Chapter 1
Lifting his rocks glass, he downed a mouthful of club soda, his black suit jacket chafing against the velvet nap of the low, built-in couch curved along his back. The tang of the lime wedge he’d juiced over the ice fizzed on his tongue, and he zoomed in on the facial recognition software he’d loaded onto his cell courtesy of the security cameras inside the downtown Miami nightclub.
From top to bottom, the woman epitomized a ruthless line of code written into a malware virus. All show and zero substance. If he’d had any doubts, they’d been deleted the second she’d vainglorified her description when they’d set up this meeting via a secure online chat.
His brow twitched. But he had to hand it to her. She’d done a decent job of ticking off a list of eye-catching attributes most men typically found appealing. Glossy dark hair stopping just short of her thin shoulders. Hip bones jutting under her cropped sequined slip of a shirt, framing the diamond stud in her belly button like a set of anorexic parentheses.
A pair of soft green leather pants rode her narrow ass like a second skin, gloving her legs in a slick ride down to the rhinestone-studded torture devices strapped to her feet.
Well, shit. He pursed his lips against a chuckle. If she’d gone all sultry avatar in hopes of distracting him, she’d just shown up to the party empty-handed. Sex was one of the few physical indulgences he allowed himself, and when it came to exorcising those cravings, he wasn’t about to skimp. Give him the sweet depth of luscious curves he could mold with the imprint of his cock over a bunch of sharp angles and insufficient padding any day.
Tapping the screen, he closed the feed, but kept the hack streaming in case she’d invited her usual backup to join in the fun. While she considered herself pretty damn smart, Ms. Farrow couldn’t afford any kinks in her plan.
Too bad for her, kinking was his specialty. He’d uploaded the photo IDs of her known associates into the program, and if any unwelcomed visitors showed at the club, he’d receive a text alert in a matter of seconds.
He ran his thumb and index finger along the side of his cell. The bottom edge dented the crease in his black slacks as he upended the phone and skimmed his fingers down the opposite side.
Beyond the stainless-steel railing of the second-floor balcony, a packed mob gyrated to the techno beat shaking the bricks loose from their mortar. His mark lifted her chin to search the VIP area, and the sequins arcing along the threadlike straps of her shirt caught in a volley of pulsing lights.
A smile tugged at the corner of Xander’s mouth as she circumnavigated the dance floor toward the private elevators. She glided through the crowd with the practiced art of the privileged. A sense of entitlement he’d bet his right nut was directly tied to the seven digits residing in her off-shore bank account.
Experience indicated it wasn’t something she’d learned growing up as Loretta Swinehart, kid number three in a family of nine rug rats, tending the farm in the middle of Nowhereville, Nebraska, population eighty-six.
She disappeared past the edge of balcony and, a few seconds later, the first elevator off to his left slid shut and the lighted number two above the door winked out as the car descended.
Xander shifted his focus to the lone bartender standing before the phosphorescent blue light illuminating the high-end alcohol shelved on either side of the wall-to-wall mirror. The dude returned Xander’s nod, hefted an ice bucket and two champagne glasses off the bar and rounded the end.
The elevator inched open, and his target stepped off, hair sweeping her shoulders as she swiveled a frown over the vacant booths and empty cocktail tables stationed around the floor.
Another chuckle worked the muscles of his stomach as Xander waited for her to pinpoint him through the multi-colored strobe that sputtered her motions like an old 8mm film.
Had she really assumed he’d risk some loved-up Ecstasy-driven clubber might stumble into their conversation? Maybe Snapchat a photo just for shits and grins? Not a chance. Not with him the supposed front man for a Bratski Krug and Russian mobster who commanded more wealth and power than God. And especially not given the high probability she’d launch into a full-out freak attack once he got the last piece of information he was after and blitzkrieged her accounts.
The music hydroplaned to a frenetic beat that buzzed the fillings in his teeth. A roar of approval erupted off the dance floor, and their gazes locked as she trailed the bartender in his direction.
Xander had seen it enough times, he knew the drill. The wide-eyed shock. That split second of panic. The dark anger that normally followed whenever a con fell apart and realization set in.
