Page 19 of Femme Fatale
Joker pulled her helmet on, face closed down to pure ice. “You wanna tell us what we’re doing, or are we just gonna break every law in Nevada for the fuck of it?”
I grabbed a chair, dropped into it. “Here’s the deal. Tina is Joker’s. She’s inside, and she’s scared. Zeke’s people are holding women. We go in, we get them out. We hurt anyone who gets in the way. We don’t ask permission, and we don’t wait for backup.”
Spade cracked her knuckles. “How many?”
“Five, maybe more,” I said. “Could be men, could be girls working for Zeke. Either way, we treat everyone like a threat.”
Nines skated in then, hoodie pulled tight, eyes red from screens or lack of sleep. She had a laptop and a black bag that looked like it belonged in a Bond movie. “WiFi’s a joke. Cameras are on a cheap IP loop. I can fry their system or just ghost us for a while.”
I pointed at her. “Do that.”
Glitz breezed in last, hair twisted up, lips painted Vegas gold, even at three in the goddamn morning. “Somebody better die tonight, or I want my gas money back,” she said, tossing her purse on the table.
I looked at each of them, the way a coyote might look at the only pack it’ll ever trust. “Here’s the play. Nines, you and Glitz stay in the lot. Run comms. Make sure no one calls it in. Glitz, you get the cash ready for a bribe if we need it. Spade, you and Tempest go in first. Check for guards, break them if you have to. Joker and I will head for the holding rooms. Aces, you run pointon the bikes—keep them hot, and block the road if you see cops or anyone else coming.”
Aces flashed her teeth. “You got it, Prez.”
Spade shrugged her duffels on and headed for the door. “You all coming, or you want me to sweep it solo?”
I checked my piece again, making sure the safety was off. “Let’s ride.”
Out in the lot, the bikes lined up like horses waiting for a gunfight. We each mounted up. Engines thumped to life, one by one, echoing against the broken stone and burnt-out brush. I took the lead. Joker flanked me. Spade and Tempest rode in tight, Aces behind, Glitz and Nines last.
We peeled out, thunder on tarmac, wheels clawing for grip in the chill night. Lights blurred as we blitzed the Strip, then cut east toward the dark, unlit miles where only the desperate or the damned kept business hours.
We rode tight, the way Dad taught me. Never leave enough space for a car to split you, always keep your shadow in the other’s mirrors. The closer you rode, the less likely you’d get picked off by some idiot or a sniper with a grudge.
We didn’t talk. We didn’t need to. Each of us knew the rhythm, the feel of a rescue turning into a raid.
Jack’s Rabbits was a lurid wound in the middle of nowhere, all neon and cheap promises, flickering against the black. As we approached, I felt the tension coil up my back, tight and ready to strike.
We circled once, checked the lot, then cut engines in perfect sequence. No words, just hand signals. Spade and Tempest dismounted, boots hitting gravel. Joker and I checked our pieces, eyes locked. Aces stayed on the bike, scanning the highway with a predator’s patience.
Nines and Glitz slid into the shadows, moving fast and low. I saw the glimmer of a phone screen, then nothing. The only lightwas the pulsing pink and blue from the club’s sign, and the slow red of the horizon promising morning, eventually.
“Ready?” Joker hissed.
I racked the slide. “Let’s go get your girl.”
We moved as one, a pack of wolves with murder in our hearts. No one spoke. No one doubted.
Nines and Glitz set up by the side entrance, phones out, bags open. Nines thumbed a stick into the panel by the service door, watched LEDs blink, then grinned. “Their WiFi’s running on 2005 passwords. I’m in.” She tapped her screen. The cameras above the door stuttered and froze on a perfect image of nothing happening.
“Go,” I hissed, and Spade slammed the heel of her boot into the door so hard the hinges creaked.
Inside, the mood flipped. Outside, it was all cheer and color. Inside, it was the rotted-off end of a failed party with cheap carpet, stale beer, and the faint aftersmell of bleach and cigarette burns. The main floor was empty except for a bartender mopping the sticky tile. He didn’t even look up. That told me everything I needed to know about how often places like this got hit.
Spade and Tempest moved first, splitting left and right. I followed Joker straight up the gut, boots squeaking. The sound echoed, too loud, so we slowed. At the end of the hall was a battered steel door, with a hand-lettered sign: “PRIVATE—NO GIRLS.” I bit down a smile.
Two men in wrinkled sport coats played cards at a folding table by the door. One was texting; the other counted chips and hummed. Spade walked right up, so confident you’d think she was on payroll.
Texting Guy never saw her hand before it closed around his wrist and bent it up behind his back. The phone clattered to the floor, screen spiderwebbing. Spade used the man as a humanshield and jabbed a finger at the other guy. “Don’t move,” she said. “Or you’ll lose more than the ante.”
The guy in the suit lunged anyway. Idiot.
Tempest caught him by the collar, yanked him off his feet, and drove his head into the wall. The sound was a muffled thunk, followed by the slow slide of a body crumpling into the mop bucket.
Joker knelt, grabbed the first man’s hair, and hissed, “Where’s the girls?”
