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A fter crossing the Brooklyn Bridge, Olivia followed her mapping app down the streets, around corners and into Brighton Beach. Turning another corner, she was transported into the previous century.

Most of the signs above the stores were not only a different language, but also used a different alphabet. Driving slowly along the neighborhood streets, she watched the people on the sidewalks, most of them women. Some had children. Instead of pushing them in strollers, these women pulled them in wagons. Everything about them looked… foreign. They wore babushkas tied beneath their chins. Long, loose dresses. Black shoes, the kind she remembered her grandmother wearing when she was a kid. One thing stood out -- the people on the street were almost all women. Very few men were out here. Were they all at work? Had to be.

She was nearly at the end of the block when she spotted the building where she was supposed to meet her contact. Four or five stories tall, old red bricks and windows that hadn’t been washed in months. Maybe years. Were they unwashed on purpose so no one could see inside the building? Probably. The Bratva was a secretive organization. They didn’t like sharing their business with anyone, even in this overwhelmingly Russian area of Brooklyn.

Apprehension crawled up Olivia’s spine as she studied the building and the women on the sidewalk. Why was she here? What did the FBI hope to gain from her meeting with the Bratva members?

She wasn’t sure. It had been a cold invite, completely out of the blue, and her instructions had been to talk to them. See if they could be convinced to be informants for the FBI. Leak details of upcoming operations, including upcoming crimes -- hijacking of shipped goods. Contract murders. Armed robberies. Shipping of trafficked women.

Olivia gripped the steering wheel tightly. Why would these criminals be interested in cooperating with the FBI? What did they have to gain? She couldn’t think of anything. Unless they were being investigated, and knew it, although her boss Nelson hadn’t said anything about pending subpoenas. But unless the FBI had dangled pardons for these criminals, there would be no sharing of information. Why would they be interested in that? What did the Bratva have to gain? Nothing that Olivia could see.

But she’d been assigned to come here and talk to them, so that’s what she’d do.

Opposite the Bratva building, she saw a small parking lot behind a butcher shop. She didn’t see any signs that it was restricted parking, so she swung into one of the spots and turned off her car. Before she exited, she touched the Glock in the holster beneath her left arm, and her backup gun in an ankle holster. Both there. Secure.

After checking her guns, she opened the car door and stepped into the humid heat of the September day. The asphalt was clearly ancient -- broken and cracked, with chunks missing. Weeds grew up from the cracks, some of them a foot tall. Clearly not a frequently used lot. But then, most of their customers were probably local.

Olivia looked around but saw no signs prohibiting parking. No signs listing the price of parking. She shrugged. She’d ask in the butcher shop.

The back door of the butcher shop was open, and the pungent smell of raw meat swirled in the air. Her stomach churned as the smell rolled over her. Even if she hadn’t been a pescetarian, the smell would have sickened her. Was the meat on the edge of spoiling in the summer heat? She swallowed hard, trying to avoid taking a breath.

Glancing in the back door, she didn’t see anyone working there. Must be out front, waiting on customers.

She hurried around to the front and stepped inside. The same smell washed over her, and she resisted the urge to turn and walk out the door. A man stood behind the counter, wrapping a piece of meat for a customer.

He looked over at her, his gaze suspicious. “Can I help you?” he asked in a heavily accented voice.

Olivia forced herself to smile. “Is it okay to park in the lot behind your store?” she asked.

The man frowned. “You have business here?”

Olivia nodded toward the building across the street. “Yes. In there.”

The man glanced at the building, then studied Olivia. His gaze drifted over her way too slowly, and his lascivious leer was impossible to miss.

“You have business in that building?” he asked, nodding toward the red brick structure across the street.

“Yes,” Olivia said.

He nodded slowly. “For my friends with business across the street, parking is free,” he said. “I will keep an eye on your car.”

“Thank you,” Olivia said. “I appreciate that.” Thank God she’d brought a bureau car instead of riding her Harley. She guessed it wouldn’t last long in this neighborhood. The Bucar was a drab older sedan. Brown. Not the kind of car that attracted thieves.

The butcher nodded at her. “It will be there when your business is completed.”

“Thank you again,” she said, managing a smile.

