The knob turned, the door swung open, and Petrov stood in the opening. The sight of him in a burgundy brocade dressing gown sent a slice of dread into her stomach.

“It’s late for a social call,” she said, refusing to show him any sign of fear. Petrov controlled everything and everyone in the house. If he was there to rape her, no one would stop him. No one but her.

“I wanted to be sure you had everything you needed,” Petrov said. His black gaze slid over her like cold grease, returned to settle on her breasts.

Skye managed not to flinch. “I’m fine. I appreciate your concern, but it’s late, and I’m tired.”

He reached out and trailed a finger down her cheek. “You are alone tonight. Perhaps you desire a man to keep you company.”

She thought of the gun she could reach through the pocket of her jumpsuit and found some comfort in that. “I don’t think your friend Sasha would approve.”

He shrugged his thick shoulders. “What I do is none of her business.”

Skye smiled blandly. “I appreciate the offer, but not tonight.” Or any other night, she thought.

“If our association works out, perhaps there will be another occasion.”

Skye said nothing. She could feel every beat of her heart. “Good night,” she said, and held her breath until Petrov walked away.

Closing the door behind him, she turned the lock and leaned against the smooth, white-painted wood. As she thought about what could have happened, her insides swirled with nausea.

What still might happen.

What did Petrov have in store for her tomorrow?

Worse yet, if the plan went wrong, what would she be facing tomorrow night?

* * *

The meeting place, the Cannery, was an unimpressive blue-collar joint crowded with locals. The ages varied, as to be expected in a spot that vets frequented. Their service to their country was their bond; the branch of the military or the war they’d fought in didn’t matter. A few wives and girlfriends sat with their significant others at small round, Formica-topped tables scattered around the room.

Agent Cross was already there. Edge spotted him at a table in the back, away from the noise of the shuffleboard. Grateful for the dim lighting, Edge skirted the room and joined him.

“Looks like we’ve got a problem,” Cross said. He was out of uniform tonight, wearing dark blue jeans and a navy blue T-shirt instead of a suit. He was trying to blend in, but with his creased jeans, short brown hair, and buffed nails, he still looked like a fed. With any luck, neither of them had been followed.

A bottle of beer sat in front of Cross, another in front of the empty chair on the opposite side of the table. Edge sat down, picked up the bottle, and took a long swallow. He set the beer back down on the table.