“Petrov has Skye.” Which Cross would already know. “The question is, what do we do about it?”

“Figure a way to get her out.”

Edge didn’t bother to reply, since that was going to happen one way or another.

“Petrov is smuggling ephedrine from India into the country,” Cross said, repeating the conversation the DEA had overheard. “We need the name of that ship and the location of the meet.”

“Only one way to get it.”

“You can’t wear a wire. It’s too risky.”

“The DEA is high-tech enough to have a wireless device that won’t be seen. I’ve got a mini recorder about the length of a paperclip and thinner than a dime. Surely you have something.”

“We’ve got the best money can buy. I still don’t like it.”

“I don’t see we have a choice.” But if he got busted wearing the wire, Skye would be the one to suffer. Worry for her slid through him. He refused to call it fear.

Knowing Edge was right, Cross nodded. “I’ll have housekeeping pick up your jacket first thing in the morning. It’ll be one of our guys. We’ll place the mic in the lining and return the coat to your suite.”

“Voice activated?”

“That’s right. With a GPS tracker, so we know where you are at all times. We’ll be following you, but if we get separated, we’ll still be able to find you.”

“What about Skye? I want men posted around the house ready to go in if the bust goes south.”

“Too risky,” Cross said. “If one of our men is spotted, your cover is blown. That happens, Petrov will make Skye disappear.”

It was true. And exactly the reason he had decided to talk to Conn and Trace, men he trusted to get Skye out before the DEA bust went down.

“Don’t worry,” Cross said. “We’ll be in the area, ready to go in as soon as the drugs are secure and Petrov’s men are in custody.”

Not good enough, Edge thought. He’d handle it his way and make sure Skye got out safely.

Cross set his beer bottle down and rose from his chair. “Good luck tomorrow night.” The agent made a deliberately unhurried exit and disappeared into the night.

Edge sipped his beer. He didn’t leave until the bottle was empty. Then he walked to the nearest busy street corner and waved down a taxi. Instead of returning to the hotel, he instructed the cabbie to drive him out to Kingsbridge, the luxury gated community north of Vegas where, according to Zoe’s information, Petrov’s estate was located.

When they arrived, he tipped the cabbie a crisp hundred-dollar bill with the promise of another hundred if he waited twenty minutes. The cabbie snatched the bill out of his hand.

“You got fifteen. I’ll wait twenty, but it’ll cost you another hundred.”