Page 9 of Femme Fatale
She shook it with a steel cable-like grip.
As I turned to leave, Joker called after me. “President,” she said, the word sweet and sour.
I looked back.
“You know Zeke’s putting together his own squad, right?” She smiled again. “I do my homework, too.”
“I know,” I said. “He can have all the muscle in the world. I’ll take the smart ones.” I gave her the place to meet.
She laughed again, this time with real joy. “See you tomorrow, boss.”
Outside, the desert sun was blinding, but I liked it that way.
Six days left, and my first card was on the table.
***
The desert didn’t get hot until noon, but the shooting range was already shimmering with it by eight. The drive east of Vegas was all sun-bleached billboard skeletons, tire-burst gravel, and scrub so mean it looked like it could draw blood. I parked the Harley behind a Ford Bronco and killed the engine.
Spade was at Lane Six, alone. She stood with her feet perfect, her knees loose, her shoulders squared to the target. The posture was ex-military, with no slouch, no slop. She wore black jeans and a sleeveless tee, and her arms were tan and corded with sinew. No tattoos, just a pale scar on her right forearm, neat as a scalpel line. She wore ear protection, and her hair was in a severe bun. No ornament except the gun, a custom SIG with inlaid grips. She fired in three-round bursts, each set ticking off like clockwork.
I watched her finish a mag, pop it, and reload without breaking rhythm. The target downrange, a standard silhouette, had a tight little daisy chain stitched up the chest, right through the heart. I had to smile. This was the type that didn’t just aim, but planned every shot before stepping up to the line. She wasn’t just dangerous. She was deadly.
I walked up, careful to keep my hands visible.
“Not many civilians here on a Tuesday,” she said, voice flat, eyes on the SIG as she chambered another round.
“I never liked crowds,” I replied.
Spade nodded, not looking at me. “You here to shoot or talk?”
“Both.” I set my helmet on the counter and leaned in. “I’m Selene. I run Aces Wild, a little casino on the strip.”
She put the pistol down and looked at me for the first time. Her eyes were cold gray, unreadable. “I know who you are.”
Of course she did. People like Spade never came in blind. “Then you know why I’m here.”
She didn’t smile. “I don’t do muscle work for free.”
“I’m not here to hire muscle,” I said. “I need a Sergeant at Arms. Someone who can run security, handle gear, and maybe run a few ops on the side. That you?”
She sized me up, a slow scan from head to boots. “You think you can trust me with that?”
“I think you’re smarter than most of the men on this line,” I said. “And I think you’re bored.”
That got a ghost of a grin. “Most people get nervous around guns.”
“Most people haven’t had one pointed at their face,” I said. “You want to talk inside?”
She shrugged. “I talk fine right here.”
I liked her already.
We stood shoulder to shoulder, watching the Nevada heat dance above the targets. “You left the Army in what, 2016?” I said.
She didn’t flinch. “Medical condition. Blew out my ACL running security in Kabul.”
“Looks like you still run.”
