“If our association works out, perhaps there will be another occasion.”
Skye said nothing. She could feel every beat of her heart. “Good night,” she said, and held her breath until Petrov walked away.
Closing the door behind him, she turned the lock and leaned against the smooth, white-painted wood. As she thought about what could have happened, her insides swirled with nausea.
What still might happen.
What did Petrov have in store for her tomorrow?
Worse yet, if the plan went wrong, what would she be facing tomorrow night?
* * *
The meeting place, the Cannery, was an unimpressive blue-collar joint crowded with locals. The ages varied, as to be expected in a spot that vets frequented. Their service to their country was their bond; the branch of the military or the war they’d fought in didn’t matter. A few wives and girlfriends sat with their significant others at small round, Formica-topped tables scattered around the room.
Agent Cross was already there. Edge spotted him at a table in the back, away from the noise of the shuffleboard. Grateful for the dim lighting, Edge skirted the room and joined him.
“Looks like we’ve got a problem,” Cross said. He was out of uniform tonight, wearing dark blue jeans and a navy blue T-shirt instead of a suit. He was trying to blend in, but with his creased jeans, short brown hair, and buffed nails, he still looked like a fed. With any luck, neither of them had been followed.
A bottle of beer sat in front of Cross, another in front of the empty chair on the opposite side of the table. Edge sat down, picked up the bottle, and took a long swallow. He set the beer back down on the table.
“Petrov has Skye.” Which Cross would already know. “The question is, what do we do about it?”
“Figure a way to get her out.”
Edge didn’t bother to reply, since that was going to happen one way or another.
“Petrov is smuggling ephedrine from India into the country,” Cross said, repeating the conversation the DEA had overheard. “We need the name of that ship and the location of the meet.”
“Only one way to get it.”
“You can’t wear a wire. It’s too risky.”
“The DEA is high-tech enough to have a wireless device that won’t be seen. I’ve got a mini recorder about the length of a paperclip and thinner than a dime. Surely you have something.”
“We’ve got the best money can buy. I still don’t like it.”
“I don’t see we have a choice.” But if he got busted wearing the wire, Skye would be the one to suffer. Worry for her slid through him. He refused to call it fear.
Knowing Edge was right, Cross nodded. “I’ll have housekeeping pick up your jacket first thing in the morning. It’ll be one of our guys. We’ll place the mic in the lining and return the coat to your suite.”
“Voice activated?”
“That’s right. With a GPS tracker, so we know where you are at all times. We’ll be following you, but if we get separated, we’ll still be able to find you.”
“What about Skye? I want men posted around the house ready to go in if the bust goes south.”
“Too risky,” Cross said. “If one of our men is spotted, your cover is blown. That happens, Petrov will make Skye disappear.”
It was true. And exactly the reason he had decided to talk to Conn and Trace, men he trusted to get Skye out before the DEA bust went down.
“Don’t worry,” Cross said. “We’ll be in the area, ready to go in as soon as the drugs are secure and Petrov’s men are in custody.”
Not good enough, Edge thought. He’d handle it his way and make sure Skye got out safely.
Cross set his beer bottle down and rose from his chair. “Good luck tomorrow night.” The agent made a deliberately unhurried exit and disappeared into the night.
Edge sipped his beer. He didn’t leave until the bottle was empty. Then he walked to the nearest busy street corner and waved down a taxi. Instead of returning to the hotel, he instructed the cabbie to drive him out to Kingsbridge, the luxury gated community north of Vegas where, according to Zoe’s information, Petrov’s estate was located.