Pushing his glass to the center of the low, oblong table, he stood, the edge grazing his shins as he sidestepped out from the couch. According to the numerous testimonials and hours he’d logged researching her history, Loretta Swinehart’s volatile personality made Adolf Hitler look like Fred Rogers. Stir those ingredients into a toxic mix, and he wasn’t about to put a bunch of innocent kids in danger. No matter how high they were.
His first priority with any job was to keep the fallout contained.
He extended his hand as she neared, snapping his heels together with a polite tip of his head. “Ms. Farrow. Is pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
The guttural Russian accent rolled off his tongue as if he’d spent the majority of his life inside the Eastern Bloc. Her palm met his in a firm handshake and, even in the erratic light, he caught the way her focus lingered over his mouth, dropped to his shoulders and spanned the open collar of his black dress shirt.
The green bar of that successful download streaked through his cranium. She had a thing for European men. Generally speaking, the more Rottweiler in their personality, the better.
Looked as if dressing the part of a thug had been a good call. And while he was at it…
He lifted her hand to his lips for a soft kiss. Ran his thumb over her knuckles in an inviting caress.
Her fingers tightened in his. “Likewise, Mr. Ivanov.”
“Alexei, please.” He opened his palm toward the couch as the bartender deposited the ice bucket and glasses near the end of the table. “I hope I do not overstep by ordering the best champagne?”
“Not at all.” She smiled up at him through her lashes. “And feel free to call me Piper.”
Her perfume was one of those expensive brands that were meant to come off as mysterious, but the overpowering scent coated the back of his throat like a stick of incense that had been stuck to the floor of a VW minibus a decade too long.
He booted up the censorware against the impulse to grimace and worked his tin of mints from the slash pocket of his slacks. An icy blast of peppermint cooled his sinuses as she sank to the seat.
The pop of the cork was muted by the thumping music. A thick layer of foam floated toward the lip of each flute as the bartender poured their champagne. He crammed the bottle of Dom back in the ice bucket and glanced in Loretta’s direction.
The small tell was imprinted on Xander’s retinas like a hi-res image, eighteen-hundred dpi. He hesitated as a beat of…something passed between them.
Shit, were they playing him? Flirting with each other?
The bartender pivoted away and Xander tracked the dude’s steps back to the bar in his peripheral vision. He carried some bulk, but came up several inches short of Xander’s six-foot-four. From the cut of his red vest, he didn’t appear to be packing, and he’d gladly accepted the five crisp hundred-dollar bills Xander had handed over to ensure the VIP area remained off-limits to the rest of the club.
Maybe Loretta had rewritten the parameters of their meeting with a payoff of her own. Any number of weapons could be stashed behind that bar, even though it was highly unlikely the guy knew how to use them. His life story was squeakier than the contaminant-free zone inside a clean room.
Xander shifted his focus back to the table. Smiled as Loretta toasted him with her champagne. Could be he’d misread the signals. It’d been nearly a week since he’d left the isolation of his apartment. That was quite the stretch without human contact. Even for a computer jock like him.
In fact, come to think it… She crossed her ankles and he faked an appreciative glance at her legs. Once he’d finished this assignment, maybe he’d take some time off. Find an actual woman instead of the scarecrow currently sizing him up, and see about fucking some tension off the skitzy paranoia that came from riding a bank of monitors too long.
Christ knew, three hours of mixed martial arts per day followed by a perfunctory jack-off in the shower only went so far.
“Wow, expensive bubbly, a handsome date…” Loretta smoothed her palm over the table, leaning forward to give him a clear shot at the unimpressive landscape down the front of her shirt. “Mr. Yerovkin flatters me with all this attention.”
Yeah, right. Xander internally snorted. More like she was finally getting the attention she thought she deserved.
“My employer insists you be welcomed as family.” Easing into the spot on her right, he rested his arm along the wide ridge mirroring the curve of her shoulders. A tactic that both tested her boundaries and allowed him to keep one eye glued to that asshole behind the bar. “For personal reasons, I must confess how grateful I am for his decision.”
Based on her breathy laugh and the way she kept her ass glued to the seat, her thigh warming his through his pant leg, she didn’t mind the compliment or the way he’d invaded her personal space.
