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.”