Page 9 of Gates of Tartarus

The bouncer chokes slightly at our exchange, then looks at Walker’s ID carefully. “Strangest FBI agents I’ve ever met,” he mutters, and I cock my head at Walker.

“You meet many FBI agents here?” I ask the bouncer quietly, and he grins at me, then mimes locking his mouth shut.

“Come on in,” he replies instead. “Chantalle? A couple of agents here to see you. Walker Donovan and...”

He pauses, clearly waiting for my reply.

“Kailani Reed.”

“And Agent Reed,” he continues, his upturned lips still twisting the heavy scar on his face.

Narrowing my eyes, I look him over more carefully. It concerns me how friendly he is now that he knows “we’re” FBI agents, and why the doors opened more easily rather than closed rapidly in our faces, as would be normal in a place like this. I can tell Walker is taking note of the same thing. The bouncer isn’t intimidated by my once-over, though. If anything, his smile widens, and he drops a deadpan wink at me. Idly, I take in what a handsome man he is. He tries to hide it behind his scarred face and fighter’s body, but all of that disappears when he grins, almost boyishly.

“Chantalle?” he calls again, his voice unintentionally softening on her name, and a sweet voice replies from the back, “Let them in.”

The woman Bianchi spoke with that night at the bar is a well-known escort named “Chantalle”, who is almost alarmingly popular in that area. I’d never met her personally but knew a couple of girls who used to work for her and had heard through the rumor mill how astonishingly high her prices ran. I’m expecting a voluptuous temptress of some sort, a woman oozing sex, and am unprepared for the girl I see in front of me. She has the air of a lost college co-ed, wearing nice jeans and boots, and a simple top, hair shiny and swinging in a loose ponytail, trailing over her shoulder. Her make-up is simple, but expertly done, and I have trouble believing that this girl runs one of the most successful escort rings in the city. She looks perilously helpless, her eyes wide and cartoonish, and incredibly anxious as we approach, like a nervous, rather adorable puppy.

Chantalle is sitting at a curved table towards the back of the bar, tucked in the corner where the bar cuts over to meet the wall. Behind her are several men hovering menacinglyagainst the wall, none moving, but all staring at us, eyes laser-focused on our movements.

I raise an eyebrow and nod towards them, and she laughs a silvery little laugh, sending shivers down my spine.

Well, fuck,I think.I don’t even swing that way. No wonder this girl is popular.

“They’re harmless,” she says lightly, answering my unasked question. “Just here to run interference, should any be needed. Can I offer you a drink?”

Shaking my head, I decline politely, though when she raises a finger, one of the massive brutes behind her hurries to drop off two bottled waters at the table. Noting nothing has been offered to Walker, I glance at mine quickly, by habit, and she taps it with one manicured fingernail. “Still sealed,” she says quietly.

I still look, and when she looks at me questioningly, I explain, “They can be resealed. Run a lighter around the edge lightly enough, and the plastic melts enough that, when you open it without looking, it will still register as an unopened bottle.”

A frown mars her unlined face, and I shrug. “I’m not accusing you, just giving you info.”

Calling over her shoulder, she asks one of the guys for a lighter, which is quickly supplied. She cracks her bottle open, closes it and runs the lighter around it, then re-cracks it, looking alarmed. “Well. Shit. How did you figure that one out?”

“Through experience,” I sigh. “Try to get the water yourself if you’re unsure of your surroundings. Don’t let it be handed to you, even sealed.”

Still frowning, she plays with the end of her ponytail, looking hopelessly confused and worried, and despite my better judgment, my big-sister instinct kicks in. Women helping women and all that.

“You should also probably get that nail polish that can detect drugged drinks. I can get some dropped off to you if you want.”

Looking a little frightened, she says, “Thanks. I’d appreciate it. That stuff is hard to find, and it’s expensive.”

One of the guards behind her, too far away to hear our quiet conversation but close enough to see her expression, steps forwards, and I hold up both hands, showing them to the men. She laughs again, waving them off. “It’s fine,” she says. “How can I help you, Agent Reed?”

“Ah, Kailani is fine. I’m not here at the moment in an official capacity.”

Her full lips twist in a sensual smile, and she reaches out, running a finger down my arm. “Just for fun?” she asks, suddenly oozing sex appeal, the quiet, frightened co-ed from moments before disappearing in light of a potential client. “Yes, please. Soooo much more interesting than my normal work day…”

Walker makes a choked sound from behind me, and I grin in appreciation of her skill-set but shake my head. Quick as a switch, she flips her alluring, longing expression, and her face darkens slightly. The co-ed has disappeared, as has the escort, and she settles into a harder, more dangerous version of what I’ve seen so far. I rapidly reassess the woman in front of me.

“Then why exactly are you here, Ms. Reed? If not for business, and not for pleasure?”

“It’s semi-for business,” I begin to explain, and she laughs, edged with caution.

“I don’t deal in ‘semi’ anything…”

Smirking back, I say, “I can’t imagine you do. Like,ever. I mean...” I wave my hands in her general direction, “you’ve got all that going on. Do you offer classes? In how to… how to... I don’t know. Handle your own awesomeness I guess?”

Her face lightens, and she grins at me, all three characters – the siren, the debutante, and the knife-edged businesswoman – drop away, her body relaxing. “Okay, okay. I’ll bite. What’s the deal? You’re confusing the hell out of me, and I have to say, I don’t like it.”

---