Page 40 of The Hitman’s Final Job

I especially try not to think of what I did just before my son showed up, which is pointless because I can still feel Silas’s lips, the way his tongue sought mine, his warm breath. The worst is that I don’t regret it, but I know it can’t happen again.

Now I know my willpower isn’t as strong as I thought it was. Years without a relationship? Months without sex with another person? Sure, I can do that. Days in Silas’s constant presence is what’s breaking me.

It’s probably a good thing Rowan showed up and took him away, even if just for the night.

I pull up my data reports and start working through them as the lab fills up around me. Dom arrives first, then Priya, then the two graduate students who come in three days a week.

By ten I’ve finished the moisture data and moved on to the preliminary results from the latest seedling batch, which are, as Dom noted yesterday, running twelve percent ahead of projection. I look at the numbers for a long time, then I ask Dom to check them, and he tells me they’re right.

“Guys, this is it,” I say. “The methodology is working better than the model predicted, which means the publication timeline I’ve been working toward is not only achievable but potentially ahead of schedule.”

“I knew it.” Dom punches the air. “Someone owes me cookies.”

“I brought you cookies last week,” Priya says.

“Well, you should try being right more often, and I’d be the one getting them.”

I don’t need to look at Priya to know she’s rolling her eyes.

I go back to my desk and pull up my email to send a message to Professor Amara Osei at Makerere University in Kampala, asking if she’s available for a call. It’s just after seven in the evening there, but it’s not the first time we’ve spoken at this time.

Her reply comes back in four minutes.

Available now if you are.

Professor Osei’s face fills my screen, slightly pixelated at first before the connection gets better. The bookshelves of her office at Makerere are behind her, which means I’m not interrupting her evening.

“Vaughn,” she says, her voice filled with warmth. “You look tired.”

“I’ve been told I look tired for approximately thirty years, Amara,” I say. “It’s called being a parent.”

She laughs. “The conference went well?”

“Very well. The European response was stronger than I expected. There’s real interest in the methodology from the Nordic agricultural research community … which is part of why I wanted to talk to you.”

“I can’t say I haven’t been hoping for your call,” she says.

“Amara, the results I’m seeing here in Colorado are ahead of projection. Significantly ahead. I’m ready to take this into the next experimental phase.”

“And you’re thinking Uganda,” she says.

“The red laterite soils in the central region are exactly the kind of degraded agricultural land the methodology is designed for. If it works there⁠—”

“It works everywhere,” Amara finishes for me.

I nod. “Or at least, if this works, then we have a much stronger case that it can.”

She leans back in her chair and studies me with barely contained enthusiasm. “I’ve been talking to the faculty here. The agricultural science department has been searching for exactly this kind of collaboration, and I have a team of talented students that are ready to work on a project like this.”

“I really hope this works.” I run a hand through my hair. “Can you imagine, Amara? The smallholder farmers who are working degraded land and losing yields every season could have reliable crops.”

“You really are something special, Vaughn. I’ve never met an American who isn’t interested in money, fame, or glory.”

I chuckle. “I’ll take that as a compliment. You’ll have the full methodology, results, and proposed trial parameters by Friday.”

“Good.”

“And Amara? This can’t go beyond the university.” I’m as direct as I can because the stakes are so high. “We can’t risk someone getting their hands on this research.”