Cold Heat (PAPERBACK)

Prologue

Ten Years Earlier

Jordan Krychek shoved his chapped hands deep into the pockets of his battered leather jacket and blew out a cloud of frost. Jesus Christ, Chicago was cold in the winter.
He’d forgotten.
The past few years in Texas and other desert regions had made him soft. First chance he got, he was headed somewhere the winter wind didn’t flay flesh off the bone.
With a nod, Krychek ducked behind the bouncer, out of the frigid temps, and into the Bare Naked Ladies strip joint in West Town, not far from where he’d grown up. Jordan ran a hand through hair that he’d let grow since leaving the Army a year ago, then sent a wink to Ana who hung upside-down on the main stage pole, doing the splits, while wearing only a G-string and glittery silver pasties.
Impressive.
Ana credited her athletic ability to her mom dragging her to gymnastics lessons for years when she’d been a kid. It had certainly paid off, judging from the hundred-dollar bills tucked into the strings on her hips and her strength and flexibility, which she’d demonstrated to him up-close and personal on one memorable occasion.
He didn’t make a habit out of “touching the merchandise,” as Konrad Bocharov liked to call the women who worked for him. Jordan had been ordered to drive her and a bunch of other women home after a Christmas party. Last to be dropped off, Ana had insisted on bringing him inside to give him a “tip.” He’d told her there was no need, but it had gotten to an awkward point where refusing made him look weird. He didn’t have a girlfriend or a wife. He’d worried it had been a test, to make sure he wasn’t a homosexual—as if a gay man had never fucked a woman for show.
Being gay was probably worse than being an undercover FBI agent as far as the Russian mafia was concerned. Their overbearing version of masculinity simply couldn’t handle it. A man in Jordan’s perilous position couldn’t afford even the whisper of suspicion, so he and Ana had shared some hopefully fun, mindless sex—the one and only time he’d been lucky enough to have sex since he graduated from the academy at Quantico—and they’d never spoken of it since.
She blew him a kiss as he walked through the crowd, and his cheeks bloomed. What that woman could do with her mouth.
Konrad was in his usual booth at the back. Normally, the illegal arms dealer was surrounded by a plethora of goons. Tonight, only Micky and Dmitri stood nearby, watching Jordan in their usual distrustful fashion. He’d gone to school with Micky, less than five blocks from here in a place where half the kids spoke Ukrainian and the other half spoke Russian—all with thick Chicago accents.
Micky’s nose was out of joint because Konrad liked Jordan better than he liked Micky, even though Micky was the one who’d introduced them and brought Jordan into Konrad’s fold. Micky had expected to be bossing Jordan around, but the pecking order hadn’t worked out quite the way Micky had hoped.
Os’ také zhyt-tya.
Such is life, motherfucker.
Jordan grinned at the guy and watched Micky’s eyes narrow into thin slits of hate as he stared back.
“Ah. Here’s my favorite soldier,” Bocharov boomed loudly, banging his fist on the table.
Bocharov got a kick out of the fact Jordan was former Army. Jordan had enlisted to get his degree, but he’d loved the structure, the discipline of military life. Despite that, he’d always known what he really wanted to be—a Special Agent, a G-man, oozing Fidelity, Bravery, and Integrity out of every pore.
He’d needed the bachelor’s degree to apply. And, now, here he was, a fully fledged Special Agent, working undercover for one of the most evil men in America, operating in his old backyard, less than a mile from where he’d grown up and where his family still lived.
Bocharov’s lips curved, no humor in his shark-like blue eyes as he poured two small glasses of Stolichnaya.
“Drink.”
Jordan picked up one of the shots. “Budmo!” He spoke the Ukrainian toast, and they clinked glasses before swallowing the drink in one throat-searing gulp.
His eyes watered.
He fucking hated vodka.
Which was probably worse than being gay in the Russians’ eyes, so he drank it with gusto and held out his glass for another.
