Page 7 of Isaac

As we walk through the club, across the floor and down to the hallway, the cacophony of construction noises grows louder. When we turn the corner, I see workers wearing hard hats and tool belts hustle about, their voices barely audible over the whirring of drills and the pounding of hammers.

"Busy day?" I ask the guard matter-of-factly, nodding toward the construction site as we leave it behind.

"Pipe burst last night," the man replies curtly.

We turn another corner and the noises lessen somewhat. "Gotta get it fixed before we open," he grunts, his jaw tight with annoyance.

"You like working here? The pay any good?"

"You'll find out if you get hired," he replies, his voice as cold and hard as an ominous slab of black metal. The door to the back office.

The man knocks twice.

"Come in," a voice echoes from the inside.

I pause for a moment, gathering myself, preparing to face Purgatory's head of security. Whoever he will be today.

I'm in luck.

Leaning against a massive wooden desk with arms folded across his broad chest is none other than Jeremy Ramirez. Thoreau's right-hand man and his ruthless enforcer.

I recognize him instantly. He's a big guy, who stands at six-four with a jagged scar across his left cheek, his gaze as razor-sharp and intimidating.

The low lighting creates eerie shapes and patterns on his features.

"Take a seat," he says, motioning to a chair in front of his desk. I do as he asks, feeling the weight of his stare as it bores into me. "I'm Jeremy." On the desk, there is a file. I know it's a file on me. These guys do thorough background checks.

"Cody," I give him my name. It rolls off my tongue with ease. "But Hawk is fine."

"How'd you hear about this job, Hawk?"

"Friend of mine."

"Which friend?"

"Frankie Loose Hands mentioned you guys were hiring."

"Ah, Frankie." Jeremy nods, a flicker of amusement crossing his face and for a second he doesn't seem so menacing. "He's got his fingers in a lot of pies."

"I figured that's why the nickname." I chuckle. The irony isn't lost on me though.

Jeremy doesn't know that Frankie is an FBI informant. He got himself into a predicament five years ago and to keep his ass out of prison, he turned. And truth be told, without Frankie this operation would have been ten times harder to run.

Infiltrating a gang like the one Thoreau runs isn't easy. Takes time and time isn't on our side.

Inwardly, I recite what I know about Jeremy from the file I've memorized. He's thirty-eight. Bounced around the foster system all his childhood. Younger sister works for Purgatory as a bartender, too. Loyal to Isaac Thoreau to a fault. Explosive temper, but he’s a man who knows how to read people, which means I need to be extra careful.

"How long did you work for High Sands?" Jeremy asks, interrupting my thoughts.

"Just a little over a year," I supply the information Cody "Hawk" Smith would supply to the potential employer.

High Sands is a real club back in Phoenix. The references are real too. Jason really worked his ass off to pull off this cover for me. Anyone asking around about Hawk in Arizona will remember a security guard by that name.

"This ain't Phoenix, man," Jeremy warns. "This is Vegas. High volume traffic. Lots of money. Lots of big names. Crowd can get rowdy."

"I have enough experience to know what I'm doing," I say confidently. "Did two tours in the Middle East."

"Yeah. I saw that," Jeremy grunts, motioning at my file. He seems satisfied with my response. "I respect that. So what did you do after service and before High Sands?"

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