Page 15 of Femme Fatale
I let out a low whistle. “Nice.”
“I can get into any system in Clark County,” she said, almost bored. “You want an escort service off the books, a money dropthat never leaves a trail, or even just a backdoor into Zeke’s digital, I got you.”
“Why’d you pick the name Nines?” I asked.
She shrugged. “It’s the last card in the deck before the whole thing goes wild. You hit a nine, and the rules change. I like rules that change.”
“Same,” I said.
She pulled a USB stick from her lanyard and handed it to me. “Proof of concept. Plug it in anywhere and you’ll have admin in sixty seconds.”
I took it, feeling the weight of her trust. Or maybe just her confidence.
“Nines,” I said, “we’re going to need you tomorrow. Ghost the casino’s financials for Glitz, then start a sweep on Zeke’s club. Anything suspicious, you flag it.”
“Already on it,” she said.
I stood to go, and she said, “Selene?”
“Yeah?”
“Next time you walk in, knock first. I’ll know it’s you.”
I left her in the glow, the logo burning bright on every screen, and knew that when shit hit the fan, I’d have the best hacker in Vegas in my corner.
Two days left. The deck was stacked.
***
The Unlucky Tiger was the kind of place where even the roaches walked in pairs. The windows were blacked out with duct tape, and every surface was sticky with a patina of ancient beer and shitty decisions. The regulars clung to their corners like barnacles, and the only sign outside was a flickering tiger that looked more like a possum with mange. I loved it instantly.
Tempest was easy to spot. She sat at the center of the storm, broad shoulders hunched over a battered Formica table. Her hair was shaved close on the sides, the top spiked up, and dyed a violent blue. Her arms were slabs of muscle, bare except for a faded Airborne tattoo and a latticework of scars that crisscrossed her forearms and hands. She wore a sleeveless leather vest—no colors yet, just the raw hide, already stained with something redder than ketchup.
At her table, three men were shouting, faces purple and veins bulging. One took a swing. Tempest ducked, caught the wrist, and twisted until I heard the bone pop. The man howled, but she used his own momentum to drive his face into the table. The second guy tried to grab her from behind, but she elbowed him in the gut, then head-butted him for good measure. The third, smarter than the rest, just backed away, hands up, muttering something about "fucking psychos" and "dykes with death wishes."
The bartender didn’t even look up. This was Tuesday, after all.
I watched the show with a bourbon, savoring the violence like a good ballad. When the noise died, I walked over, bottle in hand.
"Nice moves," I said.
Tempest didn't look up. She pulled a rag from her back pocket and wiped the blood off her knuckles. "You here for the floorshow, or you just stalking me?"
"Both," I said, sliding into the seat across from her. "I’m Selene. I run Aces Wild."
"I know," she said, voice low and slow. "The suits keep talking about you. Say you’re putting together a crew."
I poured her a shot. "They’re right. I want you as Tail-Gunner."
She snorted. "You need muscle, get a gorilla. Or better yet, buy a gun."
"You’re not muscle," I said. "You’re a force of nature. You don’t just fight, you protect. There’s a difference."
She finally looked at me, and her eyes were dark brown, almost black, with a glitter that said she’d seen too much to ever be surprised again. "You know what happens to protectors in this city?"
"They get killed, or they go numb," I said. "But you don’t strike me as the numb type."
Tempest downed the shot, grimaced, and poured herself another. "You ever lost someone worth fighting for, Selene?"
