Chapter 9
NINE
Bangkok’s warehouse district transformed after dark into something from a spy thriller.
Shadows pooled between cargo containers. Sodium lights cast everything in amber and menace. The Chao Phraya River lapped against concrete docks, and the air hung thick with diesel fumes and welding smoke.
And her man was the spy. The kiss from two hours ago still burned on Chloe’s lips.
What was wrong with her that watching Skeet gear up for a mission was like watching all of her fantasies come to life?
But then again, she’d been a die-hard James Reece fan since The Terminal List came out.
And here he was, a warrior, in the flesh. Black combat gear that hugged his lean frame, tactical vest loaded with equipment, night-vision goggles pushed up on his forehead.
The transformation was complete. Terrifying. Devastatingly attractive.
And okay, maybe he wasn’t as dark and tortured as James Reece, but yeah. Skeet in full tactical gear . . . Wow, Thailand was hot.
She gripped her camera tighter as Ham spread tactical maps across the hood of one of their cars. The rest of the guys stood, kitted up and solemn. Ham’s voice cut through the humid night, sharp, a sense of military in his tone as they talked about exits and infils and different scenarios.
Around them, the industrial maze stretched in every direction—towering cranes silhouetted against the city’s glow, container ships moored like sleeping giants. They had parked four blocks away from the warehouse.
This was it. The story that would expose Volkov’s entire operation.
“Silver stays in the vehicle.” Ham’s words shattered her daydream.
“Excuse me?” She looked over at him.
“You heard me.” He didn’t look up from the warehouse schematics. “This is a tactical operation, not a photo shoot.”
“I’ve been documenting this story for months. I’m not sitting in a car while you—”
“While we what? Do our jobs?” Ham’s eyes met hers. “This isn’t negotiable.”
And so what if he looked a little scary, she’d . . . well, she’d interviewed a drug lord once.
“It absolutely is.”
Skeet appeared at her elbow.
“Ham’s right. It’s too dangerous.” His voice carried professional authority, but when he looked at her, something softened in his expression. “And I’m not losing you to a story. Even a really good one.”
She rounded on him. “Since when do you get to decide what’s too dangerous for me?”
“Since about two hours ago, when we decided this thing between us is worth protecting.” The corner of his mouth quirked up despite the serious conversation. “Call me old-fashioned, but I prefer my girlfriend breathing.”
“Girlfriend?” The word slipped out before she could stop it.
“Too soon?” His grin widened. “Because I was thinking we could make it official after we save Bangkok. You know, romantic dinner, maybe somewhere without armed guards and biochemical weapons.”
North smiled, which felt odd given that his tactical gear made his already-imposing frame look lethal.
“All the more reason I need to be there.” She lifted her camera. “This equipment has night-vision capabilities your team doesn’t. I can document everything—evidence that will hold up in court, exposure that will prevent this from happening again.”
“Dead journalists don’t write exposés,” North said quietly.
West looked up from where he’d been rigging some kind of explosive device. Even in full tactical gear, he somehow managed to look casual. “She’s got a point,” he said. “Mission cameras are garbage in low light.”
“West.” Ham’s tone carried warning.
“What? I’m just saying. She gets the shots out here. We’ll grab inside.”
Ham studied her for a long moment. The kind of assessment that made her feel like he could see through her, right to her underwear.
Creepy.
“Fine. You stay behind the primary team,” he said finally. “You document from cover positions only. And if anyone—anyone—tells you to move, you move. No questions, no delays, no getting the perfect shot.”
“Understood.”
“I mean it, Silver. One step out of line—”
“She’ll stay back.” Skeet’s voice cut through Ham’s warning. His eyes on hers held something that made her chest tight.
Trust.
Complete trust that she wouldn’t betray him.
Or almost.
“Don’t do anything . . . crazy,” he said quietly, pulling her away.
He’d grabbed a tactical vest and shoved it over her head, strapping it on, pulling it tight.
His voice was gentle now, almost vulnerable.
“Because I really like where this is heading with us, and it’s hard to date someone from prison. Or a morgue.”
He tried to smile, but his words were in his eyes.
“I’ll stay back,” she said. And aw, she meant it.
He wasn’t the only one making choices because of emotion.
“Promise?”
She nodded.
“Let’s go,” Ham said.
Chloe’s heart hammered as she fell into step behind them. The Chao Phraya River stretched beyond the facility, its dark water reflecting the city lights.
