If someone had told me a week ago that I would be committing career suicide yesterday, I would have laughed in their face. Maybe even slapped them across the face. Being a cop has been my dream ever since I was a little girl, idolizing my father in his uniform, shaking hands with people, breaking up fights, settling disputes, keeping our little hometown safe from the big, scary world outside.

A week ago, I would have told you that nothing, and I mean nothing, could ever come between me and my dreams.

But that was before my sister went missing. That was before I met a man named Misha Chaykovsky, the Russian gangster who has been transformed in my mind from a high-stakes criminal to the only man in the world who might be able to help me find my sister.

Screw my undercover mission at the strip club; this, right here, right now, is my most important case ever.

And that is why, on this gloriously sunny Saturday morning, I am pacing back and forth in the waiting room of the detention center, listening to the clank of metal bars, the shouting and swearing of inmates. I can smell the musty scent of unwashed male bodies, men bustling around, shoving each other, building alliances and breaking trusts.

It’s a damn jungle in there, and I’m hanging around just several yards away, behind the security line, safe but still too close for comfort. Truth be told, I really hate visiting jails and prisons. That should go without saying, but in the police department, I have several colleagues who have admitted they kind of look forward to it. They like getting to come here and see the fruits of their labor, the ‘bad guys’ behind bars while the ‘good guys’ walk free.

But it doesn’t feel like that to me, not really. All I feel is awkward and uncomfortable. Totally out of place. And I look around at the faces of the men in here and some of them look too familiar. I’m reminded that they’re all just people, living out the consequences of, in a lot of cases, merely bad judgement.

Well, that, and the fact that I get whistled at and jeered at every time I come here. Because I am one of the very few women who ever passes through these doors, and the touch-starved men in here will take whatever they can get, even if it’s just a modestly-dressed cop with her hair in a messy ponytail and not a stitch of makeup on her face.

Today, I don’t care all too much about appearances.

In fact, I don’t really care at all.

I have been way too distracted by the mystery surrounding Sam’s disappearance to take much time for a shower. I’m clean, but I haven’t ironed my clothes or put much thought into an outfit. Yesterday, in court, was the first time I’ve worn a nice outfit in days. And that was purely because it’s court, and I am in fact still a police officer, so I have to dress for the occasion.

Even if I was destroying my career.

But today? I’m just wearing a random wrinkled blouse from the pile on my chair in my bedroom paired with a pencil skirt that might just be a little too short after it shrunk in the wash slightly. I pulled on a pair of nylons and some black heels to finish the outfit, then ran out of the house and rushed all the way here to the jail for my date with the prisoner.

I am here to collect Misha Chaykovsky. He is being released very soon, any minute, in fact. And I expect to be the first person he sees. He may have lucked out of his sentence for now, but I am not about to let him squirm away from me yet, not when he might just be the only chance I have at finding Samantha.

He’s coming with me, whether he likes it or not. Of course, things here at the detention center move about as quickly as molasses, so I’m getting a little impatient. I have been here for over an hour, waiting for the guards to bring Misha out so I can snatch him.

I storm over to the front desk, which is sheltered by a thick pane of impenetrable Plexiglas, and knock on the little window. The crotchety older woman at the computer looks up at me through horn-rimmed glasses with a sour look on her face. Reluctantly, she slides the window open.

“Yes?” she grunts grumpily.

“Sorry, but how much longer is this going to take?” I ask, leaning on the counter with one elbow while I squint down the hall. She heaves a dramatic sigh.

“I don’t know how to answer that question. I’m just the front desk secretary, ma’am,” she replies, shrugging. I fix her with a solemn glare.

“It’s Officer, not ma’am,” I correct quickly. “Look, I’m on kind of a tight schedule here. Is there any way we could, I don’t know, expedite this process a little bit?”

She blinks slowly at me.

“Expedite the process of releasing a high-risk criminal from a state detention center, you mean?” she says pointedly.

I pinch the bridge of my nose, trying desperately to stay calm.

“Yes. Okay. I see your point. This kind of thing can’t be rushed. I understand. It’s just that—”

“Oh, here they come,” she interrupts, jerking a thumb back down the hall.

“Really?” I pipe up, my heart racing as I jump away to look down the hallway. As soon as I’m away from the counter, the front desk lady slams the window shut and turns away. I look over, stunned into silence. There’s no one coming down the hall.

“She tricked me,” I murmur in awe. “Wow.”

For half a second I consider banging on the window to yell at her, but I think better of it. After all, that woman has no control over what goes on inside the jail. It’s not like she can speed things along any better than I could. So I force myself to go take a seat, but I can’t tear my eyes away from the hallway. I can still hear the jeers and shouts of inmates inside, and I can’t help but wonder if any of the voices I’m hearing belong to Misha.

