The man nods and nervously glances up and down the street. “Da. Stay close.”
Once they’re settled, I speed dial my danger-magnet, AKA Sam, AKA my partner. Again I’m forwarded to voice mail.
We have a deal. If I ring, she picks up. Otherwise, I am going to think she’s in trouble.
Fuck. I call Slate. “You hear anything yet?”
“The hardware store owner was right. Your wife got into a black town car. A few minutes later she entered your apartment and picked up Catrina. There was blood on the couch.
“Dammit. Can you get someone to cover for me?”
“Calm yourself. She’s with Kessler, her former FBI boss. I’m still trying to confirm where they took her from there.”
“Was she hurt?” I will kill any motherfucker who touched her.
Slate chuckles. “No, but on the way out, a guy had his hand wrapped in a towel.
“Catrina?”
“My guess.”
I laugh. “Damn, she is good.”
“Agreed. You might want to register her with the CIA as a secret weapon.”
Relieved my wife is okay, I chuckle. “Will do.”
Chapter 3
Sam
Once Kessler and his Mini-Me disappear, I pour Catrina some water and place her on the couch. Then, I log into the computer, surprised to find my old email account reactivated. In it, there’s a message from the regional director of the FBI outlining my mission.
My mouth drops open.You have got to be fucking kidding me.The leader of our free nation is insisting Russian agents have infiltrated the US and are planning a paranormal attack.
Snickering, Special K. walks into my office. “You should’ve come back when I asked.”
“You know the best part of owning my own business?” I don’t wait for him to answer. “Not having to work with assholes like you.”
“Not nice, Agent Russo.” He goads me by using my maiden name but I don’t take the bait. Brooklyn babes don’t get mad, we get even.
“How long am I expected to stay here?” Crossing my arms, I lean back in my chair, and picture him demoted to emptying wastebaskets.
“Until the president is convinced there is no threat.”
“You can’t be serious? There is no such thing as people with special powers.”
As his grin grows wider, an idea forms. “Fine. Get me access to Jason and all of my security reinstated. I will prove we’re not being invaded by witches, aliens or gene-spliced freaks.”
“More like mind-reading Russians.” He snorts in a most un-FBI-like manner.
“Whatever. Get out. Wait. Did you call my husband and let him know where I am?”
“I did. Let me know when you find some solid evidence.”
“Who else is working on this?” I narrow my gaze but apparently, I am the butt of some big joke.
“What? You need a Mulder?” He laughs. “This isn’t The X-files, you know.”