The warehouse loomed ahead. The place was a so-called shipping facility with modified ventilation equipment and a truck parked in the back.
Betcha there isn’t rice in that truck.
“Stay here while we breach,” Skeet said. “I promise I’ll be back for you.”
He parked her behind a stack of cargo containers.
Through her viewfinder, she watched Ham’s team move in. North and West approached from the river side while Skeet and Ham moved to the back.
The warehouse’s main doors stood open, spilling yellow light across the loading area where workers loaded trucks.
Chloe’s blood froze when she spotted Leonid Volkov standing near a modified truck. He’d traded his expensive resort wear for tactical clothing—black pants and a dark shirt—that made him look less like a pharmaceutical executive and more like what he really was.
A terrorist.
Ham’s team would breach from three points, overwhelming Leonid’s security before they could destroy evidence or trigger any chemical releases.
Simple plans, in her experience, rarely survived contact with reality.
The assault began with a subtle hello from West—an explosion that took out the warehouse lights.
Emergency lighting flickered on as Ham’s team moved like shadows through the smoke and chaos.
Chloe captured it all. North neutralizing the guards. West securing the exit, blocking escape routes.
She lost Skeet and Ham, then found them in the loading area, evacuating a handful of people.
Everything was going exactly according to plan.
Except . . . where was Volkov?
She got up, headed toward the building, staying low.
Not engaging. She just needed a look—
A shot pinged off the container behind her. She ducked. What?
She spotted a security guard headed her direction.
Run—she should run. But—
But that meant abandoning her post. Losing the evidence that could expose Volkov’s plan. Meant letting the story of her career slip away into the Bangkok night.
Meant breaking her promise to Skeet even more.
She scurried into the brush and kept snapping pictures.
Muzzle flashes lit up the container maze as Volkov’s people opened fire on her position. Metal sparked around her as bullets ricocheted off steel. She turned her camera to record and perched it in a tree and . . . hit the dirt.
And she got it. The modified HVAC equipment. The chemical containers. The face of every person involved in planning mass murder.
This was what she lived for. The moment when journalism became a weapon against evil.
The shots stopped and she poked her head up.
Spotted Volkov retreating toward the river docks.
He carried a briefcase and she knew—just knew—it contained intel about the ICONSIAM attack. Evidence that was about to disappear into the Bangkok night.
Skeet was going to kill her.
Maybe.
She took off as Volkov fled through the container maze toward the river, her camera bouncing against her chest as she navigated the industrial obstacle course. Behind her, Ham’s team continued their assault, but their shouts grew fainter with each step.
Volkov had a head start, but Chloe was fast.
And this story was not going to escape. For Dr. Tobias. For Dr. Radi?. For little Kamon.
The river docks stretched into darkness ahead, wooden piers jutting into the Chao Phraya’s muddy water. Volkov’s footsteps echoed as he ran toward what looked like a speedboat waiting in the shadows, moored in the closest slip.
Of course he had an escape plan.
Aw, she should have grabbed a radio.
The man reached the dock and fumbled with the speedboat’s mooring lines. The briefcase sat on the pier beside him.
She bent low and, yeah, did something crazy—ran up the dock. But the briefcase was right . . . there. Close enough to grab if she could just—
Hands seized her from behind. One arm snaked around her waist, the other pressed something cold and metallic against her temple.
“Stupid American journalist.” Volkov’s accented English carried satisfaction that made her skin crawl. “Always sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong.”
The gun barrel jammed against her skull, and the fight froze inside her.
Her camera’s strap cut into her neck as he dragged her backward. Her feet barely touched the dock as he maneuvered her to the boat.
Footsteps.
Volkov turned. “I know you’re there. Show yourself, or the journalist dies.”
A figure materialized from behind a cargo container. Female. Dressed in black tactical gear that made her nearly invisible against the warehouse background. Dark hair. Shapely. Cold eyes that reflected the dock lights.
The woman from the garage at the Arnoma Grand hotel. “Let her go, Volkov,” she said.
He stilled, clearly shaken. “Lynx,” he hissed.
And that’s when Chloe let her knees buckle. She dropped her center of gravity and pulled Volkov off balance. His grip loosened for a split second—long enough for her to drive her elbow back into his solar plexus and twist away from the gun.
It worked.
Volkov stumbled backward, gasping.
“Chloe!”
Skeet’s voice carried across the water as he appeared at the dock’s entrance. His gun tracked between Volkov and the woman.