Not that he bought into her act. She needed him, after all. Or rather, she needed his implied connections by way of a silent investor. Someone who held no interest in her business other than earning a small profit in exchange for providing several umbrella companies through which she could siphon her money someplace safe. He’d made sure of it by throwing up several firewalls and backing her into a nice tight corner so she’d have no choice but to reach out for help.
She tipped the champagne to her lips with a wink and irritation firmed his jaw. He grazed his hand down the mutton chops he’d spirit-gummed on either side of his goatee in case his mouth accidently curled into a sneer.
Letting her believe he not only approved but was an integral cog in her self-serving bullshit made every neuron in his brain short circuit. For Christ’s sake, the victims who’d bought into her fake retirement communities were old enough to be his grandparents. Hard-working folks who lived on a fixed income and toted around a list of medical issues a mile long. A few had even shouldered additional debt when she’d stolen their identities.
Returning her glass to the table, she stuck out her bottom lip in a sexy pout. “You’re not joining me for a drink?”
Well, well. She’d picked up on that, had she? As if the tangled maze of phishing traps and sock puppet accounts she used to cover her ass didn’t supply enough evidence to confirm her intelligence.
“We will have plenty of time to celebrate, Lisichka.” He reached into his breast pocket and removed the bogus contract, dropping the envelope next to his glass. “In Russian business venture, Mr. Yerovkin prefers we conclude negotiations before moving on to pleasure.”
Her focus flicked to the diamond cuff link peeking past the sleeve of his suit coat before she stared at his mouth. “Lisichka?”
“Is Russian pet name.” He gazed into her brown eyes even as the sour taint of coffee and cigarette breath made him want back off. Like, way, way off. “How you say in English…little fox?”
Her brows rose. “Oh, I like that.” The smile curling her lips came off as sincere. Which was expertly played, considering the woman didn’t have a genuine bone in her body. “Business before pleasure it is, then.”
She reached for the envelope and Xander plucked a German Montblanc from his breast pocket, offering the pen in her direction. Apparently, she was eager to move on to other things.
He stole a peek at the bartender. Quite frankly, so was he. “Mr. Yerovkin will be expecting payment the first of next month.”
Her eyes narrowed as she scanned the top sheet and then flipped the page. “That’s fine. Although, I must admit, signing my name to anything makes me a little nervous. I haven’t done that in ages, for reasons I’m sure Mr. Yerovkin understands.”
Probably around the last time the truth had rolled off her forked tongue. But after the months he’d dedicated to getting her here, Xander wasn’t about to let her back out now. Her hand-written signature as Piper Farrow was the last bit of corroborative proof he needed to substantiate she and Loretta Swinehart were one and the same.
She slipped the pen from his fingers and tipped her head, twiddling the tip over the contract. “Seems odd he would insist, given the circumstances.”
Anxiety jabbed his gut, but he smiled. Five years the Justice Department had been looking to indict her for fraud, and during that time her scam-baiting expertise had continued to challenge the most experienced hacker.
The bonus content was, no one outdid him in the experience department, and when it came to selling lies and working schemes, he’d been doing it for ten.
“My employer is old-fashioned business man, Lisichka.” Xander shrugged and lifted his palm. “But if refusing his generous offer is best…”
“No, no.” Smoothing out the creases in the contract, she scribbled along the dotted line. “The next group is nearly ready. Please tell Mr. Yerovkin I should have everything I need to move forward by the end of next week.”
That’s what he thought. And hey, that would only be five days too late.
“All right, there we go.” Loretta placed the pen on the papers, sliding the whole works toward his legs. “Signed, sealed, delivered, I’m yours.” A clever twinkle sparkled in her eyes as she inched close and angled her chin. “Now. Let’s move onto pleasure, shall we?”
He cocked a brow.
Yes. Let’s.
Dropping his arm from around her shoulders, he snatched his phone off the table and thumbed in the password to open her off-shore account. The screen flashed, and he entered the six-digit code to zero out her balance.
The numbers spun like an out-of-control speedometer. The download zipped across the bottom as the funds were sent via wire transfer to a secure investment portfolio he’d set up in his clients’ names.
The transaction complete, he hesitated, his thumb hovering over the screen, and then confirmed the dollar amount without knocking off his usual fee. The folks who’d hired him had already lost enough. Taking anything more from them just didn’t seem right. Besides, his needs were simple. And even if he quit the revenge business at the ripe old age of twenty-seven, he had more than enough money to live beyond his means for several lifetimes.
