Chapter 12
TWELVE
Chloe had never loved pizza more than she did eating it in the Airbnb.
Then again, maybe it was the company.
She sat curled against Skeet on the couch, a blanket wrapped around her shoulders and hot tea warming her hands.
He sat, arms around her, as if afraid to let her go.
Fine. Just fine with her.
No wonder her sister had followed North to his assignment in Mariposa. Chloe had suddenly been thinking that she might need to spend some time in Minnesota—for journalism purposes, of course.
Or maybe Skeet would follow her.
Wherever. As long as it was together.
Oh, he smelled good too. Skeet had showered and shaved, and with everything inside her, she just wanted to Never. Move.
Elena dozed fitfully in a nearby chair, finally safe after days of terror.
Yes, the place felt like sanctuary after the storm.
But, oh no, Ham stood up.
“All right, people.” Ham had showered too and now wore cargo shorts, a T-shirt, and flip-flops. He’d been on the phone with his wife earlier.
Sweet.
Now all the sweetness had vanished, a grim expression on his face. “Let’s piece this together. What exactly was Leonid Volkov trying to accomplish?”
“Aerosolization,” North said. “The nightshade alkaloids—he wasn’t just testing concentrations in food and medicine. He was developing a way to make them airborne.”
Chloe’s blood chilled even though she’d been the one to figure it out, explain it to North.
“Airborne?” West said. “You mean—”
“Breathable,” Skeet said quietly, his arm tightening around her. “Deployed through ventilation systems, at crowd events, anywhere people gather in enclosed spaces.”
“But we stopped him,” Elena whispered from her chair. “Marko’s evidence, the raid—it’s over, right?”
Ham’s mouth tightened into a grim line. “Leonid Volkov was middle management. The man really running this operation—the one who got away—that’s Alan Martin.”
“Who?” Chloe frowned. “The guy called himself James Cooper.”
“Alan Martin is his real name.” West looked up from his laptop, fingers still flying over keys.
“Ex-CIA, went rogue about fifteen years ago. Helped plot the failed assassination of President White at his inauguration. Even tried to kill the first daughter last fall. He’s been orchestrating attacks on American soil—bioweapons, assassination attempts, you name it.
He’s the puppet master behind a network that includes the Petrov Bratva and who knows who else. ”
The pieces clicked into place in Chloe’s mind like a horrifying puzzle. “So Leonid was working for Martin. Martin was working with the Russians. And now Martin has the aerosolization research.”
“It gets worse,” Ham said.
The room quieted, faces grim. Even Skeet’s.
“What am I missing?” Chloe said, sitting up.
“A couple weeks ago, your sister was on a train that derailed,” Ham said.
“I know. I was the one who contacted North—”
“It was carrying refined obsidite canisters.”
“What’s obsidite?” Chloe asked.
“A mineral used in advanced AI applications,” North explained. “Also happens to be highly volatile when it comes in contact with air. Creates an explosion. But more important—it creates a dispersal pattern that could carry other compounds over a wide area.”
Chloe’s stomach dropped. “Like aerosolized poison.”
“Exactly like aerosolized poison. And although we secured nearly all of it, one canister was stolen.”
The room fell silent except for the hum of electronics.
“There’s more,” West said, not looking up from his screen. “Flight manifests show an Alexander Steele boarded a plane to Hawaii an hour ago.”
Ham was already reaching for his phone. “It’ll take us a hot minute to get out of here, but Dakota can get on a plane. If Martin’s heading there . . .” He hit speed dial, and after a moment, “Dakota, it’s Ham. We need you on a plane . . .”
Chloe listened to the one-sided conversation, her gut tightening as she leaned back into Skeet’s arms.
West grabbed a piece of pizza and snagged the packet of red-hot peppers. Opened it—
“Oh my gosh.” Chloe sat up. “I completely forgot.”
She got up and headed to her room, grabbed her pack. Front pocket: a tiny spice packet. The spice packet Tobias had given her.
She carried it out of the room, holding it by her fingertips. “This is from the original contamination. If you need to develop an antidote . . .”
Ham stood up. “Let’s get a bag for that.”
Skeet was already off the sofa. He grabbed a napkin, and she set the packet on it. He folded it.
“Lethal stuff,” he said.
Ham nodded. “Good save, Chloe. Logan Thorne has been working on countermeasures for Martin’s weapons. He’ll need that sample.”
