Shades of Mercy (Shades of Steel Security #2)

Chapter One

“Come on, sweet girl. Dance for me.”

Mercy Sams tucked her bottom lip as she infiltrated the encrypted files and data, just as easily as taking candy from a baby. There was nothing better than outsmarting a villain at his own game. Well, perhaps sex, but that was beside the point.

She tapped the keyboard, a thrill coursing through her as she watched her computer screen dance with confidential information.

Clicking several buttons, the data began saving.

She swiveled her chair to view a row of monitors. The surveillance drone would be hovering near the targeted location, an abandoned warehouse where Jules Cross did all his illegal businesses—money laundering, drug and sex trafficking, and extortion. The boss, an influential businessman, had earned a considerable reputation for hosting parties for Denver, Colorado's upper-crust society of billionaires. Cross dined and wined the elite partiers, comprised of politicians, doctors, celebrities, and anyone with a hefty bank account. No less than twenty girls served on-site as hosts, ensuring that the “billionaires club” received top-notch care during exclusive parties.

Many of the girls were barely eighteen, which made the situation more personal for Mercy. Her best friend, Hart, had been kidnapped and trafficked when she was seventeen. Hearing the abuse she suffered during that year made Mercy determined to do her part in putting a stop to men like Cross.

He had become so powerful in recent years that the CBI struggled to secure any charges against him. Whenever agents thought they were close to putting Cross away, a high-profile attorney exploited a legal loophole to secure the crime boss's release. He employed several lawyers on his payroll.

“Let’s see what we can do to make his life a bit more miserable,” Mercy whispered as she activated her earpiece. “McKinley, are you there?”

“In position.”

“Drone ready?”

“She’s ready to fly.”

“BOLO for anyone who gets within a hundred feet of the warehouse tonight and take a glam shot.”

“Copy.”

Roger “Howie” Howell came into the mobile security unit. He looked like shit, which seemed usual since his wife left him.

“Where’d you go to get that cup of coffee? Columbia?” she said with a smile that disguised her irritation.

“Sorry, the line was long.” He sat down behind the row of monitors.

Mercy liked the missions to go efficiently, which meant a lower chance of failure. If she saw a hiccup in the protocol, she had to smooth it out. “You one-hundred percent?”

“Let’s bring him down,” Howie said, inserting his earpiece .

“I guess it’s that time,” she said, pulling out her earpiece and setting it at her station.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” Howie asked. He knew computers, which made him an invaluable asset at SHM Security, the company he co-founded with McKinley and her. The team specialized in ethical hacking and surveillance .

This mission would be different. Instead of their usual roles as “backseat drivers,” Mercy would be taking the investigation up a notch. She wanted to bring Cross down, and that meant infiltrating one of his parties without getting caught.

She smoothed her hands over the sequined dress that fit her snugly—a little too snug for her tastes. She’d never been one to dress flashy. Even as a teenager, when her friends were shopping for makeup and the current fashion trends, Mercy had been buying books. She’d enlisted Hart’s fashion sense to help Mercy fit in at the billionaire party.

There were risks involved in attending one of the parties. If her cover was blown, she could end up in a compromised situation.

“It’s not too late to pull out,” Howie encouraged.

“Once I have made up my mind, there’s no turning back,” she reminded him.

“Mateo is going to kill us both.”

She knew her brother would have vetoed the plan, so she’d chosen not to tell him.

Two years ago, SMH Security had achieved certification for collaborating with law enforcement agencies to aid in fighting crime on Colorado soil. Mateo was assigned to work undercover and had been working to bring Cross to justice.

“I’m ready. How do I look? Do I meet party girl standards?” Although she put on a brave front, her nerves were rattled.

Howie looked her up and down. “You’ll fit in.”

“Good.”

“Who knew you had sexy party girl in you underneath all that librarian facade?” He popped up a brow.

“These shoes feel... strange. Let’s hope I don’t break my neck.” She adjusted the straps on the high heels that looked more like weapons. “Pray. Let’s hope Mateo doesn’t break my neck when he discovers that you’ve put yourself in danger.”

“Relax. No one is going to face a broken neck. By the time my brother finds out what I’ve done, he’ll have all the details he needs to put Cross behind bars where he belongs.” “Remember the plan and stay on track. Get in there, get the pictures, and get out,” Howie said firmly. He took a drink of his coffee and spilled it down the front of his shirt. “Shit!” He jumped up from his chair.

