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Amenities included cable TV, a kitchenette, a bathroom with a shower, and a small porch. There were also a lot of large windows offering frigid views of the ocean and freshly falling snow. The single door with two deadbolts was not as reassuring as the proprietors might have thought.

The memory of spending the night before at Captain Rafferty’s house, wrapped warmly, comfortably in Quinn’s arms, felt like a lifetime ago.

Granted, his entire lifetime felt like a lifetime ago. Someone else’s lifetime.

Andy was seated on the bed, drinking Lipton’s spring vegetable (that must have been one harsh winter) Cup-a-Soup and using his laptop to search for information on Cyril Sirius when, to his astonishment, he came across what seemed to be a legitimate company bio.

Dutch-born Cyril Sirius was the owner and CEO of Angstrom Glencore Inc., which claimed to export art and antiques from an address in Saint Petersburg, Russia to anaddress in Brooklyn, New York. The website photo looked like it might have been taken a decade earlier, but it was definitely Sirius.

He heard brisk footsteps on the porch and nearly jumped out of his skin when someone pounded authoritatively on the cottage door.

He’d been hoping, waiting for this. Andy sprang off the bed, started to open the door, unconsciously reassured by the lack of stealth or caution. Almost in afterthought, he glanced through the peephole. The porch was very dark. If there was a light, the bulb had burned out. Andy could just make out a bulky shadow and the colorless gleam of eyes.

“It’s me,” a male voice half whispered, and Andy realized his mistake. Sirius had been watching him, which meant someone else could be watching him.

But he’d already undone the first deadbolt and started to slide the second.

“Shit.” He tried to force the second bolt back, but the entire door bowed and then crashed open beneath the force of a monumental kick.

Andy reacted out of instinct and fear, flicking the overhead light out and throwing his empty laptop case at the intruder’s head. It connected—he heard the man’s, “Ooof,” and the follow-up “Fuck!” before the intruder hurled the case back at Andy.

Andy knocked it aside, shoved past, striking down the automatic grab and lunge for him. He burst out of the doorway and onto the ice-slick porch. His stockinged feet shot out from under him, and he went down hard on his hands and knees—and started crawling, hands stinging at the bite of snow and splinters.

The man followed, grasping Andy by the collar of his shirt and flinging him against the outside wall of the cottage. The whole structure seemed to shake.

The assault was so fast and so violent, there wasn’t time for Andy to regain his feet or defend himself before he was grabbed again and thrown toward the doorway. The intention was probably to get him inside, but he slammed against the doorframe. He groped for anything he could use as a weapon, and his fingers fluttered across something dry and crumbly, like old feathers, and then closed on what felt like the lip of something cold and rough: a terracotta flower pot frozen solid.

He grabbed the pot, swung with all his strength, and felt it connect with athud.

His attacker lost his grip, fell to his knees, and Andy aimed a kick at his balaclava-clad head. Andy slithered backward through the doorway, rolled to his knees, dizzy, off-balance, head ringing. He half slammed, half fell against the door.

The door wouldn’t close, however, and Andy, heart hammering, lungs burning, braced for round two.

It didn’t come.

He leaned against the door, shaking, panting, and heard what sounded like the slip and thump of retreating boots.

No way. Was he givingup? No way…

Andy’s ears strained to hear over his body’s distress: the rush of blood in his ears, the labor of his lungs.

“Andy?”The voice seemed to float across the frozen grass and icy distance.

Thatvoice he knew, though he’d never heard it sound so alarmed or breathless.

Quinn.

Andy hauled himself to his feet, yanked open the door, and staggered onto the porch as Quinn bounded up in time to catch him.

Chapter Twenty-Two

“Are you okay? Are you hurt?” Quinn’s voice was rough and urgent. His arms locked around Andy, and Andy felt like his safety line had snapped back into operation the last second before he hit ground.

He clutched Quinn back, nodded. “I’m okay. I’m fine.” He wasn’t even sure if it was true. His head was still ringing, his body throbbing and burning from brutal contact with ice and wood. But with Quinn’s arms around him, he felt okay. Until that instant he hadn’t realized how afraid he was he would never see Quinn again outside of a courtroom.

Quinn’s arms tightened for an instant. “Get inside and lock the door.” And he was gone, racing after Andy’s assailant.

“Wait.Quinn—”