Chapter 5 #2
Russian or Ukrainian or Polish. Definitely Slavic.
Chloe turned away, glanced at the man through her peripheral vision.
The man approaching could have stepped out of a university brochure.
Tall—maybe six-two—silver hair perfectly styled in the kind of cut that whispered expensive salon.
Charcoal-gray suit tailored to accommodate a muscular build that suggested he hadn’t spent much time behind desks.
Wire-rimmed glasses framed intelligent brown eyes. He held out his hand to Radi?.
Dr. Radi?’s face went from white to gray. “Dr. Volkov. I didn’t . . . I wasn’t expecting . . .” He met the doctor’s outstretched hand.
“Nonsense. I wouldn’t miss hearing about your remarkable work.” Volkov didn’t release his hand but moved closer to Dr. Radi?. The younger man seemed to shrink under his attention. “Your presentation was quite illuminating.”
Chloe pretended to examine the catering table while straining to hear every word. From the corner of her eye, she could see Skeet positioning himself for a clear sight line, camera hanging casually around his neck. He held his phone, as if reading it.
Hopefully snapping pictures.
Dr. Radi? looked as if he wanted to disappear under the carpet. His eyes darted toward the exits, then back to Volkov’s face. “Leonid, I should get back to my room. The flight was long, and I’m quite tired.”
“Of course, of course. But first, I want to extend an invitation.” Volkov placed a hand on Dr. Radi?’s shoulder—a gesture that might have looked paternal to casual observers but that made Radi? flinch.
“I’m hosting a small gathering this weekend at a resort in Phuket.
Just a few colleagues discussing the future of nutritional-intervention research.
Very informal, very productive. I think you would find it . . . educational.”
“I don’t know.” Dr. Radi?’s voice was barely above a whisper. “I have commitments . . .”
“Nothing that can’t be rearranged, surely? The work we’re discussing could benefit millions of people, Marko. Isn’t that worth a weekend of your time?”
And yeah, they might have sounded like friendly words, but even to Chloe’s ear, this didn’t really seem like an invitation.
More like an order.
“Yes,” Dr. Radi? said finally. “Yes, of course. I would be honored.”
“Excellent.” Volkov’s smile broadened. “I’ll have my assistant send you the details. The resort is quite beautiful this time of year. Very private, very secure. Perfect for the kind of discussions we need to have.”
Dr. Radi? nodded, then practically fled out the back door.
Chloe watched as Volkov turned and cast a look over the catering area. His gaze passed right over her and Skeet, but something cold flickered across his features.
He’d made them.
Maybe.
Possibly.
Chloe forced herself to examine the fruit display. Mangoes. Pineapple. Dragon fruit arranged in a sort of waterfall.
When she glanced up again, Volkov was gone.
“We need to follow Radi?,” Skeet said quietly.
“Agreed. But let’s keep our distance.”
Ten minutes later, the concrete chill of the hotel parking garage raised goosebumps on her arms as they tracked Dr. Radi? to his small white rental car. He paced in tight circles, talking rapidly into his phone in what sounded like Czech, his voice echoing off concrete walls.
She didn’t know Czech, but—
“That definitely sounds like panic,” Skeet said.
He darted behind a concrete pillar and she joined him. Close enough to hear, but hidden in the shadows between overhead lights. The garage reeked of exhaust fumes and oil, with an underlying dampness that suggested rain.
Dr. Radi? stood outside his car, tie hanging loose, shirt untucked, hair sticking up at odd angles as if he’d been running his hands through it.
“He looks on the edge of a complete breakdown,” Skeet said. She held up her hand to silence him.
“—cannot do this anymore,” Dr. Radi? was saying, suddenly in English. “The children in the villages, they are dying, not getting better. The supplements are wrong somehow. Contaminated, maybe, or . . .”
Chloe’s breath caught.
He doesn’t know.
Dr. Radi? genuinely thought his supplements were supposed to help people. He had no idea he was giving them poison.
She pulled out her phone, started recording, zooming in to capture the anguish on his face.
He paused, listening to whoever was on the other end. Dr. Radi?’s shoulders sagged as the voice spoke. When he responded, his voice cracked. “No, I will not go to the resort. I don’t care about the funding. This has to stop. Children are dying because of my work!”
His voice rose, echoing off concrete walls. “I’m going to the authorities. The police, the World Health Organization, whoever will listen. This ends now.”
Footsteps echoed from the elevators.
Dr. Radi? looked up from his phone call, face draining of color in the wan light as three men in identical dark suits approached.
Chloe’s stomach dropped.
Skeet’s hand found her arm.