“Then I’m going stateside,” Chloe said. “I can give him this, plus Marko’s research files. And everything Dr. Tobias and I learned over the last six months. I remember all of it.”
“Chloe—” Skeet started.
She turned to him. “I’m going. This isn’t over. Martin’s still out there, and people are going to die if we don’t stop him.” She sighed. “And you have to go with your team.” She offered a thin smile.
He looked at Ham. “Permission to go to America.”
Ham’s eyes narrowed. “Get her home. Then get on a plane. We’ll meet you in Hawaii.”
“Skeet,” she said. “I can get on a plane by myself.”
He reached out, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “Yeah, no. Because who’s going to carry your luggage?”
She rolled her eyes. “Such a gentleman.”
“Among other things,” he said with a grin. His voice lowered, turning serious. “I just can’t let you out of my sight there, Gellhorn.”
His reference to the famous war correspondent sparked a smile. “Someone’s been doing research.”
“Someone’s trying to figure out what he’s getting himself into.”
“Oh,” she said softly. “So much trouble.”
Ham cleared his throat. “If you two are done being ridiculous, we have a terrorist to catch. North, you’re with me to Hawaii. West, coordinate with Thorne on getting into the Bangkok station—we need every piece of intelligence they have on Volkov. I’ll call Thorne, tell him to expect visitors.”
The team got up, leaving Chloe and Skeet on the sofa. Elena also left, heading to Chloe’s room.
Skeet looked down at her. His smile was soft, private, meant just for her. “You realize what this means?”
“What does it mean?” Funny, she heard an echo of a conversation from what felt like eons ago.
“It means you’re stuck with me. And I’m a little bossy.”
“And arrogant.”
He cupped her face in his hands, thumbs brushing across her cheekbones. “And hot.”
She laughed. “You’re going to get sick of me.”
“Never.” He bent his head and murmured against her lips. “Because I love you, Chloe Silver. And I’m not letting you go.”
And then he kissed her. Deliciously. Perfectly. And reminded her just why she let him tag along.
And sure, somewhere in the world, Alan Martin was planning his next move. The hunt was far from over.
But right here, right now, they had this. They had each other. They had hope.
And sometimes that was enough to change everything.
WASHINGTON DC, 2016
The rain had turned Georgetown into something from a film noir. Wet cobblestones, amber streetlights bleeding into puddles, the smell of damp brick and expensive coffee drifting from every other doorway along M Street.
Alan sat at a corner table in a small Italian restaurant called Luciana’s, nursing a glass of water and cataloguing exits.
Two. Front door, currently propped open to let in the October evening air. Back hallway past the restrooms that led to a service entrance off the alley. The kitchen had a fire exit too, but that would mean going through the line cooks, and Italian line cooks tended to be territorial.
Seventeen other diners. A couple in the far corner sharing a bottle of Barolo.
A group of four Georgetown students arguing about something political.
Three men in suits near the window—Hill staffers, by the look of them, loosened ties and that particular brand of exhaustion that came from twelve hours of pretending to run the country.
None of them were threats.
He was early. Twenty minutes early, because old habits didn’t die—they just found new ways to keep you alive. He’d walked the block twice before coming in. Checked the parked cars. Scanned for surveillance.
All clear.
Just a man on a date. That’s all anyone would see.
Dark sport coat, white shirt, no tie. He’d shaved. Even put on cologne—something Crowley’s secretary had recommended when he’d made the mistake of asking. Bleu de Chanel. Trust me.
He’d trusted her. Which was more than he could say about her boss.
The dossier sat in his memory, well-thumbed.
Sophia Randall, thirty-four. CIA, Foreign Analysis Division, specifically, Russia.
Born in Seattle. Parents still there—father a retired Boeing engineer, mother a librarian.
University of Washington, then Georgetown for her master’s. Recruited straight out of grad school.
She’d been on for three months. Two previous first dates, neither of which had produced a second.
And then came Alan.
Alan picked up his water glass. Set it down. Adjusted the silverware.
Wait, was he nervous?
Stop.
This was an op. Sophia Randall was a target.
A means to an end. He would be warm, attentive, interesting—the version of himself that opened doors and lowered defenses.
Three months of careful cultivation, maybe four, until she trusted him enough to let details slip about a certain Russian General, and his movements.
Then he’d pass the intel to Crowley, and this particular domino would fall, and the next phase would begin.
Clean. Simple. No one gets hurt.
He almost believed it.
The front door opened, letting in a gust of October air and the sound of rain, and—
There she was.