Chapter 2

      Once Ian Wallace decided that Nikolai Mateev had to die, it became easy to bend rules and break laws. He sneaked the computer out of the Comrades’ safe house and worked on the laptop in the relative privacy of his black SUV with darkened windows, which was parked two blocks away.

      All that ended as he spotted Special Agent Marcus Jones striding purposefully up the street. He wore the obligatory Fed uniform of a dark suit and red tie. In the moment, Ian wondered if the uptight special agent had anything else in his wardrobe.

      Ian hit the keys rapidly, then slid the flash drive from the port. He was shutting the laptop’s lid as Jones rapped his knuckles on the side window. “What the hell are you doing, Wallace?” the agent asked through the glass. “I’m pretty sure that’s my evidence in your hands.”

      Ian rolled the window down. “This laptop was found—”

      “Hidden behind the wall,” Jones interrupted. His nostrils flared and the cords in his neck stood out. “I heard. I am with the FBI, you know. My question is why in the hell did you take a laptop from my raid?”

      “Technically,” said Ian, “I’m the one in charge of the raid.”

      “I want Mateev as bad as you do, but you’re playing with the FBI now and everything—and I mean everything—has to be done by the book,” said Jones. “I don’t want loopholes that can be exploited during a trial. So just tell me that you didn’t try to get into that laptop. If you did, a judge will consider it tainted and we’ll never get a search warrant for whatever you found.”

      Ian’s work here was done. He’d hoped to quietly turn the computer in to evidence and leave without seeing Special Agent Jones, much less have a confrontation. Since that wasn’t going to happen, Ian only wanted to leave. “I don’t want to get into a pissing match with you, but I am the team leader. This computer was found and I wanted to see what was on the hard drive.”

      Jones paused a beat. “What did you find?”

      “Nothing,” said Ian. “There’s too much encryption to break through.”

      The FBI agent dragged his hands down his face, giving him a hangdog look. “No offense, but you’re the biggest moron I’ve ever met. That computer is evidence. You know that. Besides, people in this country have rights against illegal search and seizure. They expect that we’ll conduct a fair and honest investigation and that a judge will sign warrants before we search their property all along the way.”

      “Are you done with the lecture on the American legal system?”

      “Depends,” said Jones. “Did you pay attention?”

      “Remember, you hired me to catch Nikolai Mateev because I didn’t have to play by all of your rules.”

      “Consider yourself fired.”

      Ian shoved the laptop through the open window. “Take your computer. I have everything I need to find Mateev on my own.”

      “You’re off the case. Completely. I don’t want to see you or any of your operatives from RMJ anywhere near Mateev. If I do, I’ll arrest you all for obstruction of justice. Got that?” Marcus took the offered computer.

      Ian didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. As far as he was concerned, the FBI had served their purpose. Now? Ian didn’t need them anymore.

      He raised the window and put the SUV into gear, the flash drive safely hidden in his palm. Sure, lying to the FBI and stealing evidence made Ian guilty of more than a dozen federal crimes. But what did he care about a little jail time when it meant sending Nikolai Mateev where he belonged—straight to hell?

      * * *

      Petra slowly regained consciousness, opening her eyes to find herself leaning against a wall, her hand resting on a gray plastic box. Her head throbbed with each beat.

      Beep. Beep. Beep.

      The last thing she remembered was a phone call from one of her clients, Joe Owens. He’d wanted to see her, but then what? The beeping grew, climbing in intensity, rising in volume before ending in a crescendo of a full-blown alarm. Petra could almost see the sound waves radiating out from the small gray box. She had tripped an alarm. But why? Nothing made sense.

      She took in the rest of the room, which was tiled in cream-colored marble and framed with blond wood. Nearby was a set of double doors, and a staircase on the left led up to a balcony that ran the length of the room.

      Like seeing the corner of a photograph, the fragment of a memory came to her. It was Christmastime and she stood in this room—Joe Owens’s foyer. She’d spilled red wine on her silk blouse and had been directed to the kitchen where she could get some seltzer water for the stain.

      An arched doorway on her right led to the same kitchen. The room beyond was dark. The lights were off and the curtains had been drawn.

      Petra caught a glimpse of her dress, her hands. She was covered in splatters of red. Not wine this time. Blood? Icy tendrils of panic reached for her throat and squeezed. Was she bleeding? She scanned her body. Scrapes, bruises, a single cut to her arm. Beyond that, she had the expected residual headache that came after a migraine, and nothing else. So what had happened after she lost consciousness? Why was she covered in blood?

      Her handbag lay in the middle of the foyer, the contents were scattered about. Lipstick. Sunglasses. Keys. Wallet. No phone. She dove for her purse and dug into the interior. It was empty.

      “Joe?” Her throat was dry, her voice hoarse.

      Petra took a step. Her legs trembled, and her vision wavered. She breathed deeply, trying to stay calm. She had to call someone. The kitchen... There’d been a landline in the kitchen. She peered around the corner and found nothing but darkness. Dark floor. Dark walls. Dark forms blending in with the gloom.

      “Joe?”

      Petra took another step, then another. The floor underfoot was sticky. The odor of copper and meat was thick in the air. The shadow of the island loomed before her. Her foot connected with something solid but not hard. Petra’s heartbeat raced.

      Scrambling, she reached for the wall. Her hand danced along the surface until she found an electrical switch. She turned it on. The room blazed with light. A pool of black spread out around her feet. Joe lay sprawled at the base of the island with a knife protruding from his side.

      Petra sank to her knees next to him. His shirt was soaked and crimson, his breath nothing more than a gasp. She dared not touch the knife, lest she hurt him more.

      “Joe? Joe? Can you hear me?” The alarm continued to scream. Petra couldn’t even hear her own voice.

      He didn’t respond.

      A loud knocking was heard and above the din a voice called, “Police. Open up.”

      The police. She scrambled to her feet, lightheaded with gratitude that someone had arrived who could help Joe—help her.

      A large man in a suit stood on the stoop. He held up a small leather portfolio. His badge and photo ID were visible. “I’m Detective Sergeant Luis Martinez with the Denver PD. I’m responding to a home alarm.” He looked her over from head to toe. “Are you injured, ma’am?”

      Petra’s legs went