He swiveled the contract and snapped a photo of Loretta’s signature, opened a new window and attached the picture to the email waiting in his queue. Done. He hit send. Loose ends officially wrapped. A few extra taps to remove any signs of his digital imprint, and he backed out of the screen.
Loretta started and eased away from him, glancing at her purse. “Shoot, excuse me a moment. Sorry about this.” Tugging open the zipper, she rummaged around inside and pulled out her cell.
Satisfaction streamed through his veins as Xander stashed his phone in his breast pocket. Morty and Barbara were gonna be ecstatic once they learned he’d recovered their life savings. And he had zero doubts those two would make sure their friends who’d been swindled in Loretta’s scam received every thin dime that they’d lost.
Only downside was, he’d be walking away from the best damn chicken and matzoh ball soup he’d ever eaten.
Folding the contract, he stuffed it inside the envelope, collected the pen, and tucked everything in beside his phone. Time to vanish. He tossed back the last of his club soda and smacked the glass to the table. If his contact at the Justice Department was watching his email like Xander had warned him to, the place would be crawling with Feds in a matter of minutes.
“Hold on a second.” Loretta stared at her cell, the tips of her fingers whitening around the leather case. Snapping her chin up, she pinned him with an irate glare. “What the fuck is this?”
Ha! His shoulders shook with his husky laugh. The claws were out, huh? Then again, it had to taste like shit to find out she was flat broke. A healthy serving of the same entrée she dished up to the people who trusted her to do the right thing with their money.
“It’s been a pleasure doing business with you, Loretta.” He stood, but left the Russian accent sitting on the seat. “On behalf of my clients, you can kiss my hairy white ass.”
Her jaw clenched, nostrils flared. Her arms shook as she slammed her phone to the table and sprang to her feet. “Derek! Get your ass over here!”
Yep. Time to whistle for her guard dog. Xander located the bartender through the rapid pulse of a seizure-inducing strobe. Not surprising, though. Loretta had never been the type to clean up her own messes.
The dude skirted the bar, and Xander followed the row of tiny red lights washing down his body to the sawed-off metal pipe in his hand.
Oh, for shit’s sake. What was this, a game of Clue? Russian mobster in the VIP room with the pipe?
Sighing, he shook out his hands, then tipped his head side to side to crack the tension from his neck. Fine. He waved the bartender forward, bounced on his toes and waved again.
Come on, come on. He didn’t have all damn day.
Teeth bared, the bartender hop-skipped a step to gather his momentum and hefted the pipe over his shoulder with both hands.
Bad move, dipshit. Bending his knees, Xander jumped and came down hard, ramming his heels against the lip of the table. The underside splintered off the center brace. The far edge tipped up and snagged Derek square between the ribs. He bellowed and hunched forward, cradling his side. The pipe flew end over end and clanged to the ground as he lurched off-kilter to the right.
A piercing shriek sliced through the music, and Xander flinched as Loretta launched onto his back, her skinny arms cinched around his neck, legs straddling his waist from behind.
What did the half-baked fruitcake think she was doing? Gritting his teeth, he pried her wrists free and stepped back, lifting his knee to block her ball-piercing kicks as he tossed her ass-first to the couch.
The table seesawed and skated to a lopsided rest along the front. An evil smile curled her lips as she landed on the cushions, and Xander followed her line of sight over his right shoulder.
Shit, a distraction.
He spun and dodged left. A wash of multi-colored light arced along the back-swing of the metal pipe, and he blocked the incoming assault with his forearm. Pain vibrated the bones in his wrist and elbow. A hard twist, and he dislodged the makeshift weapon from Derek’s grip.
The pumping music cut out. A loud whine pinged in Xander’s ears, and he seized the element of surprise. Charging forward, he squinted as the caged overheads flooded the interior with a blinding glare.
A driving pivot, and he jabbed his elbow into the bartender’s injured ribs. The dude oophed and crumpled, keeling sideways. One step in the same direction, and Xander wrapped his hand around the idiot’s neck, shouldered his weight and slammed the guy flat on his back to the floor.
“No! Get up, you stupid asshole!” Loretta scampered off the end of the couch and ran toward the bartender, jostling his shoulder with the toe of her stiletto. “I didn’t pay you to flop around like a limp dick.”
