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Polina Golubeva was a stunningly beautiful woman, and she knew it. Men watched as she walked in front of the base gates, her long brown hair swinging down her back. Her dress hugged her curves, the long, muscled legs elegantly striding toward her objective.
It was cold. Too fucking cold to be in a dress like the one she was in. If she thought the soldiers at the base were too stupid to figure that out, she was wrong.
Stepping inside the small restaurant, she took a seat in a corner booth, waiting patiently. Four times, she texted her father with no response. Five times, she texted Garvin with no response. Something was wrong.
“Are you sure I can’t get you anything other than coffee, hun?” asked the waitress.
“I am sure,” she said. Staring up at the television, she saw the headline. “Can you turn that up?” The woman nodded, clicking the button for the volume of the television.
“George, this is a disturbing story that has the White House and everyone in Washington on edge. Early this morning, the body of Admiral Jonathon Garvin was found in the marshy swamplands of the Chesapeake area. Just a few feet away was his wife. If that wasn’t disturbing enough, investigators went to their homes to check for any signs of foul play.
“Their main residence was untouched. However, a condominium they owned was the scene of a three-alarm fire. When fire investigators searched the home, they found a third body. That of Anton Golubev, Admiral of the Russian Fleet.
“Homeland, FBI, and military investigators are denying any knowledge of Golubev being on U.S. soil or any contact with Admiral Garvin. This is a puzzle, George. One that won’t be solved soon.”
“No,” she whispered to herself. “No, this can’t be true.”
Throwing a twenty-dollar bill on the table, she walked out of the restaurant and back across the front gates of Fort Lewis. Two blocks down, she found her rental car and headed back into Seattle to the small house she’d rented.
For months now, she’d been flying back and forth between Alaska; Seattle; Washington, D.C.; and Moscow. They were on the verge of scoring the biggest deal of their lives. What the hell was happening?
First, the U.S. submarine reported back to port. Then, two Russian Navy vessels disappeared, and now, her father and Garvin were found dead. Oh, and his wife. She could care less about her. She’d been a problem from the beginning.
She parked the car in front of the house and walked up the sidewalk to the door, letting herself in. Once inside, she secured the locks and kicked off her high heels. Grabbing a glass, she poured some ice into it and then a healthy pour of vodka.
Sitting on the sofa, she laid her head back against the cushion, taking in a deep breath. When her phone rang, she prayed that it would be her father. Maybe this was all a sick joke.
“What happened?” said the man’s voice. Wolford.
“I don’t know,” she said calmly. “I just saw it on the news. Father was supposed to meet with me today. When he didn’t show, I began calling him and Garvin. That’s when I saw it on the news.”
“I could give a fuck about your father or Garvin. What happened with the submarine?”
“I don’t know,” she ground out.
“You have twenty-four hours, Polina. Find out how I get that submarine, or you’ll be joining your father and Garvin.”
“Did you kill him?” she asked, sitting on the edge of the seat.
“I wish I had, but no. I didn’t kill them. It wasn’t time yet,” he laughed.
The line went dead, and she tossed the phone on the seat beside her. Standing, she moved to the bedroom and began packing her things. She stripped the dress off and put on warm leggings and a sweater, then pulled her tall boots on.
Tossing the bag to the floor, she wheeled it into the living room and froze.
“Hello, Polina. We have some things to discuss.”
“How did you get in here?” she said in a heavy breath.
“We’ve been in here for an hour, waiting on you,” said Abe. “Interesting conversation you had with Wolford. He doesn’t sound like he’s willing to give you any time to try and find the Michigan.”
“Who are you?”
“Me? Or we?” he asked, turning on the light to reveal a dozen men staring at her.
Polina made the wrong decision. She tried to kick out at Gator, and he gripped her ankle, twisting her leg in mid-air. She fell face down, then stood once again. Trying to kick out again, he gripped her leg one more time, thrusting his fist, knuckles first, into her inner thigh.
“Don’t make me break your leg. You’ll never dance again.”
