Skeet’s hand found her arm.
The lead man was built like a linebacker. Close-cropped blond hair, maybe Russian. His suit couldn’t hide the bulge of a shoulder holster. The other two flanked him—shorter but equally built.
Team thug.
“Dr. Radic,” the lead man said, andyep,definitely from an Eastern Bloc country. “Dr. Volkov would like a word.”
Dr. Radic ended his call. “I already spoke with him.”
“He has some additional questions. About your conversation just now.”
Chloe kept recording, the phone’s camera capturing the fear on Dr. Radic’s face.
“I . . . don’t understand . . .” Voice barely a whisper now.
“The phone call, Doctor. The one where you threatened to go to the authorities.”
Dr. Radic looked around the garage like a trapped animal. His gaze passed right over their hiding spot without seeing them, then focused on the men closing in.
“Please,” he said, backing against his car. “I just... I just want to help people. That’s all I ever wanted.”
“Then you’ll continue helping. At the resort. This weekend.”
“But the children?—”
“Are not your concern anymore. Your concern is following Dr. Volkov’s instructions.”
A car door slammed somewhere in the garage, the sound echoing like a gunshot. Dr. Radic jumped. One of the security men’s hands moved toward his jacket.
“Someone’s here,” the lead man said, head turning in their direction.
Chloe’s blood turned to ice.
“Down there,” another voice called—a fourth man she hadn’t seen before. “Behind the pillar. Two of them.”
Oh no.And then footsteps pounded against the concrete.
“Run!” Skeet growled and grabbed her hand.
And then . . . they were running.
Behind them, shouts echoed off concrete walls as their pursuers gave chase. Her heels clicked against the ground—why had she thought those were a good idea?—until she kicked them off, cold concrete shocking against bare feet as she sprinted toward the exit ramp.
The garage became a maze of shadows and bulleting footsteps. They dodged in and out of cars, crouching low, breathing hard.
And every time they crouched low, thinking they’d lost them?—
Behind them, a shot pinged off one of the pillars.
What—“They’re shooting at us!”
“Of course they are!” Skeet pushed her behind a pillar and crammed in next to her as another shot echoed.
“There—the exit,” said Skeet and pulled her up toward the opening.
“This way,” a female voice called from their left.
A woman stood beside an open service door, beckoning. Maybe thirty, dark hair pulled back in a severe ponytail. Press credentials, black photographer’s vest over matching pants.