Cold Heat (Cold Justice: Most Wanted #7)

Prologue

Ten Years Earlier

Jordan Krychek shoved his chapped hands deep into the pockets of his battered leather jacket and blew out a cloud of frost. Jesus Christ, Chicago was cold in the winter.

He’d forgotten.

The past few years in Texas and other desert regions had made him soft. First chance he got, he was headed somewhere the winter wind didn’t flay flesh off the bone.

With a nod, Krychek ducked behind the bouncer, out of the frigid temps, and into the Bare Naked Ladies strip joint in West Town, not far from where he’d grown up.

Jordan ran a hand through hair that he’d let grow since leaving the Army a year ago, then sent a wink to Ana who hung upside-down on the main stage pole, doing the splits, while wearing only a G-string and glittery silver pasties.

Impressive.

Ana credited her athletic ability to her mom dragging her to gymnastics lessons for years when she’d been a kid.

It had certainly paid off, judging from the hundred-dollar bills tucked into the strings on her hips and her strength and flexibility, which she’d demonstrated to him up-close and personal on one memorable occasion.

He didn’t make a habit out of “touching the merchandise,” as Konrad Bocharov liked to call the women who worked for him.

Jordan had been ordered to drive her and a bunch of other women home after a Christmas party.

Last to be dropped off, Ana had insisted on bringing him inside to give him a “tip.” He’d told her there was no need, but it had gotten to an awkward point where refusing made him look weird.

He didn’t have a girlfriend or a wife. He’d worried it had been a test, to make sure he wasn’t a homosexual—as if a gay man had never fucked a woman for show.

Being gay was probably worse than being an undercover FBI agent as far as the Russian mafia was concerned.

Their overbearing version of masculinity simply couldn’t handle it.

A man in Jordan’s perilous position couldn’t afford even the whisper of suspicion, so he and Ana had shared some hopefully fun, mindless sex—the one and only time he’d been lucky enough to have sex since he graduated from the academy at Quantico—and they’d never spoken of it since.

She blew him a kiss as he walked through the crowd, and his cheeks bloomed. What that woman could do with her mouth.

Konrad was in his usual booth at the back.

Normally, the illegal arms dealer was surrounded by a plethora of goons.

Tonight, only Micky and Dmitri stood nearby, watching Jordan in their usual distrustful fashion.

He’d gone to school with Micky, less than five blocks from here in a place where half the kids spoke Ukrainian and the other half spoke Russian—all with thick Chicago accents.

Micky’s nose was out of joint because Konrad liked Jordan better than he liked Micky, even though Micky was the one who’d introduced them and brought Jordan into Konrad’s fold. Micky had expected to be bossing Jordan around, but the pecking order hadn’t worked out quite the way Micky had hoped.

Os’ také zhyt-tya.

Such is life, motherfucker.

Jordan grinned at the guy and watched Micky’s eyes narrow into thin slits of hate as he stared back.

“Ah. Here’s my favorite soldier,” Bocharov boomed loudly, banging his fist on the table.

Bocharov got a kick out of the fact Jordan was former Army.

Jordan had enlisted to get his degree, but he’d loved the structure, the discipline of military life.

Despite that, he’d always known what he really wanted to be—a Special Agent, a G-man, oozing Fidelity, Bravery, and Integrity out of every pore.

He’d needed the bachelor’s degree to apply. And, now, here he was, a fully fledged Special Agent, working undercover for one of the most evil men in America, operating in his old backyard, less than a mile from where he’d grown up and where his family still lived.

Bocharov’s lips curved, no humor in his shark-like blue eyes as he poured two small glasses of Stolichnaya.

“Drink.”

Jordan picked up one of the shots. “Budmo!” He spoke the Ukrainian toast, and they clinked glasses before swallowing the drink in one throat-searing gulp.

His eyes watered.

He fucking hated vodka.

Which was probably worse than being gay in the Russians’ eyes, so he drank it with gusto and held out his glass for another.

Konrad poured two more shots, and Jordan wondered if this was going to be one of those nights where he staggered home in the small hours, barely able to walk.

Getting a hangover was the last thing he wanted when the Chicago Police Department and FBI were about to close the noose around this fat bastard’s neck and lock up his ass for about a thousand years.

Although, getting Konrad hammered might make the arrests go more smoothly.

Jordan could not fuck this up. Too much depended on not letting anyone in this organization suspect something was about to go down and making sure no one fell through the cracks.

