CHAPTER 14
SLOANE
The University of Nevada, Las Vegas library is an oasis of silence and tranquility. Tall shelves of light wood, individual study desks with green lamps, and that unmistakable aroma of paper, ink, and knowledge. The perfect place to disappear, to be anonymous for a moment.
And to make a call I don't want anyone to overhear.
My bodyguards—Sergei and his perpetually silent partner—are waiting outside the building. Since my escape last week, they’ve learned to give me at least the illusion of privacy. Fifty feet—that's my permitted radius. Like a dog on an invisible leash.
I slip between the stacks of the International Law section, a maze rarely visited at this time of day.
The farthest corner, next to a window covered by heavy green curtains, has become my little clandestine refuge.
A table for one, a seat facing the entrance, and the certainty that no one can get close without me seeing them coming.
I open my laptop and launch the encrypted messaging program Cooper installed. It isn't WhatsApp or Telegram, or any app someone might recognize in passing. It looks more like a study organization system, with innocuous folders and files. Security through banality.
My fingers pause for a second over the keyboard. The metallic taste of anxiety coats my mouth as I type the message:
“I’ve secured access. Underground poker game this Saturday. Need instructions.”
The reply arrives almost instantly, as if Cooper were waiting.
“My office in 30 minutes.”
I close the app and stare at the screen, a Procedural Law essay open to keep up appearances. The knot in my stomach tightens a little more.
Cooper's office is on the third floor of the Social Sciences building, at the end of a hallway that smells like fresh paint and industrial air freshener. The plaque on the door says "Prof. James Cooper - Criminal Law." So normal. So fake.
I knock softly on the wood, twice. A muffled "come in" invites me inside.
Cooper is sitting behind his desk, surrounded by textbooks and cluttered papers. The perfect image of an overworked professor. His wire-rimmed glasses and growing beard complete the disguise.
"Miss Murphy, I'm glad you could make it," he says loudly, playing his role. "Close the door, please."
I obey, feeling the familiar pressure of surveillance. My bodyguards are waiting outside, down the hall, but paranoia clings to me like a second skin these days.
"Sit down," Cooper says, pointing to the chair across from his desk. "Let's go over your latest paper."
I sit while he turns on a small rectangular device on his table. A signal jammer. The almost imperceptible hum tells me we're now in an isolated bubble. No wires, no bugs.
"Did you get access?" His voice changes instantly, losing the academic tone and regaining the hardness of a federal agent.
"Dimitri Morozov is taking me personally to an underground poker game this Saturday," I reply, keeping my voice low out of instinct. "It might be in the lower levels of the casino."
Cooper's eyes light up with a gleam that makes me uncomfortable. Too much enthusiasm.
"Excellent," he says, leaning forward. "How did you manage that?"
I feel an uncomfortable heat creeping up my neck. I'm not going to tell him about the incident in the coffee shop, or the way Dimitri looked at me at the pool.
"He offered to take me," I reply vaguely. "I think he's... intrigued by me."
Cooper arches his brows.
"Intrigued?"
"He suspects me," I clarify quickly. "He caught me snooping near the restricted elevators, and I told him I was looking for underground poker games. He didn't seem to fully believe me, but..." I shrug. "He offered to take me to one."
"Maybe he wants to keep a close eye on you," Cooper murmurs, more to himself than to me. "Or maybe there's something else."
I deliberately ignore the insinuation.
"What exactly do you want me to do?"
Cooper opens a drawer and takes out a standard contact lens case. He slides it across the table toward me.
"State-of-the-art technology," he explains. "Lenses with a built-in camera. Triple blink for activation, same for deactivation. The battery lasts six hours."
I pick up the box with slightly trembling fingers. It's heavier than it looks, loaded with expectations and betrayal.
"We want everything," Cooper continues. "Who attends, what's discussed, the layout of the space, access points, security personnel. Any conversation about shipments, dates, or locations would be especially interesting."
"Shipments of what?" I ask, even though I already know the answer.
"Weapons, mainly," he confirms. "Our sources indicate Morozov has expanded his operation across state lines. That makes it a federal matter."
I nod mechanically, putting the case in my purse. A cold weight settles in my stomach.
"Any specific precautions I should take?"
"Don't drink too much. Keep your eyes open, literally. And don't stray from Dimitri." There's something in his tone when he says the name that irritates me. "Looks like he's your ticket in and out."
An image of Dimitri floods my mind: his intensity when he told me not to leave his side, the genuine concern behind his facade of control. And now I'm going to use him to spy on his family.
"What about Harper?" I ask, guilt seeping into my voice. "Are you still convinced she's being held against her will?"
A shadow crosses Cooper's face.
"Stockholm syndrome can manifest in many ways, Sloane. Especially in pregnant women, where emotional dependency is amplified."
"But she seems genuinely happy," I insist. "Alexei treats her like a queen."
"Appearances can be deceiving." He cuts me off sharply. "We need concrete evidence of his illegal operations. Once we have enough to arrest him, we can get her out of there and help her see reality."
The certainty in his voice irritates me, but I suppress it. I nod again, recognizing the implicit order: don't question, obey.
"Anything else?" I ask, anxious to end the meeting. The air in the office has suddenly become thick, suffocating.
"Be careful," he says, his tone softening slightly. "These men are dangerous, Sloane. Don't forget that, no matter how charming they might seem."
He doesn't specify who he's talking about, but the image of Dimitri comes back to me. His hands on my throat. The heat of his body against mine. His voice whispering, "The most dangerous of them all."
"I'm clear on that," I reply, standing up. "I'm not on vacation."
"Good." Cooper nods, turning off the jammer. "Now, about your Criminal Procedure essay..." His voice returns to the professorial tone as he walks me to the door.
The Nevada sun beats down on me with fury as I step out of the building. My bodyguards walk beside me like faithful shadows, silent and watchful. Sergei murmurs something in Russian into his earpiece.
As we walk toward the black Escalade, I feel the weight of the contact lenses in my purse. A constant reminder of my true purpose here. I’m not here to make friends. I’m not here to get butterflies in my stomach when a certain gray-eyed Russian looks at me. I’m here to do a job.
Don't forget that, no matter how charming they might seem.
The problem is, Dimitri Morozov isn't charming. He's intense, dangerous, dominant, exasperating... and he attracts me in a way I've never experienced before.
I crush that thought with the same determination I'd use to stomp on a bug. I can't afford these distractions. Harper is counting on me. And I have a job to do.
On Saturday, I'll get the information we need. I'll use Dimitri as my ticket in, I'll record everything, and I won't let his eyes, or his hands, or the memory of his breath on my neck distract me.
I'm a professional. Or at least, I'm trying to be.
The voice of my conscience, which sounds suspiciously like my grandmother, whispers, Liar.
And the worst part is, she's right.