Konrad poured two more shots, and Jordan wondered if this was going to be one of those nights where he staggered home in the small hours, barely able to walk. Getting a hangover was the last thing he wanted when the Chicago Police Department and FBI were about to close the noose around this fat bastard’s neck and lock up his ass for about a thousand years.
Although, getting Konrad hammered might make the arrests go more smoothly.
Jordan could not fuck this up. Too much depended on not letting anyone in this organization suspect something was about to go down and making sure no one fell through the cracks.
“Are we celebrating?”
“Da.” Konrad wiped a meaty fist over wet lips. “I made a sale today.” He leaned closer. “A big sale. I need you to make the delivery.”
Jordan’s pulse skipped up a couple of notches. He hadn’t anticipated that. “Where to?”
He’d been working for Bocharov for six months—seven months for the Bureau. He’d been recruited for this mission before he’d even graduated the academy. Officially, he still had First Office Agent status, but in reality, he’d never even set foot inside the FBI’s Chicago Field Office. He was more intimate with this strip bar than his own apartment two blocks away. He’d lived and breathed Bocharov’s world since moving back to the city.
Getting anyone inside Bocharov’s organization had proven impossible in the past.
Bocharov swept for bugs more often than the Russian Embassy. He did not trust strangers. Barely trusted his own goons. Micky had gotten Jordan a job as a bouncer. After breaking up a fight—staged in a way Russian psyops would have been proud of—Bocharov had brought him on as a driver and then as a delivery man. They’d shared a few drunken nights as Bocharov appeared to have taken a shine to him. Krychek wasn’t sure whether to be flattered or insulted.
He refused to wear a wire or a hidden camera as there was no telling when he might be searched. Micky took particular joy in frisking him at random moments.
But Jordan’s cell phone recorded everything even when it appeared to be turned off.
Bocharov knew the FBI were watching him—the FBI and Russia’s Foreign Intelligence Service, the SVR. He was always careful to speak in code and never have the goods on his property. He rented a warehouse under a shell company and seemed naïve or arrogant enough to believe no one else knew about it. The FBI had it under surveillance, also his apartment, his mistress’s apartment, and this strip joint—as much as was possible anyhow. In this tight-knit community, strangers stood out as vividly as a streaker running through the Nave during Mass.
The most damning information had come from key loggers Jordan had planted, accessing Bocharov’s computers, cloning his cell phones. The information attained had enabled CPD and the FBI to connect the dots of this world-wide illegal arms trade and build a rock-solid case with RICO implications.
It had worked on the mob. About time it worked on the Russian Mafia too.
“Arlington Heights.” Bocharov shoved a piece of paper with an address written on it across the sticky varnished wood.
Jordan checked his watch. “What time?”
“Ten sharp. Buyer will be driving a green Ford pickup. Don’t be late.” He placed a set of car keys in front of Jordan.
Jordan memorized the address and then put the paper in his pocket. The more evidence the better. It was a forty-five-minute drive. Plenty of time. “Whadda you sell ’em?”
He held his breath, hoping against hope the man would incriminate himself.
“Bagels.” The grin was malicious. “Lots of bagels. All you need to do is drive up there. Unload the bagels and get my money. Vehicle is out back. They don’t get the merchandise without payment upfront. Forty.” Bocharov leaned closer, and Jordan smelled sour onion on his breath. “And don’t get stopped by the motherfucking pigs. If you do, ice the fuckers, da?”
Bocharov held his gaze menacingly. Jordan nodded. It was the first time the Russian had ever told him to outright kill anyone.
The fact that it was a cop…
Coincidence?
Had to be.
If Bocharov had the slightest notion Jordan was FBI, he’d have bundled him out back and put a bullet in his skull. He certainly wouldn’t be hanging around waiting to be arrested.
“You know where to drop the money afterwards.”
“Sure thing, boss. Shouldn’t take more than a couple of hours. Need me for anything else later?”
He needed to meet with his handler, Special Agent Jenna Stork and an old buddy from his school days, Detective Tobias Granger, to go over the finer details of tomorrow’s takedown. They couldn’t afford to tip anyone off, so they usually met in a grocery store miles away from either of their usual stomping grounds.