Xander grunted. That comment was nothing if not appropriate. He snagged the pipe off the floor. He hadn’t doubted for a second the woman would be a class act to the end.
Derek hissed and rolled onto his side, eyes squeezed shut as he groaned.
“Now, Loretta.” Xander tossed the pipe in the air and caught the threaded end. Sweet. This piece of hardware would come in handy. “Let’s play nice.”
“This isn’t over, you hear me?” She propped her fists on her hips, jaw tight. “If it’s the last thing I do, I’ll find out who you are, Alexei whatever the hell your name is. And when I do, I can guarantee, life, as you know it, will be over.”
“Good luck with that plan.” The world was a very big place, and the practice of exacting revenge was in high demand. Chances were, he’d be long gone from Miami by the time she got out.
Turning for the elevator, Xander rested the pipe on his shoulder and strode toward the doors, using the end to jab the call button as he came to stop. They opened with a bing and he stepped on, nodding toward the balcony railing.
“Your ride’s here, Loretta.” He hit the button for the third floor. Smiled. “Be sure to give the police my regards.”
Her enraged scream grew muffled as the doors slid shut.
Jesus, that was pleasant. Shaking his head, Xander eased back a step and jammed the end of the pipe into the control panel. Other than the two elevators, the only route off the second-floor balcony was through the emergency stairwell. The car jerked to a stop and the alarm echoed in the shaft like the ring of an old rotary dial phone.
Perfect. His contact would know his exit plan had been initiated. He should cover the stairwell like Xander had instructed.
Using the end of the pipe, he dislodged the recessed panel on the overhead escape hatch, jumped and hauled himself up through the opening. A quick check of the shaft above and below, and he nodded. Good. With the other car still resting on the first floor, that would save him some time…and some climbing. He tugged a rigging descender from the small of his back, clicked it onto a nearby cable, and swung off the roof.
The line whizzed past his ear as he zipped down two floors to the second elevator. His feet hit the top, and he disconnected from the cable, pried open the panel and hopped inside.
Punching the button for the basement, he peeled the sticky sideburns off his face, emptied his coat pockets into his slacks and stripped to a faded, blue Margaritaville muscle shirt.
His knees bounced as the elevator hit the subterranean level of the club. The doors slid open, and he stepped between them before knocking out the panel with a couple homerun at bats of the pipe.
Contented whistle echoing off the concrete walls, he strolled toward the furnace room, casually swinging the pipe and his shirt and suit jacket folded over his arm. Shouldering the door, he stepped inside and twisted the lock.
Heat tightened his face as he flicked open the incinerator. He tossed in his jacket and shirt, then toed off his shoes and chucked them in as well. A quick wipe down of the pipe to remove his prints, and he balanced it against the wall, swung open an air conditioning duct and retrieved his scuffed brown boots, a knit skull cap and a pair of John Lennon shades.
Popping the hook at the front of his slacks, he jerked the waistband to his hips, tucked one end of his T-shirt into his red plaid boxers and stepped into the boots. Nothing like ending the night with a target sufficiently under wraps.
Swinging the incinerator door back in place, he turned and clomped toward the exit. Only thing left was to take the stairs to the main level and blend in with the crowd. He smirked. Hell, maybe he’d even hang outside for a bit and see if he could catch Loretta being led away in cuffs.
The beep of an incoming text drew him up short, and he slumped. Shook his head. Come on, guys. He’d practically posted her location on Facebook. He fished his cell from his pocket and thumbed the screen. What had those dumbass Feds screwed up now? “Bunch of fucking numb nuts.”
A glance at his phone, and his brows jacked so fast they pushed his cap up his forehead. Eden? Damn, he hadn’t heard from her in ages.
A needle of worry slid under his skin.
He tapped the message and froze. His legs gave and his shoulder connected with the wall.
A single symbol floated on screen.
Ɵ—the Greek letter Theta.
No. He jerked his head up. God, fuck no.
A crushing pain he hadn’t fought in over ten years cranked through his chest, and he wrenched open the door and sprinted for the stairs. Not Charlie, not Charlie. Jesus Christ, he’d never forgive himself.
Contact Theta meant one thing.
Someone was dead.