It’s another good thirty minutes or so before the door opens and three figures come striding up the hallway. I jump to my feet, my stomach twisting into knots. Is it him?

I rush over to see that is, in fact, two of the biggest, burliest guards the jail has to offer, leading Misha Chaykovsky out toward the waiting room. Finally.

Seeing Misha’s face makes my heart skip a beat, which is very annoying, considering how angry I am with him. I’m downright pissed off. But his face lights up at the sight of me, which makes butterflies flit around in my stomach.

Get a grip, I warn myself. You’re Officer Nicole Burns, not Misty. Not anymore.

“Officer Burns,” greets the same guard who helped me days ago when I came to interview Misha. “What are you doing here? How’s it going?”

“Oh, it’s good. I’m good. How are you?” I ask awkwardly, dragging my eyes away from Misha to give the guard a polite smile.

“Can’t complain,” he replies jovially. “You here to pick up this fellow?”

“Yes, sir,” I answer tersely, looking back at Misha. The Mafioso looks rather amused to see me, like I’m the last person he expected to meet out here on release day. But I know that’s definitely just a cover. He knows exactly why I’m here, even if he’s trying to play coy right now.

“Well, Mr. Chaykovsky, it’s been a real pleasure. Hope you enjoyed your stay at Club Med. Come back and see us soon,” jokes the guard. Misha and I both look at him quizzically.

He shrugs and chuckles. “Just a little jailhouse humor. Anyways, have a good one.”

He heads back down the hallway, leaving the other guard to roll his eyes and shake his head, sighing. The guard gets out a key and frees Misha’s wrists and ankles, watching him carefully as though the Mafioso might suddenly start swinging punches or something. But Misha just stands there stoically, staring at me with those piercing blue eyes. Something about his unbroken gaze makes me feel so vulnerable. Exposed. Like he can cut right through the bullshit and see the truth underneath it all. Like he can peer right into my soul.

I swallow hard, hoping he can’t hear my heart pounding away in my chest.

“Come with me,” I tell him, snapping my fingers. He raises one heavy dark brow at the gesture, but I can’t tell if he’s amused, offended, or possibly both.

“Let us know if he gives you any trouble,” says the guard, watching Misha with suspicious eyes. “Have a good day, Miss.”

“It’s Officer,” I correct him, but give him a patient smile anyway. “And same to you.”

Then I turn back to Misha and start marching out of the jail with the Mafioso trailing after me, striding along at a slow, casual pace. It really seems like nothing ruffles his feathers. He’s cool and calm no matter what.

It’s infuriating.

As soon as we get out to the parking lot, I whip around and glare at him, gritting my teeth.

“What?” he asks, shrugging.

“Oh, like you don’t know,” I sneer. “Come on. Get in the car.”

I point to my little red hatchback and a flicker of amusement plays across his features. “You want me to get into that car,” he says, deadpan.

“Yes. Obviously,” I sigh, tapping my foot.

“In the passenger seat. Of a cherry-red hatchback,” Misha continues.

“Yes! Get in. Now,” I urge him, giving his arm a light nudge.

“I don’t have to do anything you say, you know,” he tells me.

I roll my eyes.

“Right. So, what’s your plan then? To walk home? Where even is your home? Where are you really from?”

Misha smirks, that familiar old flame blazing behind his eyes.

“If I remember correctly, you know where I live. You’ve been there.”

My cheeks start to burn and I smack him on the arm.

“Get in the car!” I shout.

Finally, he relents and gets gingerly into the passenger seat of my car. If I wasn’t so pissed off, I might have laughed. My car is the perfect size for me, but Misha has got to be well over six-foot-five and bulging with muscles. He’s folded up in the passenger seat like an accordion. He looks like he’s in a child’s Barbie car or something.

Serves him right. Maybe he’ll be a little less intimidating like this.

“Where are we headed, captain?” he asks, giving me a sidelong glance.

I start up the engine and start to pull away from the detention center. I keep my eyes on the road, refusing to look at him.

“Come on. Don’t play dumb with me,” I mutter.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Misha says, rather cryptically. “But really, where are we going?”

I glance over at him, frowning.

“You can drop that act now. We’re not at the jail anymore. It’s just you and me. Cut to the damn chase, Chaykovsky.”

“Oh, so we’re back on last-name terms now?” he quips. “I would think by now we’d at least be upgraded to first names. Nicole.”

“Let’s get one thing straight right off the bat,” I tell him firmly. “It was Misty you slept with, not Nicole. And that’s way behind us now. That was a mistake.”

“Well, tell Misty I had a damn good time,” he replies coyly.

I very nearly slam on the brakes, I’m so angry, but I force myself to calm down. I have to remain composed in this situation. My sister’s life is on the line. We ride in silence for a few minutes, then Misha reaches over to lay a huge hand on my arm.

