Page 18 of Femme Fatale
The whiskey burned like gasoline, but that was the point.
One by one, the women stood. The room was silent except for the tick of the ancient wall clock and the desert wind at the window.
Joker spoke first. “I’m in.”
Spade, “I’m in.”
Aces, “In.”
Glitz, “In and never out.”
Nines, “Affirmative.”
Tempest just grinned, showing the blood on her teeth. “Fuck yes.”
I looked around, feeling the weight of it settle on my shoulders. “Then let’s get to work.”
We formed a circle, each hand stacked in the center. Skin, scars, blood, and polish, all pressed together.
Chapter Four
Selene
Ihadn’t slept well in three days, so the 2:04 a.m. phone call didn’t wake me. Insomnia had its perks. It meant I caught every bad idea in Vegas while it was still raw, unfinished, bleeding out in the dark before sunrise. The phone’s glow painted my face hospital green. Joker’s name blinked on screen. I thumbed it on, knowing some kind of shit was about to hit the fan.
“Selene. I just got a call from a friend.” Joker’s voice had a burr in it, like she’d been chain-smoking razor blades. “Tina. She’s locked down at Jack’s Rabbits. She says they’re holding girls. They took her phone, but she got a call out. It’s real bad.”
“Who’s ‘they’?” I was already swinging my boots off the mattress.
“Bouncers. Zeke’s muscle. Maybe two, maybe five.” I heard shouts in the background, then muffled curses. “Trixie said shesaw girls get boxed up and moved. She says it’s not just her. They’re scared, Selene. Like, end-of-the-line scared.”
“Fuck,” I said, already at the closet, reaching for the cut. “Thirty minutes. Get the officers to the clubhouse. Full patches. No hang-arounds.”
Joker exhaled, a low whistle. “You want blood or finesse?”
I shrugged into my cut. “Both.”
The call ended, and the trouble began. I checked the mag on my Glock and felt the cold steel of the blade I kept in my boot. It was time to finally fuck some shit up. Hit before we got hit.
Vegas slept hard between two and four, but I didn’t see another living soul on my run to the clubhouse. The air had that flat, chemical taste it gets right before dawn, laced with desert rot and electricity. My pulse raced, but my hands were a steady as a surgeon’s. The Harley started on the first try.
I cut through side streets and empty lots, skidding up to the old lodge on the edge of the red rock. Light glowed in the windows. Joker was already there, pacing the porch. Her helmet dangled from one fist, her lips set in a thin, colorless line.
“You get the others?” I asked, swinging off the bike.
“Spade’s five out. Aces is already here, she’s outside mapping escape routes. Tempest is coming with Nines. Glitz says she’ll be fashionably late. She always is.”
I grunted and pushed through the battered front door. Inside, the air hummed with anxiety. Aces leaned over a city map, her finger tracing the highway east to the brothel. Her hair was still perfect, black bob tucked behind one ear, eyes bright as a dealer’s ring light.
“Selene.” She straightened, rolling her shoulder like she was shaking off sleep. “I’ve got three ways in, two ways out. The north fence is the weakest. They only have one camera on the main lot, but they rotate the angle every hour.”
“Nines can jam it?” I asked.
Aces nodded. “Or she can loop the feed.”
Spade stomped in, dust on her jeans, a duffel in each hand. She looked like she’d slept in her clothes and shot her alarm clock. She didn’t bother with hellos. “You want blunt force, or subtle?”
I shrugged. “It’s a brothel. Nobody expects subtle.”