The lead man was built like a linebacker. Close-cropped blond hair, maybe Russian. His suit couldn’t hide the bulge of a shoulder holster. The other two flanked him—shorter but equally built.
Team thug.
“Dr. Radi?,” the lead man said, and yep, definitely from an Eastern Bloc country. “Dr. Volkov would like a word.”
Dr. Radi? ended his call. “I already spoke with him.”
“He has some additional questions. About your conversation just now.”
Chloe kept recording, the phone’s camera capturing the fear on Dr. Radi?’s face.
“I . . . don’t understand . . .” Voice barely a whisper now.
“The phone call, Doctor. The one where you threatened to go to the authorities.”
Dr. Radi? looked around the garage like a trapped animal. His gaze passed right over their hiding spot without seeing them, then focused on the men closing in.
“Please,” he said, backing against his car. “I just . . . I just want to help people. That’s all I ever wanted.”
“Then you’ll continue helping. At the resort. This weekend.”
“But the children—”
“Are not your concern anymore. Your concern is following Dr. Volkov’s instructions.”
A car door slammed somewhere in the garage, the sound echoing like a gunshot. Dr. Radi? jumped. One of the security men’s hands moved toward his jacket.
“Someone’s here,” the lead man said, head turning in their direction.
Chloe’s blood turned to ice.
“Down there,” another voice called—a fourth man she hadn’t seen before. “Behind the pillar. Two of them.”
Oh no. And then footsteps pounded against the concrete.
“Run!” Skeet growled and grabbed her hand.
And then . . . they were running.
Behind them, shouts echoed off concrete walls as their pursuers gave chase. Her heels clicked against the ground—why had she thought those were a good idea?—until she kicked them off, cold concrete shocking against bare feet as she sprinted toward the exit ramp.
The garage became a maze of shadows and bulleting footsteps. They dodged in and out of cars, crouching low, breathing hard.
And every time they crouched low, thinking they’d lost them—
Behind them, a shot pinged off one of the pillars.
What— “They’re shooting at us!”
“Of course they are!” Skeet pushed her behind a pillar and crammed in next to her as another shot echoed.
“There—the exit,” said Skeet and pulled her up toward the opening.
“This way,” a female voice called from their left.
A woman stood beside an open service door, beckoning. Maybe thirty, dark hair pulled back in a severe ponytail. Press credentials, black photographer’s vest over matching pants.
Had Chloe seen her at the conference? Media section? Near the catering table?
“Hurry,” the woman said, her accent sharp.
British? Chloe couldn’t tell.
Behind them, footsteps spanked the concrete. The squeak of rubber soles.
Someone shouting in Russian.
She glanced at Skeet, and his expression said it: Trust the stranger.
She dove through the doorway just as something exploded behind them in the garage.
The sound turned deafening as car alarms shrieked and men shouted over the crash of falling debris. The service door slammed shut with a metallic clang that reverberated through her bones.
“C’mon,” the woman said, unfazed, already moving down a narrow corridor. “Keep up,” she said over her shoulder. “That won’t hold them long.”
What—
But they followed her through a maze of service corridors, past laundry rooms and storage areas, until they emerged through an unmarked exit into an alley behind the hotel.
They stopped in the alley, breathing hard, the smells of Bangkok rising around them.
“Thank you,” Chloe gasped, trying to catch her breath. “I don’t know who you are, but—”
“Watch yourself better,” the woman said and took off down the alleyway.
Chloe stared after her.
“Who was that?” Skeet said.
“I don’t know.”
They stood there for a moment, listening for sounds of pursuit. The alley was quiet except for the distant hum of traffic and the clatter of dishes from a restaurant kitchen somewhere nearby.
And of course, her thundering heart.
“We need to get back to our rooms,” Skeet said finally. “Figure out what we learned and what our next move is.”
She had started to pace, her heart rate settling. “The resort. We know Volkov is taking Radi? to a resort in Phuket this weekend. We need to be there.”
Skeet stared at her. “Are you serious right now?”
She stared back.
“Absolutely not. You saw what just happened. They made us, Chloe. Whoever this Volkov is, he’s . . . dangerous. He’s got like a . . . I don’t know. An evil-empire vibe. And he might suspect something.”
“Which is why we need to move fast. Before he has time to clean up loose ends.”
He stared at her.
“What?”
“You are scaring me.”
“I’m not the one shooting at us!”
“Do you hear yourself?”
She headed down the alley. Behind her, Skeet huffed.
But he followed.
The elevator ride back to their suite stretched in tight silence, the mirrored walls reflecting her flushed face and Skeet’s grim expression, his folded arms and tense shoulders.
Somebody was mad.