The Takedown

Chapter 1

1

UPPSALA, SWEDEN

FIVE DAYS EARLIER

I can’t just approach him and ask to cut in. That would look suspicious. Instead, I’ve placed myself at the edge of the dance floor, and I’m sipping a glass of champagne so slowly that I’m hardly tasting it. What matters is my mouth. He should be looking at my mouth. On my lips is a thick coat of crimson lipstick. The color perfectly matches my dress: a strapless, thigh-slit gown that says, I am your Christmas present.

Every once in a while, Alexei spins his partner and cocks his head my way. It’s subtle. But I notice things. Noticing things is my job. His gaze tracks from my ankle all the way up the bare skin of my thigh, and finally to my mouth. Automatically, I part my lips; my eyes capture his, sparkling for a calculated two seconds, before dipping shyly down.

I’m not shy.

I’m just smart. And well trained.

Also, itchy. Fingertips gripping the champagne glass, I ignore the prickle that’s creeping its way under my wig. Maybe it goes without saying, but I prefer my own hair: a dirty-blond bob that almost dusts my shoulders. Unluckily for me, Alexei “The Bulgarian” Borovkov—my target—has a thing for brunettes. It’s in the file. All four of his girlfriends (four simultaneous girlfriends) have long, dark waves. So tonight, that’s what I have.

I take another ludicrously slow sip of champagne—and wait.

Half of this job is waiting, keeping your cool under pressure.

Swishing the alcohol through my teeth, I survey the ballroom for the sixteenth time. Strings of fairy lights dangle from the ceiling, sprigs of greenery crest the snow-flecked windows, and a massive cut-glass chandelier shouts, Fancy! It’s the kind of place I couldn’t imagine myself in as a kid. Christmas bingo night at the Moose Lodge, maybe; a winter ball with tickets double the price of my first car, never.

There are two clear exit routes. Several bodyguards, milling around, attempting to look inconspicuous. And a man in the corner wearing an earpiece. Not one of our guys. One of Alexei’s. At the far end of the room, a string quartet plays “ N?r det lider mot jul ,” a Swedish carol that’s heavy on the violin, and my stilettos tap until the end of the song. Everyone applauds the violinist—then it’s go time.

I don’t even need to steel myself.

It’s habit, muscle memory, my mind and body in sync.

Alexei takes another step back from his partner, bows, and shoots a look straight at me. For a second, it’s like we’re the only two people in the ballroom.

Now, all that’s left is to reel Alexei in.

A slow lip bite should do it, like I’m thinking about how he might taste—but I stop mid-bite. I’ve caught myself. I’m so innocent! Alexei sees this and immediately struts over in his white tie and coattails, exactly like I knew he would.

“You are beautiful,” Alexei says. He speaks in heavily accented English and extends his white-gloved hand, confident that I’ll take it. My fingers slip gently into his, like I’m this fragile little bird—not, say, a deceptively strong CIA case officer who could incapacitate him swiftly and silently. Beneath the dress, I’m all power and muscular curves. A handler once described me as “more striking than beautiful.” Emphasis on the strike .

Alexei pulls me to the center of the dance floor as the quartet revs up again. A slower song this time, with more cello.

“You’re Bulgarian?” I ask in English, affecting a Swedish accent. The ballroom is in Uppsala, a half-hour train ride from Stockholm, so a Swedish alias makes the most sense.

Alexei grins, drawing my chest to his chest, and I make sure I don’t stiffen. Make sure I’m breathing smoothly, normally. His neck smells like blood oranges, with a hint of leather, and his custard-blond hair is slicked behind his ears. In heels, I’m only two inches shorter than him. We match up. “Smart girl,” he says after a click of his tongue. “You recognize my accent, then? You speak Bulgarian?”

“I speak six languages,” I say honestly. It’s the first and only truth I’ll tell him all night. “But my Bulgarian isn’t so good.”

“My Swedish isn’t so good.” Alexei’s lips quirk. “I bet there is a lot we could teach each other...?” He leaves the question open, waiting for my name.

“Annalisa,” I lie.

