Claim Me Read Free Page A

the whole fucked-up situation.
    “I’m meeting with my portfolio manager,” I say as the elevator doors slide open. “I just need to catch up on my investments.”
    “Oh, I see.” Rosa grins as we step into the elevator. “You have investments, like Señor Esguerra.”
    “Yes.” I press the button for the top floor. “This guy is his portfolio manager as well.”
    The elevator whooshes upward, all sleek steel and gleaming surfaces, and less than a minute later, we’re stepping out into an equally sleek and modern reception area.
    For a twenty-six-year-old guy born in the projects, Jared Winters certainly leads a good life.
    His receptionist, a slim Japanese woman of indeterminate age, stands up as we approach.
    “Mr. Kent,” she says, giving me a polite smile. “Please, have a seat. Mr. Winters will be with you in a minute. May I offer you and your companion some refreshments?”
    “None for me, thanks.” I glance at Rosa. “Would you like anything?”
    “Um, no, thank you.” She’s staring at the floor-to-ceiling window and the city spread out below. “I’m good.”
    Before I have a chance to sit down in one of the plush seats by the window, a tall, dark-haired man steps out of the corner office and approaches me.
    “Sorry to keep you waiting,” Winters says, reaching out to shake my hand. His green eyes gleam coolly behind his frameless glasses. “I was just finishing up a call.”
    “No worries. We’re a bit late ourselves.”
    He smiles, and I see his gaze flick over to Rosa, who’s still standing there, seemingly mesmerized by the view outside.
    “Your girlfriend, I presume?” Winters says quietly, and I blink, surprised by the personal question.
    “No,” I say, following him as he walks back toward his office. “More like my assignment for the next couple of hours.”
    “Ah.” Winters doesn’t say anything else, but as we enter his office, I see him glance back at Rosa, as if unable to help himself.

4
    Y ulia

    “ Y ulia Tzakova ?”
    My heart leaps into my throat as I spin around, my hand automatically clutching the knife tucked into my jeans.
    There is a dark-haired man standing in front of me. He looks average in every way; even his sunglasses and cap are standard issue. He could’ve been anyone in the busy Villavicencio marketplace, but he’s not.
    He’s Obenko’s Venezuelan contact.
    “Yes,” I say, keeping my hand on the knife. “Are you Contreras?”
    He nods. “Please follow me,” he says in Spanish-accented Russian.
    I drop my hand from the knife handle and follow the man as he begins winding through the crowd. Like him, I’m wearing a cap and sunglasses—two items I stole at another gas station on the way here—but I still feel like someone might point at me and yell, “That’s her. That’s the spy Esguerra’s men are looking for.”
    To my relief, nobody pays me much attention. In addition to the cap and sunglasses, I acquired a voluminous T-shirt and baggy jeans at that same gas station. With the shapeless clothes and my hair tucked into the cap, I look more like a teenage boy than a young woman.
    Contreras leads me to a nondescript blue van parked on the street corner. “Where’s the vehicle you used to get here?” he asks as I climb into the back.
    “I left it a dozen blocks from here, like Obenko instructed,” I say. I’ve spoken to my boss twice since my initial contact at Miraflores, and he gave me the location of this meeting and orders on how to proceed. “I don’t think I was followed.”
    “Maybe not, but we need to get you out of the country in the next few hours,” Contreras says, starting the van. “Esguerra is expanding the net. They already have your picture at all the border crossings.”
    “So how are you going to get me out?”
    “There’s a crate in the back,” Contreras says as we pull out into the traffic. “And one of the border guards owes me a favor. With some luck, that will suffice.”
    I nod, feeling the cold air