“What are you doing?” I ask, annoyed. I jerk my arm away.

He looks almost hurt.

“I was going to thank you. For getting me out of there.”

“Whatever. I didn’t do it for you,” I retort.

“Either way, you did me a huge favor by destroying that evidence,” he continues. “I will never be able to properly repay you for that.”

I’m so stunned that I have to swerve to avoid a massive crack in the road.

“Excuse me? You think I had anything to do with that?” I shout.

“Well, if not you, then who else?” he asks.

“You did! You and your mafia cronies or whatever! Stop messing around,” I reply.

“I’m serious,” Misha says grimly. “I had nothing to do with that. And I thought… since you lied under oath for me…”

“Shh! Jesus, keep your voice down,” I shoot back instinctively.

“Why? We’re the only ones here. Unless you have reason to believe your tiny little car has been bugged or something,” he jokes.

“Stop. Stop lying. I know you’re behind all this,” I accuse. “I know you somehow got that evidence taken care of and I know you’re the one behind what happened to my sister.”

He’s silent for a moment, taking it all in. Like he’s shocked. Then he says softly, “That’s what you were on the phone about that day.”

“Yes, asshole. Someone took her and they’re holding her for ransom. Yeah. They already called and told me all about it, so you can drop the ignorance game. I know you’re in on this. Hell, you probably orchestrated the whole damn thing just to get back at me for putting you in jail. Well, you’re out now, and you’re going to help me set this shit straight,” I demand.

“You really think I planned this?” Misha asks slowly.

“Of course. Who the hell else would do this? I’m just a low-ranking vice cop. Nobody cares about me. Nobody targets me. No one worth their salt has any reason to hold a grudge against me. Except for you,” I explain.

“Nicole,” he says solemnly. “I am not lying to you. I don’t have anything to do with what happened to your sister. I didn’t get rid of the evidence. I don’t know how this happened. I thought you were the one who disposed of the evidence all this time. You lied in court to get me out, so it all made sense.”

“I-I wouldn’t,” I stammer, suddenly feeling my entire plan unravel. “You didn’t?”

“No. I didn’t,” he assures me.

“Then who the hell did it?” I murmur.

“Someone who wanted me out of jail,” he reasons.

“And you and I… both of us…” I trail off.

“We were pawns in someone else’s game,” Misha says darkly.

“This is bigger than you and me, isn’t it?” I ask softly.

I glance over to see Misha nodding. But just then, there’s a squealing of tires somewhere behind us. I look in the rearview mirror to see a flashy black sports car trailing us. No, not just trailing us.

Chasing us.

“What the hell?” I mutter. The black car speeds up rapidly, its engine roaring.

“Time to see how fast this little toy car can go,” Misha says quickly. “What are you waiting for? Hit the gas! Go, go go!”

I slam my foot down on the gas pedal, my little red car whirring madly as we speed off down the empty highway. Clouds of desert dust kick up in our wake, but I can still see the black car zooming through the puffs.

“Who the hell is that?” I exclaim, my heart racing.

“I don’t know, but we absolutely cannot wait to find out,” Misha growls. “Faster!”

“It’s a four-cylinder, Misha, it’s doing the best it can!” I shout back angrily.

“We have to lose him. He’s gaining on us,” he adds.

“Not helping!” I retort, throwing my car into a higher gear.

“Is there anywhere we can go?” he asks. “We have to shake him off.”

“Oh, god. I don’t know. Uh, let me think,” I answer, wracking my brain. Then, it hits me. I know a place down a dirt road, a random turn off this highway. If I can get our stalker close enough, then take the turn fast enough, he might topple. My little car is so low to the ground and well-centered, I think I can swing it.

I don’t have any other plan. This one will have to do.

We ride along at top speed for several more minutes, as I swerve and jerk the wheel intentionally to kick up more dust, trying to blind the guy following us. Finally, I see the turn coming up. Now or never.

“What’s your plan?” Misha yells over the roar of the engine.

“Hold on!”

“What? That’s not a—”

“I said hold on!”

I slow down just enough to force the guy behind us to slam on his brakes, and at the last second, I jerk the wheel all the way to the right, peeling out and nearly toppling my car over in the process as I turn down the dirt road toward the place I have not visited in years. This act kicks up so much sand and dust that at first we can’t see anything behind us, but when it clears a little, we can see that our assailant’s car has completely flipped over and is sliding down a dusty dune in a heap of screaming metal.

“Holy shit!” I cry out. “It worked! It fucking worked!”

“Amazingly, yes, it has,” Misha agrees, clearly both concerned and impressed at the same time. I give him an exhilarated smile, before I remember that I’m supposed to be angry at him.

“Now, where are we going?” he asks one more time.

“To a place where nobody will come looking for us,” I reply.