Brutal Boss (Bratva Brothers 1)

I’ve never been deep undercover. I did a week-long stint with the Sanchez Cartel eighteen months ago, but I didn’t come anywhere close to their leader, and that’s nothing compared to the viciousness of the bratva.

After work, I catch a glimpse of Agent Blakely outside. Savannah is keeping a low profile, but the moment I lock eyes with her, she gives me the signal for the second stage of our plan.

While I’ve been working diligently at the medical center as a nurse, the team back at the New York City field office has been digging up information on the bratva and gathering up intelligence to analyze.

I head down the block to grab my car, destined to break down on my way home. The vehicle will overheat, and the engine will die a few blocks from the bratva’s compound if I’m lucky.

They had to pick the crappiest, coldest, and rainiest day in existence.

Some days, my job sucks.

I pull out of the parking garage and head down the block. Traffic is heavy, which isn’t uncommon for New York. If I weren’t undercover, I’d ordinarily take the subway to the FBI field office from my house.

But as Madisyn Taylor, I drive to work daily in a used car that the agency purchased. Surprisingly, the vehicle still has four wheels attached, but it’s well over two hundred thousand miles, and the outer body is an eyesore with its rust and paint discoloration.

Are nurses at the concierge center not paid well? It looks like I’m living paycheck to paycheck.

Is that the impression they want Mikhail to have? That I’m destitute and for him to take pity on me.

I have memorized the directions to the bratva compound, and the rental property that I’m staying in is located a few miles past the location.

Rain pelts the windshield, and I pop on the wipers, struggling to see through the onset of weather. I’m not looking forward to what comes next.

I’m a bundle of anxious energy, which I have to contain if I want this to go without a hitch. I’ve trained for this moment, going undercover, being able to rattle off a lie without being caught.

Heading down the road and away from the city’s dense traffic, my check engine light pops on. I hit the gas a little harder, hoping that I’ll be able to make it to my destination before the deluge outside drowns me.

The engine sputters, and the oil light pops on next. The FBI really wanted to make sure my car broke down. The engine produces a horrible clicking sound and dies just as I pull up within walking distance of the compound’s fence.

I’d have preferred to be a bit closer. There are other nearby houses, but they’re not the intended target.

I step out of the vehicle into the storm. It takes seconds for me to become soaked. I’m dripping wet, shivering, and my clothes are clinging to my skin.

I hustle toward the guard gate.

“Excuse me,” I say. My teeth are chattering, and I’m not sure they can even understand the words coming from my mouth.

The guard pushes the window in his booth aside, sliding it to answer me. He’s out of the rain, dry as a bone. “This is private property,” he says. His voice is gruff, and he’s got a thick Russian accent.

“My car broke down,” I say and point at the vehicle a few yards away. I’m not sure if he can see it or not from his position inside of the booth, but he doesn’t look the least bit concerned about helping me.

“Try your cell phone.”

“It’s dead.” I pull my phone from my pocket. It’s an older cell phone that the agency provided me with, a previous model that doesn’t appear to give the same resemblance as a burner phone. The last thing I want is to draw more suspicion toward me.

If the battery hadn’t been entirely drained earlier, then the deluge indeed killed my phone. I show it to the guard on duty.

He grumbles and picks up the landline phone. “I’ll call a tow truck for you,” he grunts.

As I stand out in the cold, shivering, soaking wet, with the rain continuing to pour, a black SUV with tinted windows pulls up to the gate.

The driver’s window rolls down, and I recognize the man from earlier at the hospital, the bodyguard. Mikhail Barinov is seated in the front passenger seat.

The bodyguard doesn’t say a word. He doesn’t have to. My presence is enough to warrant an explanation.

“The girl says her car broke down,” the gentleman in the booth answers. He opens the gate for their vehicle.

Thunder bellows out overhead.

Mikhail steps out into the deluge with an umbrella and hurries around to the passenger side to open the door for me. He slips out of his black wool coat, which is mostly dry, and drapes it over my shoulders. It’s a warm and welcome relief from the cold clothes that cling to my skin.

“Come inside, dry off, and we’ll get you on your way,” he says and opens the back door.

I am shivering and trembling from the frigid weather. The coat keeps me from making a mess of the leather interior with my wet clothes. “Thanks,” I say, and Mikhail shuts the door before stepping around to the passenger side.

The engine purrs as the driver hits the gas and guides the SUV forward past the open gates.

Shivering, I shove my arms into the warm coat and my hands into the pockets to get warm. My fingers graze over a small metallic rectangular object, a flash drive.