“A pity.” Tsarnaev’s voice was thoughtful. “From what I understand, he was quite effective in his intelligence oversight role.”
Dinner continued with talk of regional politics, economic development, the challenges of bringing democracy to areas that had known only conflict. Jackson spoke passionately about American aid programs, infrastructure projects, the importance of cultural exchange.
Tsarnaev acted as if he ate it up.
Dinner finished shortly after. Jackson said her goodbyes and left with her detail, confident in her diplomatic immunity and the strength of American foreign policy.
Alan spotted Signe standing outside the building as they left, holding the hand of a little blonde girl, maybe six or seven. As if she’d been summoned to watch. For a moment, their eyes met. Alan saw in them the same hollow grief he’d been carrying for years—but also something else. A fierce determination to protect what little remained of her world.
Interesting.
Signe Kincaid wasn’t a victim. He could see that much.
He and Crowley walked out into the mountain night, leaving behind the warmth and light of the compound. Stars arched above, watching.
“She knew,” Alan said quietly as he and Crowley reached the Jeep.
Crowley paused, hand on the door handle. “What?”
“Jackson. The way she positioned her briefcase. The casual comment about White.” Alan looked back at the compound, where lights still glowed in the dining-room windows. “She knew exactly what was happening.”
Crowley smiled. “Of course she knew.”
“She’s not a victim. She’s a player.”
Crowley smiled in the darkness. “Took you longer than I expected to see it.”
The Jeep’s engine turned over with a reluctant growl. As they began their descent through the darkness, Alan’s phone buzzed with a text message.
He glanced at the screen. Unknown number, but the message was clear:
Unknown number
Isaac White will never be president. Now it begins. - J
Alan stared at the message until the screen went dark. Understanding flooded through him like ice water. Jackson wasn’t just playing along. She was the mastermind. The NOC list, the casual dinner conversation—all of it calculated. All of it part of a larger plan that was just beginning to unfold.
“She’s behind the entire plot,” Alan said.
Crowley smiled.
Alan looked away, out the window, his gut tight.
And maybe, at that moment, he didn’t care how Crowley drove.
ELEVEN
Remember everything.
The mantra played on repeat in Chloe’s mind as Volkov and the woman led her through Bangkok’s rain-slicked warehouse district. Zip ties cut into her wrists, and Elena walked beside her, silent tears mixing with raindrops streaming down her face, shoulders shaking with each step.
Their captors pointed them toward a dock that stretched into the Chao Phraya River like a finger pointing into darkness. Rain drummed against corrugated-metal warehouses, turning puddles into mirrors that reflected neon signs from the far bank.
At the end of the pier, a sleek yacht bobbed in the water. Maybe fifty feet long, it looked painfully out of place among fishing boats and cargo ships.
They boarded from the gangplank. Motion sensors, cameras, and a couple of armed thugs waited for them on board. Volkov motioned them into the cabin. The interior was all polished wood and leather, but it felt like a floating prison, with two more armed men at the door.
Oh, Skeet, I’m sorry.