Annalisa Andersson. A socialite from Gothenburg. She’s a Virgo. A horseback rider. Likes gin and Dubonnet with a slice of lemon.

It’s funny how much you can know about a person who doesn’t exist.

And how little you can know about a person who does.

Alexei’s fingers intertwine with mine in a way that—years ago—would’ve sent a chilled spike down my back. “You are here all alone, Annalisa? It is no good to be alone at Christmas.”

Alone at Christmas.

In my line of work, people hunt for vulnerabilities. What Alexei doesn’t know is, he’s tiptoeing uncomfortably close to mine. My family briefly flashes in front of my eyes—Calla, Grandma Ruby, Sweetie Pie, even Dad—before I blink and they’re gone. They can’t be here right now. Alexei is not what you’d call “a good guy.” For the last three months, he’s been financing arms deals against NATO allies. Give him anything less than total concentration, and I’ll be flying back to the States in a body bag.

Reaching up, I trace the sharp ridge of Alexei’s jaw and whisper directly into his ear, “I’m not alone anymore, am I?”

I can feel his heartbeat quicken through his shirt. His throat bobs in a discreet gulp, and I’ve got him. I know I’ve got him.

Ninety-five percent of the time, my work for the CIA isn’t like this. Usually, I’m given a very specific set of instructions: Recruit foreign spies. That’s it. That’s what I do. I identify them, study them, and ally them with the US government. I’ve been posted all over Northern Europe and the former Eastern Bloc. Long, cold months of meeting assets in back rooms and bars—and then, sometimes, assignments come out of nowhere. Son of a Bulgarian billionaire, touring Europe, attending a charity ball in Uppsala. Someone’s persuaded him into handing over his father’s money to buy missile components. Audio and satellite surveillance so far unsuccessful. Need to find out who he’s meeting later tonight. Suddenly, I’m trading in my cargo pants for a government-funded gown. I’m dancing, song after song, before slipping my hands under Alexei’s suit jacket, tracing the slope of his chest. My fingers are nimble, delicate, skilled.

Alexei is practically purring. “You know,” he murmurs, “you look like that American...”

I’m careful to avoid any tension in my shoulders.

“...actress,” he finishes, which is very preferable to American spy . “What is her name? The one with the face. The round face. Dark eyebrows, hair of blond.”

“Round face...” I pretend to think, distracting him more, my fingers roaming the sides of his body, and— there . I stick the miniature audio recorder into the lining of his jacket.

“Ah!” Alexei says, as if he’s been stung by a baby wasp, and my muscles ready themselves to block an attack. Internally, I relax as he bleats out, “Ah, I cannot remember her name. You are such a good dancer, my mind is gone.”

With a flick of my eyelashes, I thank him.

—

We don’t get wins like this very often: a mission that goes so freakishly smooth, it’s like a training exercise. Alexei might as well have been a Farm instructor acting the part of a billionaire. It irks me: the suspicion that the assignment might’ve gone a little too well. But I was as diligent as possible—and I’ll be just as watchful on the way home. When the tech team finally pings my earpiece to confirm that, yep, they can hear everything through Alexei’s bug, I deploy a blunt, evergreen excuse.

Need to pee! Goodbye.

Bypassing the bathroom door, I duck down the opposite hallway and slip into the coatroom unnoticed. Everything’s choreographed, methodical. I double-check that I’m alone—then I absolutely blitz through the next part. Wig off. Black parka on. High heels off. Rubber ankle boots on. I yank a well-worn pair of cargo pants over my dress, tucking the silken fabric into my waistline. Twenty seconds, that’s all it takes, and I’m street ready. Swiping my rucksack from the corner cupboard, I walk slowly but purposefully out of the coatroom—and into downtown Uppsala.

Cold wind and snowflakes nip past my ears, reminding me of Maine: snowshoeing in December; toes freezing before a campfire; that first lick of winter. I yank up the hood on my parka, obscuring the sharp angle of my hair; if anyone starts to trail me, all they’ll see is the shape of a person: sleek, possibly athletic, relatively tall.

