Page 22

REN

Beaufort, South Carolina

A fter weeks of chasing dead ends, Ren and Twitch concentrated on the tiresome task of trying to track S.K.

’s travel. After hacking the airline flight data, Ren saw Twitch’s estimation had been accurate.

Over the past five years, ten million, four hundred and thirty thousand people with the initials S.K.

had flown worldwide. Sofria Kirk was twenty-seven years old, or so she claimed.

Narrowing the search to women between the ages of twenty and thirty-two had dropped the number to five hundred thousand and change.

Finally, Ren had found Susan Keller, an executive traveling from Lisbon to Damascus four years prior.

Her passport photo added more fuel to the fire.

Samantha Kline, an FBI agent, was also a match.

Still, something about the women was different.

Sofria Kirk was soft and timid. Even on the grainy airport security footage, Ren could see the sexy edge of the businesswoman, Susan Keller.

Samantha Kline, on the other hand, appeared efficient and serious.

Another match appeared on the screen. Twenty-two-year-old Sally Kennedy had a blue streak of hair and a nose ring. The tips of the letters of a Harvard sweatshirt were just visible.

Ren stared at the passport photo on the screen—Sofria Kirk’s latest incarnation. Sabrina Kittridge had flown from New York to the Maldives the week after Sofria was supposedly in Amman, Jordan. Sabrina Kittridge then traveled to London, where she was registered at the Savoy Hotel.

Twitch appeared over Ren’s shoulder. “This identity is airtight. I couldn’t have built it better myself.”

Newton poked his nose out from under the desk, and Twitch fed him a piece of the graham cracker she was nibbling.

“What’s she doing there?” Ren asked.

“Best guess is she’s onto a new assignment. I checked the phone records of the London-based scientists connected to the drone project. Dr. Arvin Barnett has been a frequent diner at the Savoy Grill.”

“He’s a geneticist on Project Bloodhound,” Ren said.

“Looks like she’s cleared you and whomever else she was monitoring and has a new target.”

Ren pulled up an airline app. “She has some explaining to do.”

Twitch stilled his hand. “You know, you could let this go.”

With unwavering resolve, he met Twitch’s blue gaze. “Not a chance in hell.”

She delivered an animated palms-up shrug. “Worth a shot.”

“I need to go to London.”

Twitch pointed to an adjacent monitor. “No, you need to go to Tipscomb-on-Thames.”

Ren read the social media post and Arvin Barnett’s comment that Twitch had highlighted.

“Looks like he’s bringing a date,” Twitch said.

“Is the jet free?”

Nathan Bishop appeared in the doorway with his arms crossed. “I’m not running a charity, Ren.”

Ren stood and walked over to his boss. “Yeah, sorry. I have some vacation days, and I’ll fly commercial.”

Nathan placed a hand on Ren’s shoulder. “That won’t work. I have a job for you.”

“But—” Ren started to protest, but Nathan lifted his hand.

“Twitch provided the guest list for that event.” Nathan tipped his head toward the invitation on the monitor.

“Turns out an old friend of ours will also be attending. He’s still convinced the Russian government is trying to assassinate him, so persuading him to add additional security was a cakewalk. ”

“Yuri?”

“You’ve been hired as his bodyguard for that party. Wheels up in the morning.”

Ren nodded, feeling inexplicably choked up. “Thanks.”

Nathan clapped him on the back. “A word of advice: don’t let your anger get the better of you. Hear her side of it.”

Twitch and Nathan left to discuss another matter, leaving Ren standing in the empty room.

The total possible number of legal moves in any chess game was approximately 10^40—one followed by forty zeros. At the moment, that seemed small compared to the number of possibilities that could unfold when Ren finally confronted Sofria Kirk.