“Are we celebrating?”

“Da.” Konrad wiped a meaty fist over wet lips. “I made a sale today.” He leaned closer. “A big sale. I need you to make the delivery.”

Jordan’s pulse skipped up a couple of notches. He hadn’t anticipated that. “Where to?”

He’d been working for Bocharov for six months—seven months for the Bureau.

He’d been recruited for this mission before he’d even graduated the academy.

Officially, he still had First Office Agent status, but in reality, he’d never even set foot inside the FBI’s Chicago Field Office.

He was more intimate with this strip bar than his own apartment two blocks away.

He’d lived and breathed Bocharov’s world since moving back to the city.

Getting anyone inside Bocharov’s organization had proven impossible in the past.

Bocharov swept for bugs more often than the Russian Embassy.

He did not trust strangers. Barely trusted his own goons.

Micky had gotten Jordan a job as a bouncer.

After breaking up a fight—staged in a way Russian psyops would have been proud of—Bocharov had brought him on as a driver and then as a delivery man.

They’d shared a few drunken nights as Bocharov appeared to have taken a shine to him.

Krychek wasn’t sure whether to be flattered or insulted.

He refused to wear a wire or a hidden camera as there was no telling when he might be searched. Micky took particular joy in frisking him at random moments.

But Jordan’s cell phone recorded everything even when it appeared to be turned off.

Bocharov knew the FBI were watching him—the FBI and Russia’s Foreign Intelligence Service, the SVR.

He was always careful to speak in code and never have the goods on his property.

He rented a warehouse under a shell company and seemed na?ve or arrogant enough to believe no one else knew about it.

The FBI had it under surveillance, also his apartment, his mistress’s apartment, and this strip joint—as much as was possible anyhow.

In this tight-knit community, strangers stood out as vividly as a streaker running through the Nave during Mass.

The most damning information had come from key loggers Jordan had planted, accessing Bocharov’s computers, cloning his cell phones. The information attained had enabled CPD and the FBI to connect the dots of this world-wide illegal arms trade and build a rock-solid case with RICO implications.

It had worked on the mob. About time it worked on the Russian Mafia too.

“Arlington Heights.” Bocharov shoved a piece of paper with an address written on it across the sticky varnished wood.

Jordan checked his watch. “What time?”

“Ten sharp. Buyer will be driving a green Ford pickup. Don’t be late.” He placed a set of car keys in front of Jordan.

Jordan memorized the address and then put the paper in his pocket. The more evidence the better. It was a forty-five-minute drive. Plenty of time. “Whadda you sell ’em?”

He held his breath, hoping against hope the man would incriminate himself.

“Bagels.” The grin was malicious. “Lots of bagels. All you need to do is drive up there. Unload the bagels and get my money. Vehicle is out back. They don’t get the merchandise without payment upfront.

Forty.” Bocharov leaned closer, and Jordan smelled sour onion on his breath.

“And don’t get stopped by the motherfucking pigs. If you do, ice the fuckers, da?”

Bocharov held his gaze menacingly. Jordan nodded. It was the first time the Russian had ever told him to outright kill anyone.

The fact that it was a cop…

Coincidence?

Had to be.

If Bocharov had the slightest notion Jordan was FBI, he’d have bundled him out back and put a bullet in his skull. He certainly wouldn’t be hanging around waiting to be arrested.

“You know where to drop the money afterwards.”

“Sure thing, boss. Shouldn’t take more than a couple of hours. Need me for anything else later?”

He needed to meet with his handler, Special Agent Jenna Stork and an old buddy from his school days, Detective Tobias Granger, to go over the finer details of tomorrow’s takedown.

They couldn’t afford to tip anyone off, so they usually met in a grocery store miles away from either of their usual stomping grounds.

“Not tonight.” Bocharov wet his pudgy lips. “Just don’t be late.”

Ana walked past them having finished her set. Bocharov grabbed her by the wrist and jerked her onto his lap. Licked his fleshy tongue up the side of Ana’s sparkly cheek. He held Jordan’s gaze as he did it. “How did you like the Christmas present I gave you?”

Jordan kept his gaze steady on Bocharov’s eyes and ignored the tension in Ana’s thin body. “What’s not to like, boss?”

“You want more of this?” Bocharov’s hand slipped down Ana’s naked body.

Was Konrad pissed because he’d discovered Jordan and Ana had had sex?