Mercy grabbed a roll of paper towels and handed them to her partner. “I don’t know who’s more nervous — you or me,” she teased.

He clumsily wiped at the stain. “I don’t want anything to happen to you.”

“Let’s not get mushy.” She winked. “Stay in contact with McKinley and keep our drone up, just in case we need it.”

“You can count on me,” he assured her.

She grabbed her dainty black purse, checked to ensure the invitation was tucked inside, and the camera was hidden in the secret pouch, then dragged it over her shoulder. “You did an amazing job with the invitation. No one will have a clue that it’s fake.”

“I can be handy at times,” he said, blowing on his knuckles and swiping them down his shirt.

“See you on the flipside.” Mercy slipped out of the mobile unit and glanced around the parking lot of the closed Chinese restaurant. It was a warm, balmy evening, and she appreciated the way her dress exposed her skin. Sweat would not be a welcome effect.

Usual on a lively Saturday on the strip, businesses were in full swing in the brewery district. Patrons and their banter overflowed outside of crowded bars onto the sidewalks. Mercy gained attention as she pushed her way through the throngs of people. She wasn’t used to receiving this much attention and had to remind herself to keep her appearance easy and sexy. Just be a girl out enjoying the evening.

She rounded a corner, entering the artsy district where it was more subdued. The entire row of buildings was owned by Cross, who rented them out to business owners, earning the street the nickname “Cross Row.”

Although she couldn’t see or hear the drone, she knew it was above her, and she should be in view by now.

A neon sign buzzing above heavy metal double doors alerted her that she’d reached

the club, aptly named Power House. From the sidewalk, one might assume the club was empty because the outside appeared just like many of the other businesses at this time of night: closed.

There were no cars in sight because clients were dropped off at the entrance, and the girls discreetly entered at the back door.

She knocked twice, following the instructions on the invitation, and the door swung open, revealing a doorman who towered above Mercy and looked as if he were about to burst a seam on his too-tight suit.

She flashed her invitation, and he nodded, stepping back to let her enter.

As she stepped through another set of doors, she was welcomed by a quartet playing instruments. The atmosphere was like high society, sin, and debauchery.

The gatherings served purposes beyond leisure and enjoyment. Numerous deals were struck, alliances established, and decisions made at these events, which were primarily attended by men in elegant suits, wearing elite watches, and custom-made shoes. Young women, dressed in revealing gowns, flowed elegantly through the rooms, lavishly decorated with lit candles, tables overflowing with gourmet food, and mini bars.

Inside one room, a row of tycoons sat on an L-shaped sofa, flanked by beautiful women, while exotic dancers danced on tables.

In another room, women were lying on tables and their bodies were being used as sushi bars.

The party felt like a playground for indulging the wealthy and reinforcing their powerful statuses.

Mercy accepted a flute of champagne, eager to blend in as best as she could. Someone grabbed her arm, and she looked up—way up—to a man with slicked-back hair and striking features. He offered her a charming smile. “You’re new to these parties.”

“Is it that obvious?”

“Only because I would have remembered you.”

She sipped the champagne, allowing her time to think about how she’d respond. “This is my first. I hear they’re amazing.”

One groomed brow flicked up. “Have you met anyone?”

Mercy had a feeling that was code, asking if she’d been chosen to entertain anyone for the night, but before she could answer, a tall, beautiful blonde in a glittery rose-gold dress swept in and hooked her hand possessively around the tycoon's elbow.

Mercy smiled at the woman, but she responded with a frigid glare. It was clear there were some territorial boundaries that Mercy was being made aware of.

“Buy me a drink, handsome,” the blonde said to the man.

He seemed a bit agitated, but his smile didn’t slip. “Sure.” he said. Then, he pulled his arm from the blonde’s grasp and bent close to Mercy’s ear. “Come and find me later. I’ll make it worth your while, beautiful.”

Mercy had to bite her tongue to staunch the flow of words that threatened to spill forth.