Luckily, no one follows me to the train station. No one suspicious boards my carriage. No one looks over my shoulder while I pretend to read Plaza Kvinna magazine. In the train bathroom, I puff out a tired breath and run my wrists under the tap, scrubbing, until the makeup disintegrates and the black outline of my crescent-moon tattoo becomes visible again. Sometimes this tiny, tiny tattoo feels like the only true marker of who I was.

Splashing a palmful of warm water onto my face, I gaze into the mirror and drag a paper towel over my sticky red lips. Do I look happy?

Maybe that’s the wrong question. This job was never supposed to make me happy.

This job was supposed to make me... what? Untouchable?

Back in Stockholm, I stop at the first open convenience store and buy a loaf of Swedish cinnamon bread, devouring a third of it on my walk home. Not home , exactly. The Stockholm Riverside Hotel has just been someplace to crash for the last two days. It’s fine. Way better than the station house in Macedonia, or that hostel in the Balkans. The vending machine makes a decent espresso (if you only care about the caffeine level; so-caffeinated-that-I-can-predict-the-future is about the right dosage for me). The hotel carpets are IKEA blue, paintings of extra-furry cows line the halls, and no one really asks any questions besides the occasional “How are you finding your stay?”

Which is good. Obviously.

In the wood-paneled lobby, I shift the grocery bag into the crook of my arm, press the elevator button to 3, and step in at the ping . My ankle boots stomp down the hallway, leaving a trail of snowy powder, and when I reach my room (306, by the caffeine delivery machine), I wrench off a mitten, searching deep in my parka for the key.

What’s my family doing right now, six days before Christmas, at home in Maine? I can’t help thinking about them.

Also... I hear something. Someone. Right now, in my hotel room.

The noise hits me like a dart to the neck. There has never been anyone in my hotel room before. Never, never. Definitely not after a mission.

I knew the assignment went too smoothly! Did someone see me plant audio surveillance equipment on Alexei? Have I been compromised? Who the hell is in my room? Bracing myself, I set down the bread, unshoulder my backpack, and reach for my gun. On the other side of the door is a female-sounding voice—and the blare of the television. The intruder is watching something. A game show, maybe? Can that be right? Every few seconds, a bell goes off, like Ding, ding, ding, you’ve won a prize! And the person inside my room lets out a loud, raucous laugh, like Miss Piggy in the Muppets.

This has every hallmark of a trap. And not even a particularly good trap. Shouldn’t she, at the very least, be hiding in a closet, ready to spring out and knife me?

Even so, I can’t stand out here forever. There’s two months’ worth of intel in that room, and it’s not like I can abandon it. My handler would kill me. If the person in my room doesn’t try to kill me first...

Suddenly, the television stops.

Then the voice calls out, “That you, Sydney? In here, please.”

Her accent is American. Midwestern, by the sound of it. Another trick? My training kicks in like a reflex. Two deep breaths. Compartmentalizing any fear. Grabbing the pistol in my waistband, I sidestep the cinnamon bread and beep the door unlocked. I crack it open, peek inside. Blue carpets, blue walls. A pair of well-worn running shoes, placed by the door, exactly where I left them. Immediately, though, I’m met with the unmistakable scent of meatballs. In a... nutmeg-y cream sauce? Which is something that I did not order and have never brought into this room. I round the corner, past the entryway, into—

“Oh, good. You’re here.”

The woman in my room barely looks at me. She turns her head vaguely in my direction, just enough for me to see the harsh line of her profile. Short, chestnut-colored hair falls around her face. Everything about her says windswept , even though she’s comfortably seated at the dining table by the TV. She must be about forty years old. Forty-two? Forty-three?

More importantly, I have no idea who the heck she is.

Or why she’s ordered so many meatballs. The table’s crowded with a platter of smoked salmon, a bowl of spaghetti, and what appears to be venison. Or reindeer?

“I was a bit hungry, so I just ordered everything.” The woman shrugs, snapping a room service menu shut and fully looking at me now. Her eyes are hawkish, bright, and might scare the average person. “You eat meat, yes? Should’ve ordered double, but I didn’t know when to expect you back, exactly. Orange juice? There’s more food coming. Keep your ears pricked for a knock at the door... Aren’t you going to sit?”

She gestures at the other dining chair.

