“Then we deal with it. Together.”
Together.
She smiled at him.
He didn’t know what to do with the sudden heat inside his chest. “Okay then. But we do this smart. In and out, fast and quiet. And if anything feels wrong, we bug out.”
“Deal.”
They waited in their suite while Chloe paced to the window and back, nervous energy radiating off her. When his phone buzzed with Coco’s all clear, they moved through the hotel corridors—taking the stairs instead of the elevator, avoiding the main hallways and security cameras.
Ten minutes later, they stood outside room 1247. Skeet’s phone buzzed with a text from Coco.
Coco
Theoretical malfunction in progress. You have ten minutes before hotel security notices.
The hallway stretched empty on both sides.
Skeet tried the door handle. It turned smoothly, lock disengaged just as Coco had promised.
This hotel room was identical to his—sitting area with sofa and coffee table, bedroom with king-size bed, bathroom with black marble counters and gold fixtures. Everything neat and undisturbed, as if housekeeping had just finished evening service.
“Stay close. Keep your eyes open for anything that doesn’t belong.”
They moved through the sitting area slowly, checking behind furniture and under cushions. The coffee table held only hotel brochures and water bottles. The bedroom was pristine—bed made with hotel corners, no personal items visible on nightstands or the dresser.
“Where are his clothes? His suitcase?” Chloe asked.
“Bathroom,” Skeet said, though his gut was telling him what they’d find.
The marble bathroom gleamed under halogen lights, towels folded with precision. At first glance, as spotless as the rest of the suite.
Then he spotted the soaking tub.
Oh.
“Don’t look.” He stepped between Chloe and the tub.
Too late?—
Chloe made a small, choked sound behind him, standing frozen, her eyes on Dr. Marko Radic, dead in the white tub, fully clothed, eyes staring at the ceiling with a flat, empty gaze. He lay in hazy water, blood dripping down from the terrible line on his throat.
“They did kill him.”
“Yeah.” Skeet crouched beside the tub, careful not to disturb anything. “Single laceration across the carotid artery. Precise and deep. Minimal defensive wounds on his hands. Water level just high enough to dilute the blood.” He stood up. “Professional work. Quick. Clean. And efficient.”
“How long has he been dead?” Chloe asked.
“Not long.” He stood up, stomach churning. “They must have come straight here after losing us.”
“Because he was going to expose them.”
“Because he was a loose end. And loose ends get people killed.”
She looked at Skeet, her eyes darkening. “This isn’t just about weaponized medicine anymore, or even about children dying in remote villages. Volkov is willing to murder anyone who threatens his operation.”
“We need to get out of here,” Skeet said. “Now.”