Prepare to dive into the hard-boiled heart and violent world of DEA Agent Kelly Reed as Jonathon Marcel’s thrilling crime series continues with his fast-action sequel to The Samogon Affair.

DEA Agents Kelly Reed and Paul Garner’s affair has come to a turbulent time marred with violence and uncertainty. As their FAST team prepares to take down the Ochoa cartel, members of the Russian mob shoot Garner and leave him for dead. Hearing the agent has survived the attack, the Russians turn on Garner’s family, and it falls on Kelly to clear the streets and avenge the man she loves. But a larger interagency investigation demands she stand down while the FBI handles the case.

Not one to sit idly by, Kelly lays it all on the line and begins hunting the Russians herself, caring only about revenge as her ravaged heart takes her outside the law she swore to uphold. With the body count steadily rising, can Kelly stop the Russians before federal authorities stop her? Time is against her, and no one is safe.

FROM THE SHADOW beneath her hood, she glared out through the November storm, leaning anxiously against a bus stop pavilion. Ice-cold rain pummeled the city. Tires hissed as cars hydroplaned along the streets.

The night began fading as the sun beckoned black to gray. Warehouse workers populated the streets on their way to work as bar patrons and club-goers vanished with the darkness.

Behind her, the aroma of coffee beans roasting in the Folgers factory seeped out into the light whirling breeze. The smell of fresh-baked bread from the Butternut store across the street carried in the early-morning air as delivery trucks filled with the day’s orders.

The adjacent building contained a parking garage, and several lofts occupied by aspiring artists and musicians. It also housed her target.

The hooded woman trudged across the drenched streets toward the parking garage’s exterior door. She kept her hands in the pockets of her parka, her soaked Levi’s clung to her legs. Her socks squished inside her ASICS with each step. She peeked out from underneath her hood and surveyed her surroundings. No one was watching.

She slipped through the door, letting it slam, and stepped into the shadows behind a concrete pillar, then drew a Glock .40 caliber pistol and chambered a round. Holding it firmly, she placed her hands back in her pockets and slinked across the garage to the freight elevator.

The pleasing smells of baked bread and roasted coffee withered under the pungent odor of stagnant water leaking from the overhanging pipes, and the grime of motor oil and gasoline puddled in the parking spaces.

She shut the cage door and took the elevator to the third floor, then stayed along the wall as she made her way to a common hallway that led to the tenants’ lofts.

The faint buzzing of light sockets and flickering of fluorescent bulbs occupied the hallway. A cockroach scampered along the worn carpet on its journey to somewhere.

Her target’s loft was the second door down.

She picked the lock to gain entry then stepped inside and eased the door shut. Gun drawn and back to the door, she listened for anyone moving about. Then, with a hush like Death, she glided through the loft’s open layout to a bed positioned against the windows overlooking the filthy streets below.

In the middle of the bed the Russian lay naked, passed out. On the floor next to the bed, an empty fifth of Smirnov rested on its side against an empty pill bottle.

On the nightstand lay a silver Zippo, a syringe, a bag of heroin, and a spoon caked with burnt residue.

She cutoff an entire gram of heroin and cooked it in the spoon, then drew the dope into the syringe. She rolled the Russian’s arm over and slipped the syringe into his vein. Her fingers drew back the plunger just enough to see blood flower inside the barrel, and then she injected half the dope.

The poison surged through the Russian’s veins. He rolled onto his back and felt the rushing heat overtake him. Sweat poured from his body. Having shot a quarter-gram earlier in the night, he felt like he was floating. He struggled to open his eyes as he wretched up bile and tried to speak.

“You...”

Even with her hood pulled low, he recognized DEA Agent Kelly Reed, but he was too far gone to surmise the danger her presence presented.

He nodded in and out of consciousness. “Why...are you here? Who...let you in?”

“Stay awake.” She smacked his face repeatedly. “Where are the girls? I need the girls. Give them to me.”

The Russian tried to laugh, but his euphoric state was too powerful. The Abyss lay just behind his eyelids.

“Hey! Where are the girls?”

“Dead...like I was told...to do.”

Kelly strained to keep from screaming. Her legs weakened. She reached down and grasped his jaw.

“Where is Vaslav? Where is Vaslav Diaghilev?”

“Fuck Vaslav.” He swallowed hard. “Fuck...you.”

Kelly stabbed the syringe back into his arm and slammed the plunger down, injecting the rest of the heroin.

The Russian convulsed, choking on his own vomit. His body went still.

The rain had stopped by the time Kelly exited the building. She should’ve felt some sort of shame, but the apathy was winning.

It didn’t matter.

Vaslav was still out there, and he had to die.