The Takedown

1

Uppsala, Sweden

FIVE Days Earlier

I can't just approach him and ask to cut in. That would look suspicious. Instead, I've placed myself at the edge of the dance floor, and I'm sipping a glass of champagne so slowly that I'm hardly tasting it. What matters is my mouth. He should be looking at my mouth. On my lips is a thick coat of crimson lipstick. The color perfectly matches my dress: a strapless, thigh-slit gown that says, I am your Christmas present.

Every once in a while, Alexei spins his partner and cocks his head my way. It's subtle. But I notice things. Noticing things is my job. His gaze tracks from my ankle all the way up the bare skin of my thigh, and finally to my mouth. Automatically, I part my lips; my eyes capture his, sparkling for a calculated two seconds, before dipping shyly down.

I'm not shy.

I'm just smart. And well trained.

Also, itchy. Fingertips gripping the champagne glass, I ignore the prickle that's creeping its way under my wig. Maybe it goes without saying, but I prefer my own hair: a dirty-blond bob that almost dusts my shoulders. Unluckily for me, Alexei "The Bulgarian" Borovkov-my target-has a thing for brunettes. It's in the file. All four of his girlfriends (four simultaneous girlfriends) have long, dark waves. So tonight, that's what I have.

I take another ludicrously slow sip of champagne-and wait.

Half of this job is waiting, keeping your cool under pressure.

Swishing the alcohol through my teeth, I survey the ballroom for the sixteenth time. Strings of fairy lights dangle from the ceiling, sprigs of greenery crest the snow-flecked windows, and a massive cut-glass chandelier shouts, Fancy! It's the kind of place I couldn't imagine myself in as a kid. Christmas bingo night at the Moose Lodge, maybe; a winter ball with tickets double the price of my first car, never.

There are two clear exit routes. Several bodyguards, milling around, attempting to look inconspicuous. And a man in the corner wearing an earpiece. Not one of our guys. One of Alexei's. At the far end of the room, a string quartet plays "När det lider mot jul," a Swedish carol that's heavy on the violin, and my stilettos tap until the end of the song. Everyone applauds the violinist-then it's go time.

I don't even need to steel myself.

It's habit, muscle memory, my mind and body in sync.

Alexei takes another step back from his partner, bows, and shoots a look straight at me. For a second, it's like we're the only two people in the ballroom.

Now, all that's left is to reel Alexei in.

A slow lip bite should do it, like I'm thinking about how he might taste-but I stop mid-bite. I've caught myself. I'm so innocent! Alexei sees this and immediately struts over in his white tie and coattails, exactly like I knew he would.

"You are beautiful," Alexei says. He speaks in heavily accented English and extends his white-gloved hand, confident that I'll take it. My fingers slip gently into his, like I'm this fragile little bird-not, say, a deceptively strong CIA case officer who could incapacitate him swiftly and silently. Beneath the dress, I'm all power and muscular curves. A handler once described me as "more striking than beautiful." Emphasis on the strike.

Alexei pulls me to the center of the dance floor as the quartet revs up again. A slower song this time, with more cello.

"You're Bulgarian?" I ask in English, affecting a Swedish accent. The ballroom is in Uppsala, a half-hour train ride from Stockholm, so a Swedish alias makes the most sense.

Alexei grins, drawing my chest to his chest, and I make sure I don't stiffen. Make sure I'm breathing smoothly, normally. His neck smells like blood oranges, with a hint of leather, and his custard-blond hair is slicked behind his ears. In heels, I'm only two inches shorter than him. We match up. "Smart girl," he says after a click of his tongue. "You recognize my accent, then? You speak Bulgarian?"

"I speak six languages," I say honestly. It's the first and only truth I'll tell him all night. "But my Bulgarian isn't so good."

"My Swedish isn't so good." Alexei's lips quirk. "I bet there is a lot we could teach each other . . . ?" He leaves the question open, waiting for my name.

"Annalisa," I lie.

Annalisa Andersson. A socialite from Gothenburg. She's a Virgo. A horseback rider. Likes gin and Dubonnet with a slice of lemon.

It's funny how much you can know about a person who doesn't exist.

And how little you can know about a person who does.

Alexei's fingers intertwine with mine in a way that-years ago-would've sent a chilled spike down my back. "You are here all alone, Annalisa? It is no good to be alone at Christmas."

