Page 17 of Femme Fatale
They were waiting in the main hall, standing around a scarred-up table big enough to seat a dozen. The chairs didn’t match because Buck had never cared for symmetry, but everyone had already picked their spot. I took the head, set the President patch on the table, and watched the room hush.
Joker was the first to break the silence. She tapped her knuckles twice on the wood, a signal. “So what’s the first order, Prez?”
I looked at the line of faces, each one unique and lethal in its own way. “First, we make it official.”
I reached under the table, pulled out a wooden box lined with black velvet. Inside were the cuts, stitched and pressed, each one marked with rank. I tossed them out, one by one.
“These are the official Royal Harlot patches. Joker—Vice President. You ride second, handle discipline, and keep the crew tight.”
She caught the patch midair, grinning. “Thought you’d go with someone less likely to stab you in the back.”
I shrugged. “I like living dangerously.”
“Spade—Sergeant at Arms. You run security, keep the guns loaded, and train the prospects.”
Spade nodded, eyes flat. “Already started an inventory.”
“Aces—Road Captain. You set the routes, plan the escapes, and never get caught.”
Aces smiled, slow and sly. “I’ll have maps by tomorrow. Digital and paper.”
“Glitz—Treasurer. You move the money, scrub the books, and make sure we never pay more tax than we have to.”
Glitz was already flicking through her phone, running numbers in her head. “I’ll need a new ledger. And more whiskey.”
“Nines—Secretary. You run the comms, digital and real. If someone wants to find us, they’ll have to go through you.”
Nines barely looked up, but I saw the reflection of the logo in her glasses. “Already set up a dead drop. VPN is up.”
“Tempest—Tail-Gunner. You ride sweep, handle trouble, and if things go sideways, you make sure it’s someone else who hits the ground.”
Tempest winked. “I’ll need a bigger gun.”
There was a beat, and then they all laughed, the kind of noise that shook the dust off the rafters.
I waited for it to die down, then stood. “Here’s the real deal. Zeke’s got the city divided. Every block he takes, he squeezes the life out of the girls, the runners, the dealers, everyone who makes this place work. We don’t just take it back. We own it. Our way. With three streams: Aces Wild, Sexy Beavers, and,” I paused for effect, “the custom arms runs. Each of you has a stake in all three.”
Joker spoke up. “Sexy Beavers is still Mary’s, right?”
“She’s a partner, not a subordinate,” I said. “We protect her girls, they bring us clients, and we get a cut. Everyone’s safer, everyone wins.”
Glitz raised a hand. “What about the books?”
“They’re open to the crew,” I said. “You catch anyone skimming, you bring it to the table.”
She grinned. “Even you?”
“Especially me,” I said.
The patches went around, each woman running a thumb over the embroidery, like it was a holy relic. Glitz had a penknife, and she sliced open the plastic on the spot, pricked her finger, and smeared a dab of blood on the back. “For luck,” she said. The others followed, some with knives, some with teeth.
Aces produced a bottle of bourbon from her duffel. “Inaugural toast?”
I nodded. “Pour it.”
She filled seven mismatched glasses. We all raised them.
“To the Harlots,” I said. “May we ride free, and may we never get caught.”
