“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 onMyAmore.comfor three months. Two previous first dates, neither of which had produced a second.