She hurried out of the butcher shop, waiting until she was away from the door to take a deep breath. Once on the sidewalk, she looked for Jake Dunbar, ignoring the flutter in her chest at the thought of seeing him again. According to her boss Fred Nelson, Dunbar was her backup.

He wasn’t on the street, but she hadn’t expected him to be. He’d stand out as much as she did in Brighton Beach. She wondered where he’d hidden himself but was reassured by Nelson’s words. “If you need help, send Jake a text. He’ll respond right away.”

Before crossing the street, Olivia pulled out her phone and found Dunbar’s contact information. She tapped out a text, then scrolled through her phone to find the room number. 310.

She added that to the text, then slid the phone into her pocket. The fact that Dunbar was backing her up was… reassuring. She knew him, had worked a couple jobs with him. Big, muscular, broad shouldered. He’d be an intimidating presence if this meeting went sideways.

Reassured by the weight of her Glock, she looked both ways then crossed the street. She approached the building as warily as she’d approach a poisonous snake. Before opening the door, she tightened her fingers on the door grip. You can do this. You’re smart. Clever . And used to dealing with bullies -- Nelson had been her boss for a while.

Her hands were damp as she gripped the handle of the heavy door. She had an instinctive moment of panic -- don’t go inside. You don’t know where your backup is. Everything about this assignment feels… wrong. Poorly planned. Risky. Dangerous .

Olivia squared her shoulders. This was her assignment. She needed to do this. And once she found the meeting, she’d handle it quickly. Professionally. Then she’d get the hell out of this building and out of Brooklyn.

Stepping inside the building, she saw that it was open in the middle, both sides lined with what looked like small offices. This space was an atrium, but that sounded way too fancy for what she was looking at. The glass on the roof was as dirty as the windows on the outside. The floor was scarred tile, with chunks missing in random places. There were offices on this ground floor, as well, but she couldn’t see any numbers on the doors. The heavy air held scents she couldn’t identify, bitter, nasty. She swallowed hard to get rid of the lump of dread in her throat.

She started up the flight of stairs on the right side, but when she reached the second floor, the numbers on the door were odd numbers. She needed to be on the other side of the building. She started down the stairs before she noticed that the floor circled the atrium. So she walked to the end of the building, curled around the open atrium, and ascended the stairs on the other side of the building.

Even numbers on the door. Good. She was on the right side.

She ascended one more flight, then walked down the narrow balcony until she found room 310. Swallowed hard. Drew a deep breath. Blew it out and knocked on the door.

After a long moment, someone inside said something that was probably in Russian. Since she had no idea what he’d said, she opened the door slowly and stepped into the room.

Eight or nine men lounged on two couches and a few chairs. The youngest was just a kid. A teenager, maybe sixteen or seventeen. The oldest looked in his forties. The rest of the men were youngish, twenties or early thirties.

Olivia turned to face the older man, keeping her back to the door. “Mr. Petrenko?” When he nodded, Olivia said, “I understand you might be interested in working with the FBI to your benefit and ours.”

Petrenko stared at her for what felt like hours but was probably less than a minute. His icy cold glare was alarming. Unnerving. It sent a spear of dread down her spine. The hostility in his dark brown eyes set every alarm bell in her head shrieking at her to get out! Now!

She slid her hand into her pocket, twitching to send that text and summon Jake Dunbar. But as threatening as he appeared, Petrenko hadn’t actually said anything at all.

Finally he said, “What is the FBI offering for our cooperation?”

“In exchange for information about your rivals’ plans, we are willing to assist you with importing goods into the country.”

“You will divert our goods around customs?” he asked, frowning.

“We don’t have the authority to divert goods around customs,” she said. “But we can provide escorts for your goods. Make sure they don’t end up in the hands of your rivals.”

Petrenko frowned. “None of our rivals would touch our goods. They know what would happen if they did. They fear our retribution.”

The back of Olivia’s neck tingled, and she knew the men on either side of her were staring at her. Ready to respond to any signal from their boss to deal with her.

“Then what would you require to work with the FBI?” she asked, managing to keep her voice steady. Even.

“I don’t believe we are interested in working with your FBI. We have our own justice. Our own retribution for those who steal from us.” His dark eyes studied her, and Olivia saw her utter contempt in his eyes. “My son will escort you out.”

Olivia still had her hand in her pocket, and she pressed send on the text message. Hopefully, Dunbar would be waiting in the lobby.