“I’m sorry,” I say, not sorry at all. Sarcasm bleeds through my voice. “Who are you, exactly?”

“You’re not going to shoot me, are you?”

My gun stays in position, pointed at her head, but the slight fear-taste dissipates from my mouth. “Not unless you try to shoot me first.”

“Good,” she says with a wave of her hand. “That would be very messy. Too much paperwork, and it would probably make the news if you couldn’t find somewhere to stash my body quick enough. Not many dumpsters in this city. You’d have to drop me in the river. But then, of course, the river is frozen, so you’d have to drill a hole. Quite time consuming.” Grabbing the remote, she changes the channel, watches for roughly twelve seconds, then flicks a finger toward the TV. “What do you think is going on here?”

Nothing as weird as what’s happening in here , I think. On-screen, a domestic scene unfolds. It’s some sort of Swedish soap opera. Never taking my eyes off the woman with the meatballs, I listen for a short while, as Helga—I think her name’s Helga—learns that her lifelong love, Sven, has cheated on her. On their wedding day. With her sister.

“Family drama,” I say evenly. A muscle in my jaw feathers. Every few seconds, my eyes flick toward the closet, waiting for an assailant (Alexei? Alexei’s contact?) to burst from my winter gear.

“Ah.” The woman sniffs and rubs her nose. “I know all about family dramas. I’m supposed to be in Finland right now.” She tilts her head toward the neighboring room, as if Finland were just next door. “Skiing holiday. I hate skiing. Too much snow. My son sprained both his wrists on the first day. Would you believe that? Both wrists.”

“That’s... awful,” I say with just enough empathy, moderating my words. If you even have a son . Is she lying to me? Her body language is casual, unassuming; she seems truthful, but those things can be faked. Learned. My mind turns over her vowels, wondering if I can pick any holes in her American accent. Maybe she’s putting it on. Is she FSB? Covert ops? At the same time, I wonder if my laptop is still locked in the dresser drawer.

“Yeah, well, it’ll give him something to complain about. My son does love to complain... Seriously, though, drop the gun. I’m unarmed, see?” She pats down her woolen sweater, which looks so Finnish, it’s like a gift shop souvenir. There are lingonberries on it. “Nothing under the table, either, see? Check the closet if you want. Check under the bed. There’s no one here. Just you and me and some meatballs, hmm? We’re on the same side.”

I huff, a wedge of blond hair falling over my eye. “I’m not just going to trust that you’re—”

“Sydney Swift,” she says, leaning back in her chair. Her hands fold neatly in her lap, like a school librarian. “Twenty-six years old. Case officer for the CIA. Excellent with languages. Currently turning a defected Albanian criminologist into a workable asset—and just getting back from a Christmas party. Billionaire’s son, I believe? Something about missiles? You attended high school in Cape Hathaway, Maine, where you... let me see if I remember this right... played the flute in the marching band and won the All-State Debate Championship two years in a row. May I show you a picture?”

My mouth dries. How... How in the...?

Slowly, from underneath the meatball dish, she produces a photograph, sliding it with two fingers across the table. The image shows a sixteen-year-old girl with sun-kissed hair, strong eyebrows, and a mouth full of braces. Her intelligent eyes flick, catlike, toward the camera.

She’s clutching a debate trophy.

She’s me .

“Studied international relations at Bowdoin,” the woman plows on, “then Georgetown. Graduated with honors. Your mother passed away when your little sister was a baby—car crash, very sudden—so you were raised by a grandmother and a single father. At The Farm, you scored the third highest in your class in asset recruitment and the second highest in defensive driving. On your personal phone, you have more pictures of a dog named ‘Sweetie Pie’ than you do of human beings. No current romantic relationship. In fact, very single. How am I doing so far?”

She’s nailed everything. Absolutely everything. My last boyfriend and I broke up at 2 a.m. in the Langley parking lot, after he told me it was too difficult dating a spy. And he was a spy.

I grind my teeth.

“Fairly well?” the woman says. “I know. Time to sit down.”

