The Blonde Identity: A Novel

“Sawyer, run!” Did he hear Zoe’s voice through the iPad or across the icy expanse? Sawyer didn’t know. Didn’t care. He just knew that Collins’s smarmy face had been on the screen; he was too busy thinking about the way Zoe had transformed with one look at the man on the train. But, most of all, he heard the question Zoe had asked over and over: Why didn’t Alex go to the CIA?

The moment he saw the sinister smirk on Kozlov’s face, he knew.

“You have a mole at Langley.” At that point it wasn’t a question.

He saw the gun in Kozlov’s hand, felt Oleg and Sergei on either side of him, easing closer and closer. Carefully, Oleg jerked Sawyer’s gun from his waistband.

“How long?” Sawyer asked because he had to keep the old man talking.

“Just before the bitch stole the drive,” Kozlov said, and Sawyer nodded because Alex had been right—of course Alex was right. Someone did tell Kozlov she was CIA, and for almost two weeks she’d been out in the cold. Alone.

Then a scream pierced the air.

Sawyer turned and watched in terror as Zoe sprang over the railing of the observation platform on the other side. But Kozlov wasn’t looking at Zoe. He was watching Alex, who must have used the knife to cut herself free. She was almost at the midway point—getting ready to cross paths with the drive—when she leapt from one cable to the next. The wind gusts were so violent that she actually swayed, blown like a leaf, but she held on tightly as she pulled out the drive.

“Stop her!” Kozlov shouted and Sergei headed for the stairs that zigzagged down the side of the mountain and then out onto the glass-bottomed bridge.

And Sawyer . . . well, Sawyer just lunged for Oleg, grabbed his arm, and threw him at Kozlov like the world’s worst bowling ball. Hey, it wasn’t pretty. But it worked. They both crashed through the temporary railing and down the jagged rocks to land on a platform by the stairs, but all Sawyer could do was watch with his heart in his throat as Zoe started climbing down the icy cliff on the other side. Sawyer had to get to her. He had to save her. He had to—

And that’s when he remembered the pulley system and threw the thing into high gear. He grabbed hold of the cable and flew through the frigid air that sliced between the peaks. The swirling ice and snow stung his face, but he could still hear the shouting and the shooting as Oleg opened fire down below.

Up ahead, Alex dropped onto the glass bridge and started running in the opposite direction—toward Zoe and Italy. Toward safety and home. But Sergei wasn’t far behind her, gun out and closing fast. Sawyer saw it all from his place in the sky. In fact, he was probably the first to realize—

The bridge wasn’t finished—it just dead-ended in midair.

“Alex!” he yelled as she slammed to a stop, staring out over the cold, empty void. The drop was at least fifteen feet, but Sergei was barreling toward her. There was no place to go. She looked up at Sawyer and, for a heartbeat, she looked like Zoe—like at any moment she was going to roll her eyes and call him a jerkface.

But before he could drop to the bridge to help, she yelled, “Go get my sister.” Then she spread out her arms and jumped.

“Alex!” Zoe was running across the ancient glacier that was really just a field of ice and snow—extremely unstable ice and snow—and Sawyer died a little with every step she took.

“Zoe! Stay there!” he shouted, but she kept running. Infuriating woman. And then, worse, she stopped.

Her eyes filled with terror as she looked behind him then shouted, “Alex!”

Sawyer glanced back in time to see Sergei jump from the unfinished bridge and onto Alex. They crashed to the surface, rolling and fighting, and Sawyer watched in horror as the drive flew from Alex’s hand and across the icy ground.

The drive that he’d searched for. The drive that he’d killed for. The drive that wasn’t just his job—it was his future.

That drive was the end of Kozlov and the thing that was most likely to keep Zoe safe, so Sawyer stopped thinking and just . . . let . . . go . . .

He felt himself flying through the air and crashing to the top of the glacier. He heard the ice crack beneath him, felt the slide as the snow began to roll down the steep slope like a wave.

The wind blew around him, stinging his skin with icy pellets. Dusty snow was like smoke, filling his lungs. But he could see an outcropping of rocks poking up through the glacier’s surface, so lunged for them, grabbing hold and stopping his fall, but the drive wasn’t so lucky. It was twenty feet behind him and still sliding. Almost to the edge now. Almost gone.

“Sawyer!” Alex shouted, but he couldn’t even turn; he was too busy clawing and crawling toward the drive that was slipping closer and closer to the edge. Grappling for balance. Desperate for traction. But he couldn’t stop. He’d given five years of his life to stopping Kozlov. He had to get there. He had to get it. He was so close now. He just had to—

The moment Zoe screamed the world stopped.

The wind stopped blowing and his heart stopped beating and everything he’d ever loved or wanted or feared converged on the place where Collins was dragging Zoe to the ground. Hands on her throat. Squeezing. And everything—literally everything—changed.

The drive was nothing. Kozlov was nothing. His career . . . His father . . . They were all nothing compared to the terror of watching the woman he loved die.

“Zoe!” he yelled, charging back up the glacier, trying to climb and claw his way toward her, but the slope was too steep and the ice was too slick and she was just too far away.

She was too far away, but Sawyer had to reach her and save her and tell her . . . He had to tell her that she was the only thing on this earth that mattered. So he clawed harder, faster until—

He hadn’t gotten to see her use The Move on the boat. He’d been too late to watch her free herself from that Russian assassin, but this time he saw her twist and kick and push until Collins was off her—until she was free. Kind of. Because Collins was still right there—just a foot or so away.

“You fucking bitch!” he shouted, but Zoe kicked again—not at the man. At the ice. Her heels pierced the snowy surface then pushed, and when he lunged again, the ice shifted. Just a little. And then it was crumbling and Collins was sliding. Falling. Washing away on a wave of ice and snow.

Zoe’s cheeks were pink and her hair was wild, but when she smiled down at him, she was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen, and for the first time in his life, Sawyer believed in happy endings.

But then the smile faded. The snow shifted. And crumbled. And in the next second, Zoe was sliding too—faster and faster toward the edge.

“No!” Sawyer roared, diving for the rocks again, anchoring himself with one hand while he stretched out with the other. Straining. Praying. Reaching—not for her hand but for his future. For his everything.

“Zoe!” he shouted over the sounds of Collins’s screams—

“Fucking bitch!”

And when he felt her hand grip his . . . when he saw Collins wash over the edge while Zoe was still there—clinging to him . . . when he was finally able to breathe, to see. To smile . . .

All he could say was, “Language.”