back to the house, and halfway back ran into Bo and Tricks on their walk. As soon as she saw him, Tricks whirled and raced toward him, barking happily. He knelt down and gave her some vigorous ear rubbing and chest scratching, which evidently felt so good she almost collapsed in bliss.
Bo approached at a slower pace, Tricks’s pink leash hooked through her belt loop out of her way, her green tank top baring the gleaming skin of her shoulders to the bright morning light. She was smiling as she watched him and Tricks. “Did you get everything worked out?” she asked, and when he stood, she linked her arm through his despite his sweatiness.
Morgan looked down at her and everything coalesced inside him in a blinding moment of light, the color around him flaring in brilliance before fading back to normal. In the trees a mockingbird began running through its repertoire of trills, whistles, and warbles, the sweet tone sinking into his bones. “Not yet,” he said, feeling as if he were in an alternate universe and liking it. “The main part is up to you.”
“Me?” She looked both puzzled and pleased. “I thought you didn’t want me to help. Okay, what can I do?”
No hesitation, he thought, just a willingness to throw herself into the fray and do whatever she could. “You can marry me,” he said.
She froze and actually turned white. Her big dark eyes widened until they eclipsed her face. Her mouth worked, but nothing came out.
He figured the turning white wasn’t a good sign, but he knew the battle he had to fight was also one he had to win, and he was ready to go to war, right here and right now, to get this woman. “I’ve been playing it cool,” he said, “not putting any pressure on you because I know you’ve dealt with some shitty people who let you down, and I wanted to give you time to realize you can trust me. But now I may be running out of time, and I want you sewed up and locked down, legally, in case this thing doesn’t have a good outcome.”
If anything, she went even whiter, standing stock-still on the narrow trail in the woods. The mockingbird sang some more, and a few other birds got in their own whistles and calls. Tricks dropped her ball at his feet and backed up, tail wagging, inviting him to throw it for her. For once, the humans in her life ignored her.
Bo’s mouth worked again, and this time words came out. “That’s not fair,” she croaked.
He clamped his hands around her waist and turned her to face him. “I don’t give a shit about fair. I give a shit about you. Oh hell, that wasn’t very romantic, was it?” He bent his head a little to peer into her eyes. “Do you want romantic? I can try. I’m more of a see-it, want-it, go-for-it type of guy, and I did: see you, want you, go for you.”