Chapter 11 #2
Cooper laughed. “So does the CIA.”
“Well, how about that plus we don’t send your yacht to the bottom of the river.”
Really? How she hoped she was able to get off this pleasure cruise by then.
“You’re bluffing.”
“Ham.” Skeet spoke into what looked like a throat mic. “Show him we’re serious.”
The yacht shuddered. Something—multiple somethings—had attached to the hull. Not an impact, but enough to make the boat shake.
“Shaped charges,” Skeet said conversationally. “My friends are former SEALs too. They know exactly where to place them for incentive. Or maximum structural damage, if we can’t reach an agreement.”
Cooper lifted a shoulder. “The Petrovs own a fleet.”
“Your choice, Martin. Give up now, or we all go down together.”
Lightning crashed overhead, so close the thunder was simultaneous. In the strobing light, Chloe saw movement outside the windows—dark shapes in the water, positioning around the yacht.
“You know what I think, Blackwood?” Cooper’s voice dropped to barely above a whisper. “I think you’re not willing to risk their lives. I think underneath all that tactical training, you’re still the same man who got his team killed in Myanmar because he couldn’t make the hard choice.”
Skeet’s jaw tightened, but his voice remained steady. “Maybe. Or . . . maybe not.”
Cooper smiled. “We’ll see.” He raised his pistol—not toward Skeet, but toward Elena.
Be still.
The words whispered through Chloe’s mind again, not a command to freeze—a command to trust. To stay calm while chaos raged around her.
But—oh, God, please!
A terrible wave slammed against the boat, causing it to careen against the dock.
Chloe fell sideways, tackling Elena off her chair just as a gunshot exploded through the cabin. They hit the deck hard.
Chaos erupted around them. Gunshots. Shouting.
Chloe broke her silly zip ties—seriously, she had at least a few skills—and pulled Elena behind the desk.
More gunshots. Emergency lighting sparked and died, plunging the cabin into darkness broken only by muzzle flashes and lightning.
The yacht’s windows exploded inward.
Elena lurched as if to run.
“Stay down!” Chloe grabbed her, pulled her tight under the table. “Don’t move!”
The shooting was already slowing. Voices she recognized calling “Clear!” and “Secured!”
“Chloe!” Skeet’s voice cut through the aftermath. “Where are you?”
“Here!”
A light flashed around the room, and she raised her head. The cabin was a war zone—shattered glass, overturned furniture, smoke in the air. But the shooting had stopped.
Volkov’s woman was on the floor, unconscious but breathing, zip-tied by someone who clearly knew what they were doing. Same for the two thugs at the door.
But Volkov and Cooper had vanished.
Skeet appeared beside the table, dropping to one knee. His face was grim but his hands gentle as he checked them both for injuries. “You hurt?”
“No.” Her voice came out shaky. “Elena?”
“No.” Elena’s whisper was barely audible. “Is it over?”
“It’s over.” Ham’s voice came from across the cabin. Chloe looked up to see the older man surveying the scene. “Nice work, people. Let’s get these ladies somewhere dry.”
Through the shattered windows, Chloe could see another boat pulling alongside—sleek, fast, with someone waiting to help them aboard. The evac Skeet had planned.
But as Skeet helped her to her feet, her gaze landed on something. A red light, blinking from under the table.
Recording equipment.
Everything. Cooper’s confession, his cryptic plans—all of it captured.
Evidence.
“Skeet,” she said, pointing. “The recording. We need—”
“Come on.” He gripped her arm. “We’re leaving. Now.”
“But the evidence—” She pulled back, looking at the device. “Everything’s on there. His whole confession.”
“Chloe, we have to go.”
The sound of her name on his lips, the desperation in his voice, made her look at his face.
Fierce yet raw, hoping . . .
Please trust me.
She let him pull her away toward the shattered cabin door.
More shooting started. Muzzle flashes erupted from the shadows, wood splintering around them. Skeet tackled her to the deck as bullets whined overhead.
Ham called for backup, someone screaming orders. The yacht tilted as something heavy hit the hull.
Skeet hauled her upright, one arm around her waist. “Move!” They ran—stumbling through debris, Elena sobbing behind them, the storm still howling outside.
They reached the bow, rain lashing their faces. The evac boat waited, Ham holding onto their boat, fighting the storm, West at the helm with engines running. Elena ran to Ham, who helped her onto the boat, North catching her.
