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.
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 workingwith the Russians. And now Martin has the aerosolization research.”