I got this.
The words echoed in Skeet’s head as he stood at the hotel check-in counter.
Chloe had slept most of the way to Bangkok and didn’t say much when she woke. Maybe he’d gone too far, but something about the way she’d looked at him, an almost desperate expression on her face—he couldn’t help himself.
He did have this.
But he might need a little sleep first. He’d hit the wall two hours ago, and his body longed for a mattress somewhere.
“Two rooms, please.” He slid his card across the marble counter. He’d stopped at a small hotel near the city center. The lobby hummed with quiet sophistication—soft lighting, nearby water features, understated luxury that made him aware of his dusty travel clothes.
“Adjacent or?—”
“Adjacent is fine.”
The young woman behind the counter processed his Visa card. She kept glancing at Chloe, who stood by a window, staring out at the pool area as if she was seeing something else entirely.
“Something on your mind?”
She glanced at him, her pretty eyes troubled. “I’m doing it again.”
He frowned. “Doing what?”
She shook her head.
Okay, maybe she’d hit the wall too. “Let’s get some shut-eye, then food. Then we’ll talk.”
She nodded and followed him to the elevator. It arrived with a soft chime. They rode up in silence.
“Two-hour nap,” he said as they reached their floor. “Then meet me in the restaurant downstairs for dinner. We’ll figure out our next move.”
“Okay.”
She sounded tired. Or maybe on autopilot that kept her moving forward while her mind processed whatever was eating at her.
He watched as she disappeared into her room. Heard the deadbolt slide home. Stood in the hallway longer than necessary.
Something was wrong. Not just the obvious—Volkov, the weapons, the timeline. Something deeper.
In his room, he stripped off clothes that smelled like road dust and sweat and found his bearings again under the spray of the hot shower.
He walked to the big bed in a towel and fell into it. His eyes closed onI’m doing it again.
An hour and a half later, his phone woke him up, and he clawed through the blanket of sleep, took another shower, used one of the hotel razors to shave, and ran his hand over his smooth jaw, thankful to look civilized again.
He found his convention clothing and dressed in the dark slacks, the blue button-down shirt. The outfit would probably help him blend in at the resort tomorrow if they managed to get there.
The restaurant occupied the hotel’s top floor. Expansive windows overlooked the river, the city lights a kaleidoscope on the dark surface. Fancy place—white tablecloths, waiters in vests.
He’d maybe never been anywhere this nice in Thailand.
A hostess led him to a table by the window. The menu was mostly in Thai, with prices that made him grateful Jones, Inc., covered M&E expenses.
The waiter appeared beside his table. Young guy, maybe mid-twenties. Polished.
“Sir? Would you care for a cocktail while you wait?”
“Could you recommend a wine? Something good, but—” He gestured at the menu. Didn’t want to admit he had no idea what half the bottles cost.