“Not tonight.” Bocharov wet his pudgy lips. “Just don’t be late.”
Ana walked past them having finished her set. Bocharov grabbed her by the wrist and jerked her onto his lap. Licked his fleshy tongue up the side of Ana’s sparkly cheek. He held Jordan’s gaze as he did it. “How did you like the Christmas present I gave you?”
Jordan kept his gaze steady on Bocharov’s eyes and ignored the tension in Ana’s thin body. “What’s not to like, boss?”
“You want more of this?” Bocharov’s hand slipped down Ana’s naked body.
Was Konrad pissed because he’d discovered Jordan and Ana had had sex?
Or was this some test of Jordan’s manhood or loyalty in order to climb the rungs in the Bocharov organization? Bocharov had done similar things in the past. Including making him play a round of Russian Roulette, while blindfolded, with an old Colt .45 that was supposed to have belonged to Clyde Barrow. Jordan knew enough about weaponry to believe the gun was unloaded but pulling that trigger had almost made him piss his pants. Another guy had chickened out—Jordan had never seen that guy again, and the Feds had put him on a missing person database.
Bocharov was a master of manipulation and torture.
Jordan wasn’t about to fail now.
“Up to you, boss. More is great.” If Ana wanted more. “Less is fine.” None is better.
Ana’s cheeks paled as Bocharov’s hand went under the table. Her eyes met Jordan’s and for a moment he saw a flicker of panicked fear before she blinked it away and shifted positions, twisting so she straddled Bocharov’s lap. She gyrated over the gangster. “Is this what you want, baby?”
Jordan swallowed. He’d seen her fear, and yet he could do nothing about it that wouldn’t either get them both killed or jeopardize the case. Plus, witnesses would say she was into it. Hell, Ana would swear an oath on a Bible in a court of law to say she was into it too.
No one went up against the bratva, not in this part of town. Not if you wanted to live. And Jordan had family nearby. Family CPD were moving to a secure location in the early morning, just before they started rolling up Bocharov’s entire organization.
Konrad bent his head to one side but didn’t stop the woman giving him a very thorough lap dance.
Jordan stood before the Russian forced Ana to do anything else.
Konrad had a mistress and always said he didn’t like to share. The man disappeared sometimes for days at a time, and there was a rumor of a wife and child secreted away somewhere, but no one knew for sure, and even after months of looking, the FBI had never tracked them down.
So why was Konrad looking as if he were about to have sex with Ana in this very public space? Was he simply demonstrating his power and superiority in case Jordan was getting cocky and thinking about maybe skimming the profits or cutting Bocharov out all together? Or was the bastard simply jealous and horny, and Ana was handy?
She was a beautiful woman.
Jordan suppressed his anger and the desire to arrest the motherfucker.
They didn’t want Bocharov for “penny-ante shit”—as if assaulting women wasn’t a felony—but, as the guy was selling black-market weapons to criminals and suspected terrorists, the DA wanted to make sure that when he went down, he stayed down.
“Call me when you get there.” Bocharov twisted around to watch Jordan walk out. Ana’s gaze met Jordan’s as she kissed Bocharov and silently told him to get the hell out of there.
He was making it worse.
He turned away and walked down the narrow corridor, past old movie posters of old Hitchcock classics, past the changing rooms the strippers used, past Bocharov’s office, the rudimentary kitchen. Jordan hated leaving her. He was an FBI Special Agent, and the FBI was supposed to help people, not turn away.
But as much as he wanted the law to make sense, it didn’t always. Tomorrow, he’d make sure Ana, and the other women, were treated as victims, not accomplices.
The back of Jordan’s scalp prickled as Micky and Dmitri followed him out and watched him with expressions that told him nothing.
Shit.
Was he about to get a bullet in the back of the head?
He climbed into a red mustang he’d never seen before—probably boosted—and slid the keys into the ignition, wondering if this was going to be his last act. According to their intel, Bocharov had a penchant for car bombs. But the car didn’t explode, and Jordan crawled down the poorly lit back alley and out onto the street.