Alone at Christmas.

In my line of work, people hunt for vulnerabilities. What Alexei doesn't know is, he's tiptoeing uncomfortably close to mine. My family briefly flashes in front of my eyes-Calla, Grandma Ruby, Sweetie Pie, even Dad-before I blink and they're gone. They can't be here right now. Alexei is not what you'd call "a good guy." For the last three months, he's been financing arms deals against NATO allies. Give him anything less than total concentration, and I'll be flying back to the States in a body bag.

Reaching up, I trace the sharp ridge of Alexei's jaw and whisper directly into his ear, "I'm not alone anymore, am I?"

I can feel his heartbeat quicken through his shirt. His throat bobs in a discreet gulp, and I've got him. I know I've got him.

Ninety-five percent of the time, my work for the CIA isn't like this. Usually, I'm given a very specific set of instructions: Recruit foreign spies. That's it. That's what I do. I identify them, study them, and ally them with the US government. I've been posted all over Northern Europe and the former Eastern Bloc. Long, cold months of meeting assets in back rooms and bars-and then, sometimes, assignments come out of nowhere. Son of a Bulgarian billionaire, touring Europe, attending a charity ball in Uppsala. Someone's persuaded him into handing over his father's money to buy missile components. Audio and satellite surveillance so far unsuccessful. Need to find out who he's meeting later tonight. Suddenly, I'm trading in my cargo pants for a government-funded gown. I'm dancing, song after song, before slipping my hands under Alexei's suit jacket, tracing the slope of his chest. My fingers are nimble, delicate, skilled.

Alexei is practically purring. "You know," he murmurs, "you look like that American . . ."

I'm careful to avoid any tension in my shoulders.

". . . actress," he finishes, which is very preferable to American spy. "What is her name? The one with the face. The round face. Dark eyebrows, hair of blond."

"Round face . . ." I pretend to think, distracting him more, my fingers roaming the sides of his body, and-there. I stick the miniature audio recorder into the lining of his jacket.

"Ah!" Alexei says, as if he's been stung by a baby wasp, and my muscles ready themselves to block an attack. Internally, I relax as he bleats out, "Ah, I cannot remember her name. You are such a good dancer, my mind is gone."

With a flick of my eyelashes, I thank him.



We don’t get wins like this very often: a mission that goes so freakishly smooth, it’s like a training exercise. Alexei might as well have been a farm instructor acting the part of a billionaire. It irks me: the suspicion that the assignment might’ve gone a little too well. But I was as diligent as possible-and I’ll be just as watchful on the way home. When the tech team finally pings my earpiece to confirm that, yep, they can hear everything through Alexei’s bug, I deploy a blunt, evergreen excuse.

Need to pee! Goodbye.

Bypassing the bathroom door, I duck down the opposite hallway and slip into the coatroom unnoticed. Everything's choreographed, methodical. I double-check that I'm alone-then I absolutely blitz through the next part. Wig off. Black parka on. High heels off. Rubber ankle boots on. I yank a well-worn pair of cargo pants over my dress, tucking the silken fabric into my waistline. Twenty seconds, that's all it takes, and I'm street ready. Swiping my rucksack from the corner cupboard, I walk slowly but purposefully out of the coatroom-and into downtown Uppsala.

Cold wind and snowflakes nip past my ears, reminding me of Maine: snowshoeing in December; toes freezing before a campfire; that first lick of winter. I yank up the hood on my parka, obscuring the sharp angle of my hair; if anyone starts to trail me, all they'll see is the shape of a person: sleek, possibly athletic, relatively tall.

Luckily, no one follows me to the train station. No one suspicious boards my carriage. No one looks over my shoulder while I pretend to read Plaza Kvinna magazine. In the train bathroom, I puff out a tired breath and run my wrists under the tap, scrubbing, until the makeup disintegrates and the black outline of my crescent-moon tattoo becomes visible again. Sometimes this tiny, tiny tattoo feels like the only true marker of who I was.

Splashing a palmful of warm water onto my face, I gaze into the mirror and drag a paper towel over my sticky red lips. Do I look happy?

Maybe that's the wrong question. This job was never supposed to make me happy.

This job was supposed to make me . . . what? Untouchable?

