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 weak with relief. She held tight to the doorjamb. “I’m fine,” she managed to say, “but you need to help him.”
“Help who?” the detective asked.
“He’s in the k-kitchen,” she stammered, “and hurt.”
The detective swept past her as three more black-and-white police cruisers rushed up the drive. Half a dozen officers exited the vehicles and ran to the house.
“That way,” she said, pointing to the kitchen as they approached. One of the police officers disabled the alarm. The silence was more terrifying than the noise. In the quiet, Petra could hear a single question echoing in her mind: What have I done?
She leaned on the wall for support. Her throat burned. She wanted to pass out. But she needed to know what had happened to her client.
She stepped toward the kitchen, but Martinez blocked her path. He had removed his suit coat and splatters of blood stained his wrinkled shirt and tie. Over his shoulder, she saw the uniformed police officers administering first aid to Joe. In the distance, she heard another siren, and through the open front door she caught a glimpse of an ambulance racing up the drive.
“I need to ask you a few questions,” Martinez said, steering her to a dining room that was situated on the other side of the foyer. Two EMTs bearing a stretcher entered the house and immediately went to the kitchen, disappearing from Petra’s view.
It didn’t mean that she couldn’t hear what they said. “Starting IV fluids,” said a female.
“Starting IV fluids,” repeated her partner, a male.
“I see seven stab wounds,” said the female.
Seven wounds? She tried to picture herself in a frenzy of what—rage? Fear? In her mind’s eye, she saw nothing.
“Ma’am? Are you okay?” the detective sergeant asked. “Can you answer a few questions?”
She nodded.
“Let’s start with your name and why you’re here.”
“I’m Petra Sloane, Joe’s agent.”
“Can