And then a wave jerked the rescue boat away.
It caught Ham, who tripped and went over the side.
“Ham!” Skeet shouted and took off.
Chloe too—
“Nope.” The voice came from behind her, a fist grabbing her hair. “I don’t think so.”
She lurched back, tripping, grabbing at her hair, slipping, falling to the deck. She broke free, rolled away—
“Stop.” Volkov stood in the cabin doorway, blood trickling from a scalp wound but very much conscious. He pointed his gun at Chloe.
Yeah, he looked a little unhinged. She raised her hands.
“Don’t,” Skeet said, his voice deadly quiet. He must have rounded back, because he stood just a foot away from her, breathing hard.
“You’ve cost me everything, Mr. Blackwood. My operation, my network, years of planning. The least you can do is watch while I return the favor.”
The storm raged around them, but all Chloe could hear was the sound of her own heartbeat.
And then Skeet said it. The only words that could wreck her.
“You’ll have to go through me.”
Then Skeet stepped in front of her.
“I can accept those terms,” Volkov said, and pulled the trigger.
The plan had been perfect.
Almost.
Ham and North approaching from the south, using the storm as cover. West positioned with the evac boat at the north pier. Communications jammed, power cut, shaped charges creating pressure without actually blowing the yacht apart. Skeet going in as negotiator to buy time for positioning.
They’d accounted for everything except Volkov being a survivor.
And of course Alan Martin at the helm. Shoot, they should have guessed that the traitor and international terrorist would be involved. But Skeet would figure out that glitch later.
Because he didn’t have time to think as Volkov’s bullet hit him dead center in his vest.
He staggered back, punched. Slipped and went down.
Chloe screamed.
And his stupid sacrifice didn’t work, because Volkov grabbed her up and pressed his gun to her head.
And Skeet lay like a fish on the deck, gasping.
Yeah, stupid bravado stealing his brains. Ham would kill him.
If he didn’t die here on the boat.
The yacht’s deck reeked of cordite and blood, rain washing pink rivulets toward the scuppers. Thunder crashed overhead, so close the vibration rattled through his bones. Wind whipped spray from the Chao Phraya River across his face—cold, sharp.
And his chest burned.
Don’t be stupid. Stop thinking with your heart.
Aw, not a chance.
“Let her go,” Skeet heard himself say, voice steady despite the chaos in his chest. He raised his hands, surrendering.
Volkov’s laugh was worse than the storm—it held an unhinged twist. Blood streamed from his scalp to mix with the rain, but his gun hand never wavered. “Oh, I don’t think so.”
No.
Skeet couldn’t move, his body still stunned.
And Chloe—she just looked at him, horror in her gaze.
Of course it had come to this. Him unable to protect her. Him watching someone he loved die.
Because, yes, he loved this woman.
Not the desperate attraction he’d been fighting.
Not the so-called partnership that had grown between them.
Love. Complete, terrifying, life-altering love for a woman who ran toward danger instead of away from it, who chose truth over safety, who believed in him and said with one look that . . . well, that she loved him back.
As long as he lived—please, let it be past this moment—he’d never forget the look she gave him as he stormed in.
She needed him. Her hero. And yeah, right then, he was all in, until the end.
And as if to press it home—“Please.” Her voice was barely audible over the storm, but it cut through him like a blade. “Let him go. I’m the one who started investigating. I’m the one who got him into this. Just . . . let him go.”
“No.” The word came out sharper than he’d intended, raw with everything he couldn’t say. He forced his voice gentler, his hands shaking with the effort of keeping them raised. “You’re not responsible for this.”
Rain plastered her blonde hair to her skull, strands escaping to frame her face. Her cheeks were flushed, and she looked fragile and fierce all at once. Beautiful. Brave. Mine.
“I got you into this mess.” Tears mixed with rain on her face, silver tracks in the emergency lighting. “I should have said no back in Chiang Mai—”
“I was in this the minute I saw you in that forest. The minute I knew someone was threatening you.” His voice dropped, thick with everything he’d been too afraid to say. Wind howled around them, but this felt like the eye of the storm—quiet, sacred, essential. “I’m still in.”
Her expression shifted. Fear giving way to something steadier, stronger. The trembling in her hands eased, her breathing deepened.
Maybe trust. Complete, absolute trust in him to find a way out of this.
God, don’t let me fail her.
He staggered to his feet, his chest nearly imploding.