He headed north toward I-90 and O’Hare, the roads glistening with a fresh fall of snow that melted the moment it touched the asphalt. He probably wouldn’t take the toll road if he was really selling arms for the Russian Mafia, but he wanted this delivery done quick, so he could meet up with Stork and Granger, and figure out what his part, if any, should be in tomorrow’s arrests.
He inserted a special FBI designed wireless earbud into one ear and called Stork’s cell via a proxy number that FBI had backstopped in case the Russians were listening in.
He had no idea if this car was bugged or not, but he had to assume it was.
“Hey, babe.”
“Where are you?” she sounded agitated.
“Have to do a little errand for my boss, but I was hoping to meet up later. Maybe I could come over to your place, you know. Have a little drink?”
“Everything okay?”
He’d left a woman being assaulted by a vicious gangster, and he was on his way to drop off $40K-worth of guns with God knew who. If Jordan failed to deliver, he’d either be dead by morning, or he’d have blown a seven-month-long undercover operation to smithereens.
“Come on, babe. Don’t be pissy and weird.”
Stork was smart enough to read his simple code.
“We’ve been watching him all day. No reason to believe he knows anything. He hasn’t been anywhere or met anyone unusual. Chicago PD have people watching the front of the club from a nearby apartment and another unmarked unit on the girlfriend’s apartment. That’s all the manpower the police commissioner would spare tonight, but”—he heard the frown in her voice—“we assumed you’d be with him all evening. Takedown is planned for five a.m. tomorrow morning.” Considering Bocharov’s crew rarely went to bed before 3 a.m., that should catch everyone asleep. “We’ll have units on all of them and at the bakery by then. You didn’t warn them, did you?”
She meant his family.
“Of course not.” Months ago, he had told his family that they needed to be ready for any eventuality and to put together go-bags, which they should keep in the storage closet by the back door. They knew what he was doing was dangerous, but they were willing to do anything that helped keep him safe. They’d faked an estrangement, but Jordan had figured out a way to sneak into his childhood home without anyone else knowing. His grandparents, mother, and sister were the only people in the city who knew he was an FBI undercover agent, except for Special Agent Stork and a couple of CPD detectives and the brass.
When he’d agreed to this operation, it had been on the condition that the safety of his family, and their home and business, would be everyone’s top priority.
“I have you on the tracker. Might wanna slow down there a little, Krychek.”
“Slow down?”
“I’d hate to have to bring Highway Patrol into the fold at this late stage in the game.”
He checked the speedometer and saw he was going more than a hundred mph. Even though he wanted to press his foot harder to the accelerator and get this over with, he forced himself to ease off the gas. He’d have time to scope out the place before the arranged time anyway.
“Baby, I’ve been told I’m a fast mover in the past and never had any complaints.” He was trying to get her to laugh, but she was a serious woman, wound up and tense.
“Get as much info on these buyers as you can. I’ll see if the SAC will spare some manpower to pick them up in the morning. Last thing we need is more illegal arms on the streets.”
They’d amassed quite the list of bad guys over the months, and Jordan hoped every one of the fuckers shat themselves when they heard Bocharov had been snatched up in an undercover op. Let them sweat. Let them scatter. Bocharov certainly wouldn’t show any loyalty to them.
“Okay. Can I see you tonight anyway, just to talk? Pretty please?”
Stork gave him an address of a late-night diner in Englewood. “Ding me if you have any problems.”
“Can’t wait.” Jordan wouldn’t have minded backup on this, but the time crunch meant he couldn’t wait. He deepened his voice. “Hey, so, what are you wearing?”
He grinned as she hung up on him.
Thirty minutes later he turned south onto North Arlington Heights Road and then west on East Higgins Road. He checked the map and realized it was a nature reserve. Quiet. Remote.
He didn’t like it.
Not even a little bit.
He pulled to a stop in the shadows of the parking lot and got out. Looked around but there was no one here. It was 9:55 p.m.
The cold wind whistled through the trees and made his ears sting.
