Page 1 of Kept By The Agents

CHAPTER 1

Catalina

My apartment was trashed. I stared around in shock, still standing in the doorway, keys hanging in my hand. It looked like a tornado had blown through and tossed everything I owned into the middle of the room.

"Shit," I whispered. Digging into my purse, I pulled out the little .38 special I always kept with me. I didn't bother to shut the door behind myself as I stepped over my belongings and crept toward my bedroom.

The hairs on the back of my neck rose as I heard thumping, then realized it was just the upstairs neighbor. The man's shoes had to be filled with concrete for all the noise he made. I peeked around my bedroom door and stepped gingerly into the room. My heels weren't made for walking through the landmines of debris that were all over my floor. My dresser was ripped to pieces.

I glared at it as I continued moving toward my closet. No one was in there. One last place to check. I sucked in my breath and held it as I bumped open my bathroom door. My shoulders relaxed and I heaved a sigh of relief. I was alone.

I hurried back to my closet and pulled over the little step stool I kept in there. Being five-five had more disadvantages than not. I pushed against the little vent that was in the ceiling near the shelf hanging on the wall and breathed another sigh of relief when my hand closed over a USB drive. They hadn't gotten it. Replacing the vent, I clutched the USB to my chest and went back out into the living room to shut my door.

My eyes swept the room as I shoved my free hand through my wavy hair, pushing the dark strands away from my face. It was free and hanging down to the middle of my back, but I quickly pulled it up into a messy bun. I was in so much trouble. My top teeth dug into my lower lip as I tried to figure out what to do. If they had found me—and my obliterated apartment suggested they had—I was in a whole lot of danger. The kind that ended up with me being dead. That kind of trouble.

I had nowhere to turn. I was a freelance journalist. My area of expertise was conflict journalism. I covered wars, riots, and any kind of violent conflict. And I'd managed to stumble onto something where I was in so far over my head, I wasn't sure whether I should drop off the evidence with someone else and wash my hands of it, or see it through.

My jaw tightened with determination. I couldn't let Alyona down. She'd come to me for help and I'd promised her I would do everything I could. I'd met Alyona first when I was a baby, before I even remembered, but she'd always been there. She was my mom's best friend. And when she'd called me up, sobbing, I knew I couldn't turn her away.

A shiver of fear raced down my spine as I ripped the curtains closed over my windows. As much as I wanted to help—needed to help—they knew where I lived. They'd been inside my home. Touched my things. And though they hadn't found the drive, I had no doubt that they would be back. To scare me, maybe. More likely it would be to kill me. If I was dead, I couldn't share what I knew.

I flipped over one of the wooden chairs that was still in one piece and sank down onto it. None of the newspapers I sold my stories to would touch this without more proof than I currently had, and even then, I wasn't sure they would run it. Not with the reputation this organization had. The authorities here in America wouldn't do a damn thing. Couldn't do anything really. And if I went back to Russia and tried to alert the authorities there, I'd end up in a prison cell so fast I'd be left wondering what the hell happened. The Raleka Organization had a long history in Moscow, and though they weren't connected with the Bratva that ruled in that area, they were considered just as dangerous.

The additional digging Alyona had done for me gave me invaluable information on the Raleka Organization. It was the only reason I knew that they kept the Bratva happy by paying them off, ensuring they looked the other way. They did the same with local law enforcement, which meant nowhere was safe in Russia. And apparently home wasn't safe anymore either.

Sighing, I pulled my phone from my purse, which was still hanging from my forearm. This was the last thing I wanted to do, but I wasn't sure I had much choice. "Maybe I don't have the right number." As the line began to ring, I whispered. "Please be the wrong number. Please-"

"Who the fuck is this? Do you have any idea what time it is?"

His voice was groggy, but just as deep and sexy as I remembered. This man had once been a huge part of my life. We'd loved one another, fiercely. Or so I thought. That illusion was broken the day he'd walked away without a word. Eyes narrowing, remembering my anger and the hurt that had taken years to recover from, I muttered, "Never mind."

There was silence over the line as I pulled the phone away from my ear. I heard the faint, "Cat?" right before I hung up. Huffing out a breath, I tapped the phone on my forehead. "That was stupid," I muttered to myself. "That asshole can't help me."

The fact that Suave was the person I considered my last line of defense when I was in danger pissed me off. He shouldn't come to mind at all. Not for anything. As my actions were proving, I'd rather die than let that lying, treacherous asshole back in my life.

My phone rang and I stared down at it with a frown. It wasn't a number I recognized. My thumb hovered over the button for a long moment before I finally hit it and put it to my ear.

"I know that was you, Catalina," the voice I knew so well growled over the line. "What's going on?"

"Nothing," I replied. "I dialed the wrong number."

"Bullshit, you-"

I disconnected the call again with a smug smile. It was going to piss him off to no end that I hung up on him a second time. It didn't matter. It was the least he deserved for what he did to me. This time I didn't bother to answer when it continued to ring. I couldn't trust anyone else not to hand me over to the Raleka, and I couldn't trust Suave with my heart. This was something I was going to have to figure out on my own.

Frowning as I reached over and picked my smashed laptop up off my kitchen island, I studied it. I was going to need to get a new one. Thankfully, my camera bag was with me. I didn't want to have to buy a new one of those. It cost a few months' rent. It wasn't ideal to buy tickets on my phone, but I'd do whatever I had to. I needed to get back to Moscow. I'd only come home to check back in and turn in a few stories I'd written. A girl had to eat, and therefore had to work, and I didn't trust most of the editors I sold my stories to. If I sent the stories in as an email they'd find a way to run the story in the Sunday paper and I'd never see a dime.

Two days before I left, Alyona contacted me about what she'd found. She wanted me to help her expose the Raleka Organization for what they were. And now that they knew what we knew—or thought we knew—I needed to get back there as quickly as possible before they killed her. It didn't matter that we hadn't seen each other since she moved back to Russia, she was family. And worse, this involved her family.

The phone rang again and I ignored it as I pulled up my travel app and booked a flight for the next morning. It was going to be tight, but I should be able to make it if traffic wasn't too bad. I hurried into my bedroom, grabbing my suitcase and throwing clothes from the floor into it. Sighing at the drawer of my dresser that looked like it had been thrown against the wall and was now lying on the floor, shattered, I picked through and grabbed my panties in handfuls. I wasn't sure how long I was going to be gone, so I'd pack as much as I could.

My phone started ringing again and I growled in frustration as I dug through the mess on my bedside table for the charger. "What!" I yelled as I answered the phone.

"Where are you going?"

Straightening up, I looked around. My breathing was pinched off as I searched my apartment once more. I didn't recognize the voice, but it wasn't hard to miss the accent. My hand shook as I disconnected the call. Pulling my notepad out of my purse, I wrote down one number, then I went to the bathroom and dropped my phone into the toilet. Staring down at it, I wondered—not for the first time—if I was doing the right thing. The stakes were high. But so were the consequences if I didn't help Alyona. She was counting on me.

I turned and finished packing as quickly as I could. It scared me to have to leave my gun behind. There was no way I'd get it through TSA or Customs and if I got stopped entering Russia, I was as good as caught. It was only five minutes to four in the morning by the time I stepped out onto the street and raised my hand as a taxi passed.

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