THE GATEKEEPER

I shower. Work out again in Maykl's living room. Now, I check in with Stepanov.

"Koslova." He answers immediately. "I heard two of the bugs are already online."

"Yes, sir. I placed one in each elevator. Tonight, I will deactivate the security cams and place the others throughout the building. Tomorrow I will see their pakhan." "Excellent work. Tell me about the security system."

I hesitate. Why is my boss so intensely interested in this mission? It's more interest than he ever showed on my cases back home. "Did you decide to fly out here, sir?" "Yes. I'm en route now."

That takes my breath. "You are?"

"I'll be there by midnight. The FBI are asking for a full description of the layout of the building including exits and entrances, as well as details about the security and HVAC system. They expect trouble when they go in to make arrests and wish to be prepared."

I lean my head against the window overlooking the lake. The idea of a show-down here in this building makes my stomach knot. If that happens, people will die. Many people on both sides.

I shouldn't care, but Maykl could be killed. He's right at their front door. Their gatekeeper. He'd be the first line of defense.

After the generosity he showed me today, betraying his kindness and hospitality doesn't feel like a win. But I didn't come here to make friends. I came to get my nephew and take down the bratva.

Using Maykl is the path to that end goal.

That thought doesn't quiet the discomfort fizzing up my neck, though.

I switch my brain back to business, though. "The locks are all electronic, activated with keycards. There's a keypad at the front door. I believe the code is 87847. I can verify that for certain tonight." I memorized it when I watched Maykl lock up the night I arrived. He'd shielded the screen from my view, but I watched the movements of his finger and, using a mental map of the keypad, guessed at the sequence. "There are cameras above the outside entrance and in every hallway and elevator, but not in the apartments themselves. At least, not that I've seen."

"And you know how to disable the security feed?"

"I know how." My last case involved a breach of a system like this. The expert we consulted with had explained to me exactly how it was done. "Any word about Mika?"

"Not yet, but it's only been a day. They're working on it. Don't worry. They have the resources necessary to locate the boy. How is your friend?"

I hesitate. Is Stepanov jealous?

No, that's ridiculous. He's just looking for a full report.

"I appear to have won his trust."

"Good work."

I end the call and, restless, head downstairs. Perhaps I can explore the building before it's dark. Pretending to be turned around for the cameras watching, I take the wrong turn off the elevator and come to what appears to be a retail space. A sign reading "Kremlin Clay" hangs over the doorway. I try the knob, and it opens.

Inside a young woman dressed in short plaid flannel shorts despite it being winter straddles a spinning pottery wheel. Her wet hands lovingly guide a lump of clay into a bowl shape.

Her dark hair hangs in two long braids. Short bangs frame her eyes. She tosses an easy smile my way. "Hi."

This scene is such a far cry from anything I would ever find in a bratva stronghold back in Moscow that I stop and stare, transfixed.

"Are you lost?" she asks. She speaks English but with an accent that isn't American. I don't know English well enough to identify it. I also don't think it's her native language.

"Oh. Um, yes. I mean, I saw the sign and wondered what was inside."

The young woman keeps molding the clay, pulling the lip of the bowl higher and wider. "You're Russian. Who do you know here?"

"Maykl." I jerk my thumb in the direction of the front desk. "I'm staying with him."

"Are you?" She stops the wheel, and the pile of clay collapses in a disappointing heap. I almost gasp at the loss. "He didn't mention it." She gets up from the wheel. She wears a smock over some kind of adorable rounded-collar fitted blouse. She's sexy in that ingenue way.

She goes to the sink and washes the clay from her hands. I use the opportunity to tuck a bug under one of the cabinets that line the wall.

"I'm Kat. Adrian's girl."

I stare blankly.

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"Adrian and Maykl are friends. How do you know him?"

I'm tempted to lie but know that would bite me in the ass. "Oh. Um, we met recently. My sister died, and he's helping me with the arrangements."

"I'm sorry for your loss." Kat walks over and extends her hand.

"I'm Kira," I offer, realizing I hadn't reciprocated the introduction.

"Are you and Maykl..." She lifts her brows.

"Yes," I say but only because I'm playing a role here. Normally, I would deny I had intimacy with any other human.

"Well, it's great to meet you. Welcome to the Kremlin." Her smile is infectious. She's captivating. Nothing about her resembles the kind of women who consort with bratva members in Moscow. Nothing screams drug user. Or sex slave or anyone tortured, used, or owned by the bratva.

On the contrary, there's a vibrancy about her that I've never seen before. It's...stunning. It suffocates me. Like I lived my entire life without realizing that kind of vibrancy was possible. And now that I know, I don't want to crawl back into my own bleak existence.

I sort of hate this beautiful young woman as much as I want to drink in her vitality.

Once again, this anomaly in a bratva-controlled building throws me off my game. Shows me just how little I know about the enemy I've come to infiltrate. "Are you interested in pottery?"