He walked to the trunk and opened it, checked the large duffel bag full of automatic weapons and stolen munitions. Didn’t look like 40-thousand dollars’ worth but hopefully the buyer would disagree.
He closed the trunk. Walked the perimeter of the parking lot. Took a piss. Checked his watch again as a creeping sensation that something was wrong started to hit him.
He was about to call Stork when he realized there was no cell service.
Fuck.
He didn’t like this.
Not at all.
He bounced on the balls of his feet to try to restore circulation. It wasn’t uncommon for people in these situations to turn up late. Buyers often suspected a trap and wanted to get the lay of the land before they moved in. The last thing an illegal arms dealer liked to do was dick around in some parking lot waiting for a skittish buyer. They didn’t want the shit? Plenty of others would. Hanging around invited trouble from the cops, and no bad guy wanted that.
But if Jordan left, he risked Bocharov getting pissed with him, or worse, with the buyer. Leaving too soon risked Bocharov starting a war with whoever failed to show up, and that might disrupt Bocharov’s usual routine and put tomorrow’s arrest timetable in jeopardy.
By 10:35 p.m., Jordan couldn’t wait any longer. The buyer was showing discourtesy to Bocharov that no self-respecting bratva would stand for. Jordan drove out the front entrance and took a left back toward town.
He tried to call Stork but still no signal. Finally, he hit the tollway, and his phone lit up like it was his birthday. He answered her call, “Hey.”
“Are you okay?”
His heart sped up a little at her urgent tone. “Sure. Why?”
“Bocharov is in the wind.”
“What do you mean?”
“He’s onto us.”
“Not possible.”
“The team across the street from the club was found dead. The cops in the unmarked unit. Shot. Point-blank range. Mistress is alone. He’s gone. Warehouse is on fire.”
Jordan shook his head as if trying to clear his ears. “That doesn’t make any sense.”
“He knew, Krychek. The son of a bitch knew.”
“Then why am I still alive?” he yelled.
Perhaps Bocharov was planning to blow up this car with some radio signal, a phone taped to some C4 under the gas tank. Perhaps in saying those words he’d just signed his own death warrant.
“I think he knew before he sent you out of the city.” Stork’s voice trembled.
Trepidation pounded his consciousness. “Why would he send me out of the city? Why not put a bullet in me?”
But he knew why. He knew.
“He wanted you out of the way.” A sob tore out of her throat. This experienced FBI agent was crying.
“No.” Jordan punched it. He hung up so he could concentrate on the drive. Concentrated on the leather steering wheel beneath his fingers and the slick conditions under the tires. He didn’t allow himself to think of anything until an eternity later when he pulled up on North Oakley Boulevard.
Flames poured out of the windows of the three-story building. He pushed past patrol officers who held back crowds of onlookers. Four firetrucks were fighting the blaze, but it wasn’t enough. The building was gone.
It didn’t mean his family were gone.
He clung to hope.
They were smart and always took precautions.
He looked around. Where the hell were they?
“Krychek!” Stork grabbed his arm.
“Where are they?” He pulled away from her.
Detective Tobias Granger, his childhood friend, whose idea this whole operation had been, approached him with tears streaking the black soot on his face.
“They’re gone, Jordan.” Tobias tried to grab him, but Jordan stepped back.
“What do you mean, ‘they’re gone’?” He stared at the building and then started heading that way, past firefighters wielding heavy hoses.
“You can’t go in there!” Stork was screaming at him, but what the fuck did she know?
He put his head down and tried to shield his face with his arm as he approached the inferno of his childhood home. Black smoke billowed toward him in choking waves.
Someone grabbed his arm, and he decked them. Another person clamped him around the waist and lifted him clean off his feet. Jordan struggled as three firefighters pinned him down to the ground.
“Let me go! Let me go!” he screamed. “My family is in there!”
“It’s too active. We can’t get inside until we can get the flames under control,” one of the firefighters told him. “I’m sorry, but it’s too dangerous.”
“You can’t save them, Jordan.” Granger sobbed. “It’s too late. I’m so sorry.”
