Page 23 of Love Me Darkly
“Those guys in VIP. Do you know who they are? What they are?”
Slamming her hands into his chest, she put some distance between them. “Do you?” she yelled before turning on her heel to try pushing her way through the crowd.
Mateo grasped her forearm and dragged her to him, pressing her back against his front. She sank against him when he threaded his arm around her waist. He lowered his head to whisper in her ear, but caught her scent again. He closed his eyes and swam in it, pressing his nose against the curve of her neck and following that perfume up to the line of her jaw.
“I know what they are,” he said. “What I can’t figure out is what you’re doing within a hundred feet of them.”
“I’m just a waitress,” she insisted. “I’m nobody.”
“I’m not buying that.”
She twisted as if to pull out of his hold. “Too fucking bad. My life is none of your business.”
“I’m making it my business,” he said before releasing her.
She spun to face him, her eyes wide and open like they had been that day at the café. Fear shone in their depths before, with a blink, she had eradicated it. She fisted her hands at her sides and raised her chin.
“Stay away from me.”
Mateo didn’t pursue her when she ducked between writhing bodies and then disappeared in a flash of lights. He went in the opposite direction, scowling at anyone who got in his way. He jerked at the priest’s collar, which had suddenly become too tight. His fingers came away damp with sweat, and when he held his hand up to inspect it, Mateo found it shaking. He blinked, disoriented and needing to get outside where the air was fresh. He became more aggressive in his attempts to get off the dance floor, feeling like he might rip his own flesh off his bones from the sensation of being constricted. It was too crowded in this club.
He stumbled to a stop on the edge of a circle that had been cleared on the edge of the dance floor. Someone in the middle had the crowd’s attention as the music began to change, the beat ramping up as the light went from pulsing to flickering. The man roared and beat his chest, before grasping the neckline of a dingy tank top and ripping it down the middle. Mateo rolled his eyes and moved to skirt the circle when the man turned, giving a view of the tattoo covering his upper back. Mateo blinked to clear his vision, sure he was seeing things. But the black lines etched into the man’s skin were unmistakable.
Two triangles forming a pentagram cradled by a crescent moon. A perfect circle notched with lines at geographical points.
“Going down tonight … Jourdan … Wilson, you got your guys in pocket, right?”
“Don’t I always? No patrols nearby during the exchange.”
“Good. This ain’t no regular trade up. We’re talking at least fifty fresh ladies, new to the circuit.”
“When’s the shipment?”
“Three a.m.”
“… better get a move on, then.”
Mateo leaned closer to the audio equipment crowded onto one side of the delivery truck, as if distance was what kept him from hearing every piece of conversation floating from the speakers. The snatches of conversation came at them from between thumping bass notes of music, but it was enough. Jones stood at his back, waiting for him to react to the audio snippet he’d just listened to.
Donovan had found Mateo on the edge of the dance floor, grasped his shoulder and steered him out through one of the club’s side doors. He had been so stunned to find the Seal of Azrael tattooed on some random man’s back that he hadn’t had time to react before he was outside, being hustled down an alley. Eventually, he snapped out of it long enough to shoot Smith a quick text.
Shirtless prick on the dance floor. Back tattoo.
Smith would know what to do with that. The law prohibited them from detaining or questioning the man, as the symbol itself was too obscure and not found on any FBI or government watchlists. The man hadn’t been caught in the midst of a crime. But Smith could snap a picture or follow him, possibly resulting in a new lead.
“How long ago was this?” he asked Jones.
“About half an hour ago. I texted Donovan to bring you out here as soon as I heard it.”
“There was a part of it that didn’t make sense to me. Who is Jourdan?”
“Not a who,” Jones replied. “I had Darcy run the name, and it’s a street near the Port of New Orleans. After looking into the buildings in the area, she found Berenger Warehouse. It’s on Jourdan Street and it’s owned by?—”
“Let me guess. Valemont Holdings.”
“Does a bear shit in the woods?”
Mateo glanced at his watch. “It’s 12:30 now. That might give us enough time.”
