Page 21 of Skotos
I thumbed open a folder, flipping past the new ID with my fake smile and false name. “Barker,” I muttered. “Seriously. I’m a pissed-off dog.”
“Could be worse. You could be Snead.” Thomas chuckled. “I’d take a dog name over sounding like phlegm.”
I glanced up. His movements were so methodical, they were almost hypnotic. “You really think we’re getting the full picture here?”
“Of course not.” He stopped mid-fold and cocked his head. “We never do.”
I leaned my head back, staring at the ceiling. “Two heads of state. Two completely different profiles. Different enemies, different policies, different everything. Both dead. One in private, the other about as public as it gets. One without any trail, the other with some symbol no one recognizes or understands. Someone’s sending a message, but it’s like they’re speaking a language no one’s ever heard.”
Thomas moved around the coffee table and sat beside me. “And we don’t know who the message is for, either. It might have nothing to do with America or the West or anything related to us. For all we know, these are old Nazis trying to resurface.”
“Or Soviets taking out pro-Western leaders before their ideals can take root.”
Thomas grunted at that.
I flipped to the last page, the one with information on the burn fund, extraction routes, and everything we might need for the mission—except clarity. “Red said this isn’t a war, but it sure feels like one—and not just boots-on-the-ground, something deeper. I don’t know . . . it feels like something . . .older. Does that make any sense?”
Thomas’s hand brushed mine as he reached for his own folder. “You thinking religious?”
“No . . . maybe . . . I don’t know what I’m thinking.” I ran both hands through my hair while the folder remained splayed in my lap. “But that casing Red showed us? That etching? It wasn’t military. It was ritualistic. Itmeantsomething to the person who engraved it.”
Thomas didn’t answer right away. He simply stared at the folder in my lap, his jaw tight. “We’ll figure it out,” he said eventually. “We always do.”
I wasn’t so sure. Churchill had described Soviet intentions as “a riddle, wrapped in a mystery,inside an enigma.”1 I doubted any man had ever spoken truer words, words that echoed in my head as I sifted through what little we knew so far.
Still, I nodded, because that’s what we did.
We nodded.
We packed.
And we walked into fire.
Outside, the wind picked up, rattling the shutters.
A storm was coming.
I’m not sure how long we sat there, neither of us giving voice to our thoughts or doubts or fears. I’d lost myself so completely that I didn’t notice Thomas’s fingers weaving into my hair before massaging my scalp—at least, not until a knot further down in my neck decided to release.
“Start that and you’ll end up doing it for an hour,” I said, reveling in his touch.
“We won’t have moments like this for a while, but we have all night tonight.” His voice was silk teasing my skin, warming my chest, and tickling bits far below.
“Thomas—” was all I got out before his mouth covered mine.
I knew I should push back, shove him off, focus on memorizing and practicing ourcovers. I knew better than to waste valuable hours before the proverbial gun sounded and we raced off into danger. I knew we were never truly alone, no matter how closely we held our private lives.
But his fingers . . .
The pressure on my neck . . .
His lips and, oh damn, his tongue . . .
He pulled back and lifted his shirt over his head. Thomas’s normally tanned skin was pale and taut across the muscles of his chest and arms. Paris was stunning, beautiful in ways no other city could match, but our time there wasn’t exactly conducive to maintaining a golden glow.
And still, Thomas was the definition of gravitational pull.
He drew me in with a glance.
