Undercover Connection

She jackknifed her body, letting him use his own weight against himself, causing him to crash into the floor.

He was obviously surprised. It took him a second—but only a second—to spin himself. He was back on his feet in a hunched position, ready to spring at her.

Where the hell is Jorge?

She feinted as if she would dive down to the left and dived to the right instead. She caught the man with a hard chop to the abdomen that should have stolen his breath.

He didn’t give. She was suddenly tackled again, down on the ground, feeling the full power of the man’s strength atop her. She stared up into his blue eyes, glistening like ice at the moment.

She realized the crowd was gone; she could hear the bustle at the doorway, hear the police as they poured in at the entrance.

But right there, at that moment, Josef Smirnoff lay dead in an ungodly pool of blood—blood she wore—just feet away.

And there was this man.

And herself.

“Hey!” Thank God, Jorge had found her. He dived down beside them, as if joining the fight. But he didn’t help Jasmine; he made no move against the man. He lay next to her, as if he’d just also been taken down himself.

“Stop! FBI, meet MDPD. Jasmine, he’s undercover. Jacob... Jasmine is a cop. My partner,” Jorge whispered urgently.

The man couldn’t have looked more surprised. Then, he made a play of socking Jorge, and Jorge lay still. The man stood and dragged Jasmine to her feet. For a long moment he looked into her eyes, and then he wrenched her elbow behind her back.

“Play it out,” he said, “nothing else to do.”

“Sure,” Jasmine told him.

And as he led her out—toward Victor Kozak, who now stood in the front, ready to take charge, Jasmine managed to twist and deliver a hard right to his jaw.

He stared at her, rubbing his jaw with his free hand.

“Play it out,” she said softly.

The Feds always thought they knew more than the locals, whether they were team people or not. He’d probably be furious. He’d want to call the shots.

But at least his presence meant that the Feds had been aware of this place. They had listened to the police, and they had sent someone in. It was probably what Jorge had been trying to tell her.

Jacob was still staring at her. Well, she did have a damned good right hook.

To her surprise, he almost seemed to smile. “Play it out,” he said. And to her continued surprise, he added, “You are one hell of a player!”

Chapter Two (#u572d0887-8df4-5438-af8f-26ac52ec6294)

“Someone knew,” Jorge said. “Someone knew that Smirnoff came in—that he was selling them all out.”

“Maybe,” Jacob Wolff said. He was sitting on the sofa in Jasmine’s South Beach apartment.

She didn’t know why, but it bothered her that he was there. So comfortable. So thoughtful. But it hadn’t been until now, with him in her apartment, that she really understood what was going on.

Two weeks ago, Josef Smirnoff had made contact with Dean Jenkins, a special agent assigned to the Miami office. Jenkins had gone to his superiors, and from there, Jacob Wolff had been called in. Among his other talents, he was a linguist, speaking Russian, Ukrainian, Spanish, Portuguese and French, including Cajun and Haitian Creole. He also knew a smattering of Czech and Polish. And German, enough to get by.

Maybe that’s why she was resenting him. No one should be that accomplished.

No, it was simply because he had taken her by surprise.

“Maybe someone knew,” Wolff said. He added, “And maybe not.”

“If not, why—?” Jorge asked.

Wolff leaned forward. “Because,” he said softly, “I believe that Kozak set up that hit. Not because he knew about anything that Smirnoff had done, but because he’s been planning on taking over. Perhaps for some time.

“Smirnoff came in to us because he was afraid—he’d been the boss forever, but he knew how that could end if a power play went down. He was afraid. He wanted out. Kozak was the one who wanted Smirnoff out. And he figured out how to do it—and make it look as if he was as pure as the driven snow in the whole thing himself. He was visible to dozens of people when Smirnoff was killed. He played his cards right. There were plenty of cops there today, in uniform. What better time to plan an execution, when he wouldn’t look the least guilty? In this crime ring, he was definitely the next man up—vice president, if you will.”

“The thing is, if Kozak figures out something is up, we’re all in grave danger,” Jorge pointed out. “Undercover may not work.”

“Jorge, undercover work is the only thing that might bring them down,” Jasmine protested.

She was leaning against the archway between the living-dining area of the apartment and the kitchen. It was late; she was tired. But it had been the first chance for the three of them to talk.

After the chaos, everyone had been interviewed by the police. Stars—the glittering rich and famous and especially the almost-famous—had done endless interviews with the press, as well. Thankfully, there had been plenty of celebrities to garner attention. Jasmine, Jorge and Jacob Wolff had all managed to avoid being seen on television, but still, maintaining their cover had meant they were there for hours.

She’d been desperate to shower, and her blood-soaked gown had gone to the evidence locker.

In the end, they’d been seen leaving together, but that had been all right. Everyone knew that Jorge was Jasmine’s friend—she’d brought him into the show, after all.

And as for Jacob Wolff...

“You shouldn’t have made that show of going off with us in front of Victor Kozak,” she said, glaring at Wolff. She realized her tone was harsh. Too harsh. But this was her apartment—or, at least, her cover persona’s apartment—and she felt like a cat on a hot tin roof while he relaxed comfortably on her rented couch.

She needed to take a deep breath; start over with the agent.

He didn’t look her way, just shrugged. “I told Ivan, the bartender, I wanted to get to know you. They believe I’m an important player out of New York. Right now, they’re observing me. And they believe if they respect me, I’ll respect them, play by their rules. I’m supposed to be a money launderer—I’m not into many of their criminal activities, including prostitution or any form of modern slavery. My cover is that of an art dealer with dozens of foreign ties.

“Before all this went down tonight, I was trying to befriend Ivan, who apparently manages the girls. I’m trying to figure out how the women are entangled in their web. Apparently, they move slowly. Most probably, with drugs. Before all this went down tonight, I’d asked about you, Jasmine, as if taking advantage of the ‘friendship’ they’ll offer me. He said you weren’t available yet, but that all good things come in time, or something to that effect. He’ll think I took advantage of the situation instead—and that I’m offering you all the comfort a man in my position can offer.”

“Really?” Jasmine asked. “But I was with Jorge.”

Wolff finally looked at her, waving a hand in the air. “Yes, and they all know you two are friends, and that it’s normal you would have left with Jorge. But Jorge is gay.”

“That’s what you told them?” Jasmine asked.

“I am gay,” Jorge said, shrugging.

Jasmine turned to him. “You are? You never told me.”

“You never asked. Hey, we’re great partners. I never asked who you were dating. Oh, wait, you never do seem to date.”

Jasmine could have kicked him. “Hey!” she protested. Great. She felt like an idiot. She and Jorge were close, but...it was true. They’d been working together for a while, they were friends. Just friends. And because of that, she hadn’t thought to ask—