Page 20 of Femme Fatale
He tried to spit at her, but she smashed his face against the table and broke his nose. Blood splashed across the cards, and he started talking.
“Back room. Basement. Past the bar, through the kitchen.”
I looked at the private door. “Is he lying?”
Joker shook her head. “This is a dummy. Real action’s under the floor.”
Spade pistol-whipped the guy once, just to make sure, then let him slump.
We moved on, deeper into the club. Past a half-lit bar, then a corridor lined with velvet paintings of breasts and Elvis knockoffs. Two more men blocked the kitchen door. They saw us, reached inside their jackets. The one on the left actually tried to talk.
“Hey, ladies—”
Tempest didn’t let him finish. She had a taser in her hand and jabbed it into his chest. He dropped like a sack of hams, every muscle convulsing.
The other man got his gun out, but Spade was already moving, low and fast. She went for his knees, a full-body tackle that sent both of them through the swinging kitchen doors.
I chased them in. The kitchen was tiny, choked with trays of pre-made burritos and the sour stink of old meat. The gunmanwas on his back. Spade had her knee on his throat, her hand on the gun. “You ever use this?” she asked.
He didn’t answer, so she broke his index finger. The noise was loud, cartoonish, and he started to cry.
“Better for your health to not reach for it again,” Spade said, voice mild.
Joker was already through the pantry, scanning shelves for anything out of place.
“Here,” she said, and pointed at a door blocked by crates of potatoes.
I helped her clear the barricade. The door had a lock, but not a good one. I shot it. The noise was obscene in the tiny space; the door popped and swung open on a set of stairs leading down, the bulb at the top flickering with every step.
The air below was cooler, but soured by mold and the iron tang of old blood. The first thing I noticed was how quiet it was. No screaming, no music, just a low hum, maybe the AC, maybe something worse.
We went down fast. Joker’s jaw was set; her breathing fast and shallow. My own pulse was steady, but my hands itched for violence.
The basement was less a room and more a holding pen: three heavy doors, each locked with a sliding bolt. A single guard sat on a folding chair, reading a magazine and drinking from a thermos.
He looked up and saw us. For a second, he didn’t react, and then he reached for his holster.
Joker beat him there. She slammed him back, swept his legs, and drove her boot into his groin so hard he coughed up bile and collapsed. He tried to scramble away, but she dropped her full weight on his spine, pinning him, then bent his wrist back until the gun popped free.
He screamed.
“Keys,” she said.
He fumbled at his belt, handed them over without another sound.
I threw him against the wall, cuffed his hands with his own belt, and pressed the barrel of my Glock to his ear. “Stay,” I whispered. “Or I’ll tattoo your brains on the drywall.”
He stayed.
Joker tried the first door. Locked. She shoved the key in and twisted. The bolt snapped back, and the door swung in slow.
Three women sat on a stained mattress. Their faces were shadows, mascara and tears and sweat all mixed. The one in front recognized Joker and let out a half-choked sob.
“Jules?” she said.
Joker went to her knees. “Tina. Fuck. Are you hurt?”
Tina’s wrists were raw, her lips split, but she tried to smile. “Just roughed up.”
