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Inside, his strategic brain took over. If Dominic Carter had sent Iyara into the center of the main concourse, that meant he wasn’t there himself. Jonas moved to the edges of the expansive halls, looked up toward the balconies, and then he knew. There were three grand, arched windows at the top of each stair. And on one, an ever-growing cluster of tourists pouring in from the street outside.

If Jonas were going to drop something deadly into a crowd, he would do it from there. Because not only was it a nice height and packed tight with victims already, but the constantly revolving doors behind him would push the air around and do the work the air-filtration system had done in that basement.

Not to mention, it was splashy and self-aggrandizing, just like his quarry.

Jonas moved for the stairs, passing people who stared straight at him and never knew he was there. He could have touched them and they still wouldn’t have registered his presence. It was his gift. His curse. His most formidable weapon.

He melted up the stairs toward the balcony, winding his way in and out of busy commuters and clueless tourists snapping photographs, searching every face and every stance, looking for a man who could very well have disguised himself—

And then, at last, he saw him.

He’d dyed his hair since California, into a shocking red that was clearly meant to hide him by calling attention to the difference that would automatically disqualify him. But it was still the same man. Judson Kerrigone. Dominic Carter.

Once a mercenary killer, always a mercenary killer.

Jonas knew that Carter didn’t expect to be recognized. He wasn’t the steroid-slurping maniac he’d been in the desert. And he wasn’t the overly smiley CEO, all about handshakes and that fake aw-shucks grin, either. Today he was dressed in a hooded sweatshirt and jeans, both far rattier and thicker than anything he’d worn in California. And he stood differently, so that he looked thicker himself. Not muscled and ready, but pudgy.

Not a great disguise, maybe, but Jonas knew full well the best disguise was often as simple as a shift in a facial expression. A change in gait. He was doing the same thing himself.

He looped around, concealing himself behind a loud group of men with pronounced local accents. And when he came around the other side of the surge of bodies there at the landing at the top of the stairs, he was face-to-face with Dominic Carter.

At last.

And had the distinct pleasure of watching the man stare straight at him, then jolt, as if at first he hadn’t recognized Jonas at all.

But then he did.

“One step closer,” Carter said conversationally. And the gaze Jonas had found unsettling enough at Bethan’s wedding seemed even more intense. Downright unpleasant. “I dare you.”

Jonas ignored him. “What are you going to do?” he asked mildly, moving closer. “Kill me twice?”

Carter’s face twisted. “You should have died the first time. That bitch shot me.”

“If it hadn’t been her, it would have been someone else,” Jonas said pitilessly. “You weren’t exactly a popular guy, Judson. I’m betting you still aren’t.”

But Carter sneered as if that were funny. “Says Jonas Crow, who, turns out, doesn’t own any company in Seattle. All talk to impress the crowd and General Wilcox, I’m guessing. Maybe you should ask yourself how valuable you are.”

“To who?” Jonas asked. He was aware of distinct movement in his peripheral vision, and he glanced over quickly to see Templeton on one side, Isaac on the other. He knew without having to ask that Griffin had a line of sight. And Blue, no doubt, was already tracking Iyara Sowande and Bethan.

But he couldn’t let himself think about any of that.

Even when Templeton pointed to his own ear, then gave Jonas the finger.

“You were a highly trained asset to your government,” Carter was saying, seemingly unaware that Alaska Force had closed in around him. “But now what are you? Just another mercenary. Disposable.”

“We’re all disposable,” Jonas replied. “The only thing you have, the only thing you ever have, is your honor. But you wouldn’t know anything about that.”

“You can keep your honor,” Carter snarled at him. “I have a Fortune 500 company and the most powerful biological weapon known to man.”

“That’s what I can’t figure,” Jonas said, and he adopted a little bit of a character while he did it, almost grinning. Far friendlier than he felt. “What’s your plan? You must know you’re going to inhale a little bit of your cocktail. Then what? You don’t strike me as the suicidal type.”

But when Carter only sneered at him again—like he was stupid—Jonas knew the answer. He thought about that scrap of paper with all the chemical compounds on it. And suddenly, things got a lot clearer.

Because if there was an antidote and Carter had it, that meant all Jonas needed to do was relieve him of it. Then give it to Bethan.

And if Jonas had to kill Carter in the process—well, that wasn’t the kind of thing he was likely to lose any sleep over.

Out of the corner of his eye he read Isaac’s hand gesture, obliquely telling him that there were other eyes watching this interaction. Officials, no doubt. None of whom would hesitate to take him down if he gave them a reason.