The kid stared at his father for a long moment, and a message was exchanged. Unfortunately, Olivia couldn’t decode that message. But she knew there was nothing good for her in that exchange.

She looked at Petrenko. “Thank you for your time. I appreciate your frankness. I’ll carry your message back to my boss, Donald Nelson.”

Petrenko’s eyes flickered at the name, but he didn’t say anything. He merely nodded. “Sacha will escort you to the street.”

“Thank you, but that’s not necessary. I can find my way out.”

“I insist,” Petrenko said. He nodded at who she was sure was his son. “See the agent to the street.”

The kid stared at his father for a long moment. Waited, as if hoping for a reprieve. Finally he stood up. Opened the door for Olivia and exited the room behind her.

Olivia did not want this kid at her back. She suspected his father meant for him to kill her, and she wasn’t going to give him the chance. So when they got to the stairs, she stepped to the side. Waved her hand. “Lead the way.”

The kid cleared his throat. “Ladies first,” he said in unaccented English.

“That’s very gentlemanly, but I’d prefer you go first. You know the stairs better than I do. I don’t want to make a misstep.”

He frowned at her, and Olivia stared back. Finally he shrugged and began running down the stairs. Olivia followed him, moving as fast as she could. Once they were on the ground floor, he waved for her to precede him out the door.

She strained to see if Dunbar was out there, but the windows were too dirty. She couldn’t walk out in front of this kid if Jake wasn’t there. So she waved him out the door. “I’ll be right behind you.”

He stared at her for a long moment, but when she didn’t move, he shrugged. Reached beneath his shirt, and Olivia realized he had a gun hidden there.

Moving fast, she kicked him in the balls, and when he crumbled to the floor, kicked him again in the head. His head bounced against the hard surface with the dull thud of a watermelon.

Without looking back, Olivia dashed out the door and across the street, dodging cars in both directions. The kid crawled out the door and shouted behind her, but she didn’t slow down, didn’t look back. She pulled out her Glock as she ran. She knew she’d be taking a huge risk if she ran along the sidewalk. She wasn’t sure if the kid could hit a moving target, and she didn’t want to find out. So she sprinted for the butcher shop’s door. The butcher was behind the counter, and he looked up when she burst in. Frowned, as if he hadn’t been expecting to see her. Did everyone around here know she was supposed to be killed?

She ran behind the counter, into the back of the shop and out the back door. She’d curled her hand around her car keys, and clicked to unlock the door as she ran. Tore it open and fell inside. She pulled the door closed and made sure it was locked, then started the car and sped out of the tiny parking lot.

To her right, she saw the kid Sacha standing on the sidewalk, his father next to him. Sunlight glinted off the gun in Petrenko’s hand, and she pressed harder on the accelerator. She turned left, the car skidding toward the sidewalk, then straightened the wheels and pressed the accelerator to the floor. The car leapt ahead, and she drove several blocks, watching her rear-view mirror the whole way. No cars appeared behind her, so she turned left and headed for the Verrazano Bridge.

“It’s a simple meeting,” her boss Nelson had said. “See if we can make a deal. We’ll ease the way for them, they’ll give us information we need. Should be an in-and-out kind of thing. You can go up to Brooklyn, get back in time for your date tonight.”

Feeling uncomfortable with Don’s gaze fixed on her, she’d said, “ Yeah, well, I don’t have a date tonight, Don .”

He’d shrugged. “ Just as well. In case you’re held up by extended negotiations .”

Her hands gripping the steering wheel too tightly, Olivia finally spotted the bridge in the distance. She wanted to floor the accelerator, get out of Brooklyn as quickly as possible. But she didn’t want to draw attention. Didn’t want to be stopped by a cop. So she took several deep breaths and drove the speed limit until she was over the bridge and finally onto I-95. When she was headed for Washington D.C., she allowed herself to take a deep breath. Another. After thirty miles, her heart rate finally slowed.

She watched in her rear-view mirror to make sure no one was following her, but saw no signs of a tail. Still, her hands gripped the steering wheel tightly until she was close to Washington D.C. When she finally pulled into the parking lot of her apartment complex, she frowned. Jake Dunbar should have been waiting on the sidewalk for her signal. But she’d seen no sign of him. Where the hell had Jake Dunbar been?