Page 3 of Femme Fatale
The conference room door was cracked, just enough for voices to dribble out. I nudged the door open with my knuckles, not sure what picture I’d been painting in my head, but seeing Stephanie Winters, also known as the Duchess, at the end of the table didn’t surprise me. She wore a leather cut sharp as a switchblade, “President” stitched in block white over blood-red, the kind of patch that made statements so you didn’t have to. Her hair was black and pin-straight, cut to frame a jaw that looked engineered to split glass. She didn’t bother getting up.
I’d seen and read all about her inMotorcycle, one of the few still-in-print bike magazines. I recognized the other women from the magazine spread as well.
Next to her was Goblin from Ontario, a tall, curvy redhead. The magazine had shown an amazing club logo tattooed on her back that any woman would die for. Her voice leaked sarcasm.
Across from Goblin was Pearl, the Phoenix chapter’s best shot; Pearl was all cheekbones and fake-lazy smile, cool and calculating, eyes blue and accentuating blonde hair that seemed to shimmer under the lights. The magazine had pictured her firing a pearl-handled Glock. In the story, she told how her father had taught her to shoot and not take shit off anyone.
The last was Calypso, who had a face you’d never forget and jet-black hair that paralleled the ink sleeve on each arm. I’d read she’d won several awards for her ink work. I’d also read that she was known for putting men down on the ground and making them beg for mercy. All in all, I wouldn’t want to be on the wrong side of things when I walked into a room they occupied.
There was a moment—one of those silent challenges that always happens when new animals meet on the same patch of dirt—and then Stephanie spoke as if we were best friends.
“Selene,” she said, voice as cool as a dealer’s last card. “Come sit.”
I wanted to stand, to make them look up to me, but I was too tired to play at being a queen. I took the seat nearest the window, crossed my arms on the table, and waited.
Stephanie’s eyes flicked over me. She smiled; the others didn’t. “I hear you’ve been busy,” she said.
“I have a lot going on,” I answered and looked at each of them. “Four visitors from three states say this is not an accidental visit.”
Pearl smiled, slow and deliberate. “We miss Vegas. You just come with the real estate.”
Calypso slid a glass of whiskey my way. I caught the scent—Bulleit rye, neat—and drank half in one go.
“Let’s cut to it,” Stephanie said. “You’ve got a problem.”
I lifted an eyebrow. “Just one?”
She looked past me at the mirrored window. “Word is you’ve got a Turkish problem. Or maybe a Zeke Smalls problem. Maybe both.”
Goblin stopped her knee bounce. “This isn’t just a turf issue. This is international now.” She licked her lips, too pink for her skin. “There’s a name, a hitter. Dark Shadow.”
The phrase made me laugh, which pissed off Pearl. “What, like a comic book?”
Goblin bristled. “I know what it sounds like. But she’s hit two other chapters in six months. Nobody sees her coming.”
Stephanie slid a phone across the table. On the cracked screen was a freeze frame from security footage. It was low-res, but the woman was distinctive. Shoulders like an MMA fighter, black hair cropped at the jaw, eyes that almost glowed in the grayscale.
“She was in your casino this morning,” Stephanie said. “Didn’t play, just watched.”
I leaned in. The woman was examining a chip tray at one of the blackjack tables, her fingers tracing the edge as if she were reading Braille. She talked to a cocktail waitress for exactly seven seconds, then moved out of frame.
“How do you know it’s her?” I said.
Pearl tapped the screen. “She speaks with an accent. Eastern, but not Russian. We had someone in the room run a facial recognition. She’s been spotted in Istanbul, Prague, and now Vegas. Always right before something goes sideways.”
I didn’t like the way the room felt now. Too small, too full of bad news. I thought about Mary being out by herself. She needed help. The casino needed more security.
Calypso’s voice was a whisper. “You got cameras on your chip room?”
I nodded. “Everything but the bathrooms. Why?”
She didn’t answer, just sipped her own whiskey. I got the message.
Stephanie leaned back, eyes on mine. “Selene, this isn’t a warning. It’s a courtesy. Someone’s coming for you. Maybe they want your casino, maybe they want you as a message to the others. Either way, you’re a target.”
I thought about the $1,500 in my pocket, the iron in my desk, and the way Mary Williams had talked about Zeke Smalls. “I can handle one woman,” I said.
“That’s not the point,” Goblin said, and for a second, the tremor in her voice betrayed a real fear. “It’s never just one.”