The firefighters let him go and Jordan lurched to his feet. He took another run, but Granger tackled him to the ground. Cuffed his hands behind his back.
“For your own good.”
Jordan headbutted the guy.
“Stop it. Stop it!” Stork screamed, dragging him to a stop. He tried to shake her off again, but she didn’t let go. “They’re dead, Jordan. They’re already dead!”
He stared at the flames and knew in his heart nothing could survive that inferno. As much as he wanted to be with them, first he wanted to find the man responsible and make that evil sonofabitch pay.
“What happened at the meet?” Stork demanded, pulling him out of his dark fantasies of blood and death.
“Nothing happened at the meet. Nothing fucking happened. It was a distraction to get me out of the city so he could do this under your fucking noses. You were supposed to protect them.” He yelled so loudly his throat hurt. “You promised me they’d be safe.”
Stork wouldn’t meet his gaze.
Granger closed his eyes. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”
“Sorry isn’t good enough. It will never be good enough.” He turned to Stork. “You need to shut down all the airports and train stations. Issue an International Red Notice for this motherfucker.”
“It’s been done, but he’s in the wind.”
“You try his jet?”
“Of course! We searched and confiscated his jet,” she snapped. “We’re not amateurs, Special Agent Krychek.”
His snarled. “You could have fooled me.”
Glass shattered, and firefighters battled to contain the blaze so it didn’t spread, but it had already reduced everything he gave a damn about to ash. Jordan closed his eyes as the realization hit him. His beloved family were gone, and it was his fault. All his fault. The grief wanted to blast out of him, but he didn’t let it. “Get these cuffs off me.”
“Are you going to behave?” Granger demanded.
“I am not planning to kill myself or harm any firefighters, but I make no promises about you.”
Granger pulled in a ragged breath and then removed the cuffs.
Rage, anger, and grief fought inside Jordan as he stared at flames destroying his family and the home they’d built since leaving Ukraine more than a century ago.
Jordan stared at the detective, the man he’d grown up with, and at the line of cops nearby. “Someone on your team let it slip. You’re the reason they’re probably dead.”
And the fact he still hung on to a kernel of hope showed him he was a fool.
“Could have been from your side.”
Jordan ignored the tears dripping down his cheeks and held out his arm. “Special Agent Stork, did you tell Konrad Bocharov I was working undercover for the FBI?”
Eyes massive, she frantically shook her head.
He tried to catch Granger’s stare, but the man wouldn’t meet his gaze. “What about you, Granger? Did you tell anyone?”
Granger wiped his hands over his dirty cheeks. “I can’t believe you’d ask me that.”
“That’s not a fucking denial!”
“No! I didn’t do it. I would never have done that. You know me. You know me, Jordan. I would never hurt your family.”
Jordan looked away. His throat hurt. His eyes hurt. His heart hurt. “I don’t know anything anymore.”
An Asian man jogged over to Stork. “We’ve found two bodies in the strip joint. Man and a woman.” He showed his cell to the other agent.
Jordan hadn’t thought he could hurt any more than he did. “It’ll be Micky and Ana.”
Stork’s eyes widened with suspicion. “How did you know that?”
His lip curled. “Because I thought it was weird earlier why only Dmitri and Micky were with Bocharov at the club. The others were obviously carrying out Konrad’s orders. When Ana finished her set, he pulled her into his lap even though she didn’t want it. Because we’d had sex once and he found out, and because Micky brought me into the fold. That’s why they were killed. Micky was too stupid to have even seen it coming.”
Jordan was stupid too. He hadn’t trusted his instincts, hadn’t realized the gig was up, hadn’t called his family to tell them to run. To hide.
Stork strode away talking on the phone.
Granger stood, face in his hands.
Jordan closed his eyes and then opened them to look up at the smoky sky as he made a silent vow. He was going to find Konrad Bocharov, and he was going to make the sonofabitch pay. It wouldn’t be by the rules. It wouldn’t be pretty. And he’d show Konrad the same mercy the man had shown to his family.
He’d avenge them, and then he’d deal with the fallout.

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