Dalia clears her throat. "Sir, if I may—" she begins interrupting him, "it's possible for us to intercept any communication that Anton were to see via text or email. In addition, I've already gone through the main database to block and scrub the detective's ability to view Savannah's information. He could only view her image with her badge number in a broad search."
"Didn't we think of this before going undercover?" I ask, not understanding the situation. The tech team was supposed to remove anything easily identifiable and plant a trail that followed my alias.
"Yes, but we didn't expect the NYPD's involvement with the bratva," Barrett says. "We don't have enough to tie Detective Rylan Scott to anything incriminating, but it's obvious there is a link between him and the Russians."
My head swims, just trying to make sense of it. "Is my cover blown?" I ask. That's all I need to know.
Barrett waits for Dalia to answer the question, wanting her input.
"It's highly unlikely Detective Scott was able to access your file through official channels."
Her words hang in the air. They're as heavy as a lead balloon. "And what about unofficial channels?"
"I scrubbed everything in the database. Social media is a bigger ocean to swim in, but I can assure you that we pulled everything we found on the internet by using a reverse image search," Dalia says.
I want to believe that she's done enough to protect my cover. Years ago, going undercover wasn't as tricky, before social media flourished. Those same tech programs combined with facial recognition software make scanning for an individual's past easier.
I'm honestly surprised the bratva don't have a system of their own and that they're requesting the help of some low-level detective unless Anton isn't contacting his people.
He hasn't come clean to them yet about us sleeping together.
It's not like I've confessed to bedding the man to my superiors. We all have our secrets, and most of us are willing to take them to the grave if need be.
"If Dalia says I'm safe, I trust her."
Barrett shuts his mouth, and I'm sure he's wondering how I can trust the new girl more than the colleague I've worked with most of my career. Easy, I want to stay on this assignment, and she's allowing me to remain undercover.
"I'm advising against it, but I won't pull you out," Barrett says. "But I can't return to the club. You'll have to pass information off to me at a new meeting point."
"It should be Dalia," I say. "You've been to the club. If Anton or any of his men are watching me, they'll recognize you. Just like they did with James."
"Fine," Barrett grumbles. "Is there someplace routine you go once a week that won't raise suspicion? Other than your coffee run?" That's out after the incident with James.
"I grab lunch at a small Chinese restaurant on Wednesdays. We can meet there."
"I'll have it vetted," Dalia says.
We hang up the call with Dalia, and Agent Kingston heads toward the apartment I've been staying in while undercover. It's dark and incredibly late. There's hardly any parking outside.
"Do you want me to walk you in?" he offers, pulling up outside the front of the building.
"I'll be fine." I climb out of the front seat and head through the main doors. I walk up to the fifth floor and pull my keys from my purse when I catch sight of a shadow in the darkness.
It's not just any shadow.
Anton is waiting for me.
I inhale a sharp breath and laugh nervously. "Didn't expect to see you tonight," I say. He doesn't know I'm FBI.
He couldn't know, because if he did, the minute he's inside my apartment with me, it'll be a fight to the death.
"Yeah, neither did I," Anton says. There's no smile. No hint of humor behind his eyes. "Can I come in?"
I get the impression that it's not a question.
"Yeah, of course."
As I fiddle with the doorknob, he's practically at my heels, towering over me. I can't explain the trepidation coursing through every inch of me. My heart pounds wildly against my chest, and my breathing quickens.
I can't let him notice that I'm nervous because if he's not already suspicious, that will raise every red flag imaginable.
"You didn't wait for me tonight," Anton says.
Since the first day I was hired, Anton has driven me home. And almost every night since he's fallen into my bed.
"You mentioned that you had friends visiting the club. I didn't want to impose." It's an easy lie to rattle off as I push the front door open and flip on the lights.
Anton is inside and shuts the door before I have time to spin around and meet his stare.
"I also mentioned that I wanted you to meet them and entertain the ladies. Did you forget?"
I smile and let my shoulders relax. He hasn't pulled a weapon or threatened me. If I look guilty, he'll know something is wrong.
"One of the clients wanted me in the VIP room all night. He was quite the tipper too. I made more tonight than I have any other time." It's not untrue. I forced him to pay me well above the going rate because I had no other customers. The bureau may question the amount spent at the club, but they'll let it slip through because it was all part of the assignment.