CHAPTER 2
SLOANE
The impact of my fist against the bag reverberates through my knuckles, shoots up my arm, and spreads through my chest like a shockwave. I strike again. And again. Each impact rips a growl from my throat. Sweat, adrenaline, and rage. A combination I know all too well.
One-two-three. Left hook. Side kick.
The old punching bag at the Brooklyn community gym swings violently with each hit. I came here to clear my head before the meeting with the FBI, but it’s having the exact opposite effect. With every impact, my mind races faster.
What are you getting yourself into, Sloane?
The kick connects so hard that the bag’s chains creak in protest. Pain shoots up my shin, satisfying and clarifying.
"Shit," I mutter, bracing my hands on my knees as I try to catch my breath.
Sweat runs down my back, soaking my black sports top. Strands of hair that have escaped my ponytail stick to my forehead and neck. My heart hammers against my ribs as if it wants to escape my chest. And I don’t blame it. I’d want to escape the madness I’m about to commit, too.
I look at the wall clock: 2:36 p.m. I have less than an hour to shower and get to the address Agents Smith and Roberts gave me. An anonymous office in Midtown where I’m going to receive my new identity as a UNLV student. My passport into hell.
I pull my gloves off with my teeth and toss them carelessly into my gym bag. Thirty minutes later, showered and dressed, I leave the gym wrapped in my leather jacket—the one I wear when I need to feel invincible. Armor against the world. Against what’s coming.
The office is exactly what I expected: nondescript, functional, with that clinical air that screams "federal government." Gray walls, metal furniture, fluorescent lighting that does no favors for anyone. Not a single plant or painting to suggest life.
Agent Smith greets me with a dry nod, sans smile.
She's wearing the same impeccable tailored suit from the other day, as if she has seven identical ones for each day of the week.
Beside her is a man I haven't seen before: fortyish, brown hair with gray beginning to show, and an athletic build gone slightly soft, like a runner who’s stopped training.
His suit is slightly rumpled, which makes him paradoxically more human than Smith.
"Ms. Murphy, thank you for coming," Smith says, pointing to a chair. "This is Special Agent Cooper. He'll be your main contact in Las Vegas."
Cooper extends his hand. His handshake is firm but not intimidating.
"I've heard good things about you," he says, and there's something in his tone that makes me suspect that isn't entirely true.
"Like what?" I ask, leaning back in the chair. "That I'm a civilian with no training who got roped into doing your job?"
Cooper lets out a small laugh.
"Like you've got guts," he replies. "And that's worth more than any training."
Smith rolls her eyes, subtly but just enough for me to notice. She opens a folder on the table and starts taking out documents.
"These are your transfer papers to UNLV," she explains, pushing them toward me. "They're completely legitimate. You've been accepted into the Criminal Law program. Agent Cooper will be your professor for Legal Ethics and Criminal Procedure."
I examine the documents. My name, my photo, everything looks authentic. The feeling of unreality grows inside me. This is actually happening.
"And how do we justify my sudden move?" I ask.
"We've prepared a digital paper trail," Cooper cuts in. "Emails from you inquiring about transfers months ago, partial scholarships, everything they might investigate if they decide to check your story."
I nod slowly. They're thorough, I have to give them that.
"And what exactly am I supposed to do once I'm there?"
Smith slides another paper toward me. A blueprint, I recognize. Of The Tsarina casino.
"We need intelligence on the Morozovs' internal operations," she explains. "Casino layout, restricted locations, security routines. Any detail on their criminal activities."
"And how the hell am I supposed to get that?" I ask, feeling skepticism crawl up my throat. "It's not like they're going to give me a tour of their torture chambers."
"Harper Keller is your way in," Smith replies, unperturbed. "As her best friend, you'll have access to areas of the casino and residence others don't. And more importantly, private conversations."
A bitter sensation fills my mouth. Harper. My best friend, who's been by my side for every major moment of my life. And I'm going to use her as a Trojan horse to destroy her husband.
"What if she's actually in love with him?" The question slips out before I can stop it. "What if you've misinterpreted the situation?"
Cooper leans forward, his eyes suddenly intense.
"Sloane, Alexei Morozov is responsible for at least seven confirmed murders. Arms trafficking that has ended up in the hands of terrorists. Money laundering on an international scale. His brother Dimitri has an even bloodier track record."
The name drops like a stone in my stomach.
"We'll help you prepare," Smith continues, oblivious to my internal turmoil. "You'll carry an encrypted phone. We'll communicate through a seemingly innocuous app. We have emergency codes. And you'll meet with Cooper at the university every week."
I nod mechanically as they explain the protocols, the signals, the extraction plans.
I try to focus, but my mind keeps going back to Dimitri.
To how he looked at me the last time we saw each other, when I visited Harper a few months ago.
Like I was a problem he didn't know how to solve. Like I was a bite he wanted to taste.
It throws me off balance.
"Ms. Murphy?" Smith's voice brings me back to the present. "Did you understand the protocols?"
"Yes," I lie. I'll have to reread all this later. "Understood."
Cooper passes me a small black box.
"Your new phone," he explains. "Completely secure, although it looks like a standard model. Use it to communicate with us."
I take it, feeling its weight in my hand. So light for the responsibility it represents.
"One last thing," Smith says, and her tone changes slightly. "About Dimitri Morozov."
My pulse races treacherously.
"What about him?"
"He's the more dangerous of the two brothers," she explains. "Alexei is calculating, strategic. Dimitri is... volatile. Impulsive."
"I know," I reply dryly. "It's not like I haven't met him."
"Precisely why," she insists. "According to our sources, he showed an unusual interest in you during your visit."
Heat creeps up my neck. I vividly remember every interaction with him. How he tracked me with his gaze. How he tensed when I entered a room. How we argued at the slightest provocation, the static electricity between us so dense it almost sizzled in the air.
"We shouted at each other every time we were in the same room," I reply, trying to sound indifferent. "I wouldn't call that 'interest.'"
Cooper sketches a knowing smile that makes me want to wipe it off with a punch.
"There are different types of interest, Sloane. And it could be an advantage for us."
My stomach twists into a knot.
"What exactly are you suggesting?"
"Nothing specific," Smith replies quickly, shooting a warning look at Cooper. "Just keep your eyes open. Any information on him is valuable. He is Alexei's enforcer."
I nod, suddenly unable to speak. The idea of "using" any kind of attraction Dimitri might feel toward me turns my stomach. And yet, a treacherous part of me wonders what it would be like. What it would be like to surrender to that electric current I felt last time.
You're fucking crazy , I tell myself. The man is a killer .
We spend another hour going over logistical details: my financial cover, my class schedule. By the time we finish, my head is a whirlwind of information and my body is a knot of tension.
"Any final questions?" Smith says, closing her folder.
I swallow hard, feeling the dryness in my throat.
"What if I'm discovered?"
The silence that follows is answer enough.
Cooper finally speaks, his voice softer.
"I advise you, Sloane... don't get caught."