Back in Stockholm, I stop at the first open convenience store and buy a loaf of Swedish cinnamon bread, devouring a third of it on my walk home. Not home, exactly. The Stockholm Riverside Hôtel has just been someplace to crash for the last two days. It's fine. Way better than the station house in Macedonia, or that hostel in the Balkans. The vending machine makes a decent espresso (if you only care about the caffeine level; so-caffeinated-that-I-can-predict-the-future is about the right dosage for me). The hotel carpets are IKEA blue, paintings of extra-furry cows line the halls, and no one really asks any questions besides the occasional "How are you finding your stay?"

Which is good. Obviously.

In the wood-paneled lobby, I shift the grocery bag into the crook of my arm, press the elevator button to 3, and step in at the ping. My ankle boots stomp down the hallway, leaving a trail of snowy powder, and when I reach my room (306, by the caffeine delivery machine), I wrench off a mitten, searching deep in my parka for the key.

What's my family doing right now, six days before Christmas, at home in Maine? I can't help thinking about them.

Also . . . I hear something. Someone. Right now, in my hotel room.

The noise hits me like a dart to the neck. There has never been anyone in my hotel room before. Never, never. Definitely not after a mission.

I knew the assignment went too smoothly! Did someone see me plant audio surveillance equipment on Alexei? Have I been compromised? Who the hell is in my room? Bracing myself, I set down the bread, unshoulder my backpack, and reach for my gun. On the other side of the door is a female-sounding voice-and the blare of the television. The intruder is watching something. A game show, maybe? Can that be right? Every few seconds, a bell goes off, like Ding, ding, ding, you've won a prize! And the person inside my room lets out a loud, raucous laugh, like Miss Piggy in the Muppets.

This has every hallmark of a trap. And not even a particularly good trap. Shouldn't she, at the very least, be hiding in a closet, ready to spring out and knife me?

Even so, I can't stand out here forever. There's two months' worth of intel in that room, and it's not like I can abandon it. My handler would kill me. If the person in my room doesn't try to kill me first . . .

Suddenly, the television stops.

Then the voice calls out, "That you, Sydney? In here, please."

Her accent is American. Midwestern, by the sound of it. Another trick? My training kicks in like a reflex. Two deep breaths. Compartmentalizing any fear. Grabbing the pistol in my waistband, I sidestep the cinnamon bread and beep the door unlocked. I crack it open, peek inside. Blue carpets, blue walls. A pair of well-worn running shoes, placed by the door, exactly where I left them. Immediately, though, I'm met with the unmistakable scent of meatballs. In a . . . nutmeg-y cream sauce? Which is something that I did not order and have never brought into this room. I round the corner, past the entryway, into-

"Oh, good. You're here."

The woman in my room barely looks at me. She turns her head vaguely in my direction, just enough for me to see the harsh line of her profile. Short, chestnut-colored hair falls around her face. Everything about her says windswept, even though she's comfortably seated at the dining table by the TV. She must be about forty years old. Forty-two? Forty-three?

More importantly, I have no idea who the heck she is.

Or why she's ordered so many meatballs. The table's crowded with a platter of smoked salmon, a bowl of spaghetti, and what appears to be venison. Or reindeer?

"I was a bit hungry, so I just ordered everything." The woman shrugs, snapping a room service menu shut and fully looking at me now. Her eyes are hawkish, bright, and might scare the average person. "You eat meat, yes? Should've ordered double, but I didn't know when to expect you back, exactly. Orange juice? There's more food coming. Keep your ears pricked for a knock at the door . . . Aren't you going to sit?"

She gestures at the other dining chair.

"I'm sorry," I say, not sorry at all. Sarcasm bleeds through my voice. "Who are you, exactly?"

"You're not going to shoot me, are you?"

My gun stays in position, pointed at her head, but the slight fear-taste dissipates from my mouth. "Not unless you try to shoot me first."

"Good," she says with a wave of her hand. "That would be very messy. Too much paperwork, and it would probably make the news if you couldn't find somewhere to stash my body quick enough. Not many dumpsters in this city. You'd have to drop me in the river. But then, of course, the river is frozen, so you'd have to drill a hole. Quite time consuming." Grabbing the remote, she changes the channel, watches for roughly twelve seconds, then flicks a finger toward the TV. "What do you think is going on here?"