Page 18 of Tied Over

“But my partner raises a good point about not knowing who’s listening,” Salazar pointed out, glaring at Crouse. “According to Ms. Wexler, you fuckers have a mole, so what the fuck, Crouse? I don’t see you telling us all about that.”

He scowled at Salazar. “I can’t go into that with you all at the moment due to your lack of clearance, but suffice to say that Pearson,” he said, enunciating his name so we’d all understand that Rasha had the name wrong, “was neutralized.”

I nodded. “Funny how you made the jump from Palmer to Pearson so quickly. Those names are nothing alike, and yet you’re all over the guy.”

“What’s your point?”

“Well, I’m wondering if maybe somebody’s been on him for a while for you to pull his name out of a hat so fuckin’ fast.”

“You can at least share that much,” Bodhi pressed him.

He glanced around the inside of the SUV.

“No judgment, Agent Crouse,” Washington said with a nod, offering support. “We’ve all been there with crooked colleagues, am I right?”

He took a breath. “Yes, he’s been under surveillance for a while.”

“Was that so hard?” Bodhi asked him, sounding a bit snide.

“Not helpful, DUSM Callahan,” Washington scolded him.

“This is already taking way too long,” Mabe grumbled.

He wasn’t wrong.

Crouse had backup following us in another SUV. The point was that a small tactical team would go in, alert no one so it wasn’t splashed all over the news, and get out. For that reason, Salazar and Mabe were sitting the breach out and would watch from the sidelines. They would get Kayson the moment we brought him out, and then, in time, they would have Petrov as well.

I put Washington in body armor instead of a tac vest because with twelve guys in a room, God only knew who would be shooting at us. And he had to be the first one through the door, because Kayson’s guys would light us up otherwise, and Rasha would definitely not even let us in her room without him. I hated the idea of taking him in with us, but we had no other play.

We were near the Magnificent Mile downtown, on Erie Street, when Washington sat up straight and pointed. Of course it was a high-rise, secure building; nothing was ever easy. I would have had Washington tell her to come down, but it didn’t sound like she would be leaving without her cat, and I was guessing her now ex-boyfriend—even though Kayson didn’t know that yet—would notice her bailing with her pet.

Washington went first to the door, lifted his head to the camera, and buzzed the security guard. When the guard saw Washington’s face on the monitor, as he’d visited Rasha often, he buzzed him in. The man did a double take when he realized Washington was in body armor, but when Crouse flashed his badge, he calmed and nodded. When we were about to move by, though, he reached for his phone. I was out of position, but Crouse was there, having seen the same action I did. He pressed the muzzle of his Glock 19 hard into the man’s ribs.

“Who are you?” Crouse asked.

The man said nothing, and Crouse slammed the butt of his gun into the man’s temple, dropping the big man to the floor.

“Why?” Washington asked.

“He’s not the security guard,” I replied as Crouse held up the man’s hand, inked heavily in Russian Cyrillic. “He’s Bratva, on Burian’s payroll, no doubt. I’m betting the real security guard is lying dead, stuffed into a supply closet.”

At which point Washington started to shake, finally understanding what we were about to do.

“It’s gonna be okay,” I soothed him.

“Harper, Lucas.” Crouse clipped the words with a drill sergeant’s bark at two of the five Kevlar-strapped men he’d brought with him. The junior Feds snapped to attention. “I don’t care how exclusive this zip code is, no one goes up behind us. I don’t get a Bratva colonoscopy, and maybe you see GS-13 before next year. Clear?”

“Crystal,” Lucas answered.

“Ortega, Boyce, and Kim, you’re with us.”

I felt better knowing there would be no surprises.

The elevator ride was a bit snug, like a Henley just a size too small—passable, but not enough to be comfortable.

“These apartments go for what—a million five?” I asked, the tension thick enough to cut with a knife.

“Easily. Your point?” Crouse’s manner was all business.