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CHAPTER ONE
Raisa
Now
Someone was watching her.
FBI forensic linguist Raisa Susanto didn’t need her training to tell her that—she’d learned the weight of a predator’s gaze long before she’d stepped foot in Quantico.
Raisa shifted over to the coffee shop’s pickup counter, searching for reflective surfaces. She found one in the fancy espresso machine, but all she could get was the impression of dark hair, a blurred face.
She touched her shoulder, an instinctive gesture she’d been trying to fight for the past three months since a bullet tore into her flesh right at that spot.
The injury had made her paranoid, jumpy in crowds—she could admit that. But this was experience, not fear, talking now.
When the barista called her name, Raisa bit her lip, wishing she’d given a fake one instead. If whoever was watching her had any doubt about her identity, that had just been wiped away.
The mistake made Raisa long for the solid press of a gun against her rib cage. But she’d stopped at the little shop after a run, and had only the essentials with her.
She forced a smile for the barista, and then, instead of skirting around the gaggle of other patrons, she wormed her way directly into the middle of the group. They grumbled at her, but the move gave her some cover and let her scan the room.
The place was packed, as expected on an unseasonably pretty Saturday. She didn’t catch anyone watching her, and for one moment she doubted herself in a way she hadn’t before she’d been shot.
Crowds did make her more jittery than they ever had in the past, and her fight-or-flight mode was easily triggered by unexpected noises, by the brush of a stranger’s arm against hers.
But the echo of the stare lingered on her skin.
Raisa had a few options here.
She could wait, see if the person came to her. The coffee shop was a relatively safe location, where she could easily call for help. The downside was that it carried a higher risk of a civilian getting hurt in the confrontation.
Or she could force their hand.
Raisa had never been one for the passive approach.
Murmuring her apologies, she exited the gaggle and headed for the door, deliberate and purposeful so she would be seen.
It didn’t take long for the predator to follow, close enough for Raisa to hear the bell chime as the door shut behind them.
Bold.
Or inexperienced.
Raisa took the next left and then sprinted up to the alcove just ahead of her. She pressed her back to the stone wall and waited one beat, two.
A woman came into view.
She was short and curvy, her dark hair piled into a messy bun that showed off an undercut. She wore leggings paired with combat boots and an oversize flannel shirt open over a white tank. There was no sign of a weapon.
Not exactly threatening on first glance, but Raisa wasn’t, either.
When the woman stuttered to a stop, Raisa wasted no time stepping out of the hiding spot, yanking the woman by the collar, and pushing her up against the wall. Raisa pressed a forearm against her throat, hard enough to show she meant it but with just the right amount of pressure that she could apologize if this was all a misunderstanding.
“You have about three seconds to tell me why you’re following me,” Raisa said.
The woman blinked at her in apparent confusion, her hands coming up to pull at Raisa’s arm. At least Raisa could be reassured there was no hidden strength beneath that hipster wardrobe.
“One,” Raisa said.