—

Her name is Gail Jarvis. Supposedly. Supposedly she is the Gail Jarvis, an associate deputy director at the FBI. From her pocket, she slowly produces her badge along with a prerecorded video message from my handler, who doesn’t look like he’s under any duress. (Although admittedly, it’s hard to tell; Sandeep is a notoriously upbeat person.) Five minutes into our talk, I return my gun to my waistband, moderately confident that Gail isn’t about to strangle me with chicken wire. At least, not imminently. Outside the room, partygoers stamp by, yelling in Swedish about office party drinks, and room service knocks on the door, delivering two bowls of yellow pea soup. Gail tips the server and, without making any sudden moves, totters back to the table.

“Oh yes,” she says, taking a few sips with a spoon. “That really is good. Rich. The Swedes do know how to make a nice soup, I’ll give them that.” Then she gets back to business. “So I’ve laid out the beginning of it. Essentially, I need you to come work for me.”

“Temporarily,” I recap, hand under my chin. My fingers drum against my cheekbone. We’re in a chess match, Gail and I. Her move.

“Temporarily,” she says.

“As a sort of interagency transfer?”

“Correct.”

I give her a look like Gail, you know that none of this makes sense. It involves one squinted eye and a slight mouth tilt. When she doesn’t seem to read the expression, I come out and say it, blunt as always. “This doesn’t make sense.”

Gail stabs a meatball with her fork. “Which parts specifically?”

Should I let her keep the fork? It doesn’t pose much of a threat, although theoretically I could take down someone with less. “Let’s say you are who you say you are,” I begin, threading my hands together and resting them on the table. I’ve never been in this exact position before, so I’m leaning on my confidence. “Say you really did just happen to be in Finland ‘on vacation.’?” I use air quotes here. “Which is one heck of a coincidence... Why break into my hotel room? Why me? You haven’t even told me what the assignment is. Why not select one of your own agents?”

“Can’t.” She twirls the meatball in cream sauce, making me hungry again. “Things are coming into the FBI and they’re not staying in. Even the smallest detail of this case is too important to leak. I have suspicions about people in my department.”

A too-long pause follows. The FBI doesn’t half beat around the bush. “And?” I press. I like to get to the point. “Why do you need me?”

Gail bites through a meatball and swallows thoughtfully. “Well, first of all, you’re a woman. I trust women. Not all women, of course, but whenever I’m voting, I vote women, straight down the ballot.” She makes a sharp hand motion, like she’s slicing through butter.

“That’s not an effective way to vote.” Even so, one corner of my mouth curves into a reluctant smile. There are so few women in upper-level intelligence roles, they might as well have their own secret handshake.

Gail shrugs. “Works for me. And I did not, as you claim, ‘break’ into your hotel room. No damage. Just a stolen key from that mess of a lobby. Now, I would say I want you for the job because you’re the best. But that would start our relationship on a lie. You know that the CIA and the FBI fight like parakeets, so you aren’t my first choice. I have no idea if you’re the best. Your file says you’re competent in the field, but really, I need you because you’re the only one who can reasonably do the job.”

In my stomach, mild dread mixes with curiosity, forming a sort of frothy cocktail. This always happens right before my handler doles out an assignment. It’s like standing at the open edge of an aircraft, parachute strapped to your back. The ground ripples in a patchwork beneath you, and your breath catches in your throat. “The job is...?”

“See these bags?” Gail responds by way of answer. One of her fingers tugs on the skin below her eyes. It’s bluish and papery. “All this case. This one case. It feels like I’ve been following this family for half of my career. First the grandfather, then the father, and now the son. Johnny. Johnny Jones. Ring any bells?”

It does. Organized crime. A family out of Boston. “Should it?”

Gail sucks her teeth. “Oh boy.”

“Oh boy, what?”

“I was hoping you knew.”

“Knew what?” I ask, irritated.

“You should probably take a deep breath.”

“I am breathing.”

“Yes, but you aren’t breathing deeply .”

Okay, my patience has expired. I’m blunt again. “Just say it.”