“How touching,” Volkov said. “Are you finished?”
His breath caught. “Volkov—”
The man smiled at him, the gun hard against Chloe’s head.
The rain plastered her hair to her head, turning her eyes huge. But unafraid. She just stood there, her gaze in his.
Chloe.
The gunshot cracked through the storm. Sharp. Shattering his world.
“No!” He stumbled, then launched toward her, throwing himself at her, taking her down.
She landed on the deck with an oof and he rolled off her, checking her—no blood. In fact, she was scooching up—staring past him.
Volkov had staggered back against the door, his eyes wide.
Then he crumbled. His weapon clattered across the deck. Blood puddled beneath him, dark against the white deck, already diluting in the rain.
Skeet turned back to Chloe and then caught her as she threw herself into his arms.
Her hair was cool silk against his cheek, her body warm and solid and real in his arms. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move.
Okay, and yeah, his chest still hurt, but . . . aw, who cared?
He collapsed with her onto the deck of the yacht, holding her, wanting to weep too. “Are you hurt?”
“You’re the one who got shot!” She pushed away from him, shaking her head. Then she ripped open his shirt.
Spotted the vest. And then she threw her arms around him, her face buried in his neck. “Oh, I was so scared—”
“Okay, it still hurts. I mean, it’s like getting punched in the chest.”
“Shut up if you’re not bleeding.”
He shut up and just held her as the rain doused them.
Around them, shouting lifted, and Ham showed up. “Where?” he said, storming onto the boat. “Where did that shot come from?”
Chloe pulled back just enough to look up, pointing toward the warehouse district with a shaking hand. “I think it came from there. On the building.”
Skeet followed her gaze through the rain, and in a flash of lightning, caught a glimpse of a figure on a rooftop—dark tactical gear, long-range rifle. She stood, like some version of Black Widow.
Lynx.
A hundred meters, easy. In driving rain and wind that would throw off most shooters.
Huh. And . . . why?
“Let’s go!” West shouted, pulling alongside with his evac boat, its hull bumping against the yacht with a hollow thud. Ham grabbed the boat and held out his hand for Chloe. She climbed on and settled into the bow seat.
“Report,” Ham called to Skeet over the wind, rain streaming into his eyes.
Skeet looked over at Volkov’s body—rain pooling in his open eyes, blood washing away in pink streams—then back at his team. “Volkov’s dead—but Alan Martin got away.”
Ham stared at him. “Martin?”
“You didn’t see him?”
“No.” Ham’s mouth tightened. “I don’t know how we missed him.”
“That’s a question we keep asking.” Skeet piled into the skiff and sat beside Chloe.
“He called himself James Cooper,” Chloe said. “Who is he?”
“Long story for later,” Ham said, climbing aboard. “Let’s get out of here before the Thai Navy shows up with uncomfortable questions.”
Skeet wrapped his arms around Chloe as West drove them away from the yacht.
The city lights blurred past through sheets of rain, neon signs reflecting off the water in streaks of color. Bangkok at night during a storm—beautiful and dangerous and alive.
“Is it over?” she asked quietly, her voice almost lost in the engine noise.
Behind them, an explosion lit up the night, the yacht shattering into splinters, a fireball mushrooming from the deck. She sat up, looked at him. “Was that you?”
He shook his head. The fire illuminated her beautiful face. He couldn’t stop himself from pushing a lock of hair behind her ear. “I’m in love with you.”
She smiled. “Yeah, I figured that out. That’s why you keep following me.” Then she leaned in and kissed him. She tasted like rain and courage and promises he wanted to spend his life keeping. Her hands fisted in his tactical vest, holding him close. As if she never wanted to let go.
“Hey, uh, guys, I like the movie, but maybe, um, can you get down so I can see the bow light?” West, standing at the wheel. Ham sat in the other passenger seat, wearing a smile.
Whatever.
Skeet took her hand, moved them to the back of the boat, settled her on the back cushion next to Elena.
North rode behind them, watching their wake.
Skeet put his arm around Chloe, kissed the top of her wet head. She tilted her head back to look at him, rain-soaked and exhausted but somehow more beautiful than he’d ever seen her. Her eyes reflected the city lights, blue and gold and infinite with possibility.
“I love you too,” she whispered.
Behind them, Bangkok’s lights blurred through the rain as West guided them toward safety. Toward whatever came next.
Together.