To her credit, Gail does begin to spit it out. “The Jones family is harder to crack than the Italian Mafia. They used to be real broad-spectrum criminals. Gambling, auto theft, racketeering, corruption of public officials, you name it. Started by running everything through a chain of coffeehouses. The grandfather? They called him the Coffee King.” She pauses for what seems like dramatic effect. “The last year and a half, though—silence. Everyone thought they’d gone completely underground. Until I started putting the pieces together. Connecting crimes throughout the country, across the Eastern and Western Seaboards and parts of Canada. Heists. The family is running heists now.”

“Jewelry stores?” I ask, all business, pushing her along.

“Jewelry stores, museums, banks, private residences—millions and millions of dollars. You remember the art museum robbery in St. Louis three months ago? The one where two civilians were shot? That’s them. I’ve spent nearly eight years trying to infiltrate their network. I was beginning to think that it couldn’t be done, at least not in my lifetime. And then, last week, Johnny Jones—the son—announced he was engaged.”

A trickle of panic slopes down my back. “Okay...”

“To your sister.”

What she’s said doesn’t make sense at first. Her words don’t sound like words . I think the television has short-circuited, but nope, it’s just my vision. There’s a definite blurriness at the edges. “No,” I say automatically.

Gail lifts her eyebrows like, Well, it’s true.

The tips of my fingers go numb, and memories bubble up like acid: Calla and me in elementary school, with our matching lobster-shaped lunch boxes. Calla sticks the tip of her tongue out at me, then says, “Race you to the swings!” Little sister. Best sister.

“That’s... that’s impossible,” I tell Gail, unable to keep the tremor from my voice. Which is something that never happens to me. “You’re joking.”

“Do I look like the type of person who’d pull a rubber chicken from my pocket?”

“No,” I repeat, less to her and more to myself. I see Calla and me, on vacation with Grandma Ruby in Acadia National Park. Calla and me, collecting dust bunnies from the attic and calling them pets. The two of us, curled under a quilt after Dad left, me whispering that I’d never let anything bad happen to her ever again. A wave of nausea crashes against my ribs. “No, Calla would never —”

“Calla has ,” Gail interrupts. “I’m sorry she didn’t tell you. But the fact remains, your sister is set to marry into one of the most evasive crime families that America has ever produced. And you’re going to gather intel on them.”

My chin dips, leveling Gail with a stare. “Are you asking me to spy on my sister?”

“See, there we go. Just as your file says. You are smart.”

Her condescension is like a push into the ice-cold river, and this... all of this... it’s pulling me under. “No. No, I’m not going to do that. You can’t ask me to do that.”

Gail frowns in a deep line. “Of course I can. I just did.”

“She’s my sister —”

“Who’s marrying a suspected felon,” Gail supplies. “Yes, I’m well aware. And you may believe that Calla’s innocent, completely ignorant of the circumstances—and that’s fine. Let yourself believe that. But here are the facts, Sydney. The last heist the Joneses pulled off, a man in his eighties was shoved so hard to the ground, he cracked his skull in three places. He’s been in a medically induced coma for over a month, might never wake up, and his dog misses him. Should I show you a picture of his dog?”

My stomach gutters. I know what she’s doing. “Stop.”

Gail doesn’t stop. “His name is Puffin. He’s a chocolate Lab, very sad eyes. And another woman in her thirties, she was hit with a stray bullet. Still in the hospital. Could survive it, but there’s a chance her two kids are going to wake up on Christmas morning without a mother.”

A searing ache crawls into my throat. “Gail.”

“There’s a pattern,” Gail plows on. “Every heist is bigger, more dangerous. Each time, casualties increase. Now, we’ve heard two pieces of chatter in the last forty-eight hours. First, that the Joneses’ next heist is on New Year’s Eve. And second, it seems that someone in their organization has purchased fifty pounds of C4 on the black market.”

Fifty pounds ? That’s... enough to blow up a whole series of banks. A whole street. And on New Year’s Eve, with the crowds? “Jesus,” I whisper.

“This is much bigger than your family,” Gail underlines. “With that much C4, thousands of people could get hurt. What’s the target? What are the Joneses’ plans? How can we stop them before they pull off their worst attack yet? Calla’s bringing Johnny home to meet your grandmother for the holidays, so you’ll have an opportunity to find out. Goody, goody, family time! Pack your bags for Maine.”