As the couple walked away, Mercy positioned herself so that she could see every angle of the room. The décor featured a striking black and silver palette with opulent flooring—more suited for a mansion than an old warehouse converted into a club. An army of servers, clad in gowns likely pricier than a month’s rent, catered to the attendees' needs, ensuring they were refreshed and happy.

She navigated through the crowd, maintaining a low profile, and found a spot near a wall adorned with paintings. From there, she pressed a button on her purse and started taking pictures, aiming to capture as many party-goers as possible without raising suspicion.

She heard a hushed gasp wash over the crowd. When heads turned, she scanned the room to see what she was missing. A man emerged from a room and gained everybody’s attention. They applauded him as if her were a star.

Mercy recognized Cross. He was much better looking than his surveillance pictures gave him credit for. She could see how that would play in his favor. He looked regal in a tailored suit with his sleeves rolled up, showing black ink visible on both arms. His hair was as black as his suit and long enough to touch his collar, but smoothed back in a slick style. His beard was neat and well-trimmed. She could see why he attracted attention, not just for his looks, but he had enough confidence to share with everyone in the room.

And he loved the spotlight, made apparent by his comfort.

As Cross moved further into the room, the crowd instinctively divided, with two towering bodyguards flanking him on either side.

Mercy took partial cover behind a group of men and captured photos.

As Cross passed in front of her, their gazes met. His eyes were nearly as dark as his hair. He walked to a door marked “Private” and he and his bodyguards entered.

Mercy couldn’t help but feel like she’d just met the devil in person.

Instinct warned her that she needed to leave.

She’d stepped into the vestibule when a beefy hand grasped her elbow. She looked up, seeing one of Cross’s bodyguards towering over her.

“Mr. Cross would like to speak to you.”

“I-I was just leaving.” She had a feeling that denying Cross didn’t happen often.

“He has requested your presence.” The bodyguard didn’t seem to care what she thought.

Realizing that making a scene might not be in her best interest, she followed the bodyguard into a door off the vestibule, which he had accessed with a keycard. She could barely contain the shaking in her knees as the door closed behind her, and she noticed there was no doorknob.

She followed him up a staircase.

While the front of the club belonged in a magazine, the back area wasn’t nearly as glamorous. The walls were soundproof, and it felt like a completely different place. The bodyguard led her down a darkened hallway, passed a room where two men stood watching a wall of monitors.

At the end of the hallway, she was shown into a spacious office. Behind the massive black desk sat Cross, his undivided attention pinned on a wall of monitors displaying the club. She started to speak but thought better of interrupting him. Instead, she took in the black leather couch, expensive paintings, and a lavish area rug.

What drew her attention most was the one-way mirror that overlooked the main room of the club. She stepped over to look down. Cross had a god’s view of everything.

“What do you think?” He had come to stand beside her.

“The club is amazing.” She tried hiding her discomfort.

“It’s a lot of work, but worth it when you see how much fun everyone is having. Did you have a good evening?”

“I did, thank you.” Why did it feel like a trick question?

He pressed a button on the wall, and a blind slowly lowered over the window. “You’re new,” he said.

“Yes. This is my first time.”

He gave a slight nod. “I make it my effort to know all the girls.”

An alarm went off inside her head.

It was truly the first time she regretted coming, however, remembering that the man—snake—who stood in front of her allowed women, underage girls, to be terrorized for his monetary benefit stiffened her spine.

“Drink?”

“No, thank you.” She wanted to keep her wits about her.

He strode over to the minibar and poured himself a drink while he stared at her for a moment, as if he were searching for any sign that she wasn’t who she was supposed to be.

“Do you prefer the name 'Diamond?”

“Excuse me?” she said.

“That’s the name on the invitation, but I like the name Mercy better.” He tossed back the contents of his glass.

Shit. “That was quick,” she said.

One corner of his mouth lifted as if she humored him. “I like a woman with guts.”

“I can see that. You have a club full of them.” Logic warned her to tread carefully, but this man made her sick.

“Each one of them is happy.”

“I have plans, so I must be running along.” She took a step toward the door, but the bodyguard opened the door and blocked her path, clapping his beefy hands on her shoulders and turning her around.

His grip was like claws burrowing in her skin.

“Did you get the information you were looking for?” Cross asked.

“I-I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said through clenched teeth.”

“Of course you do.”

“Are you getting some power trip over this?” She didn’t turn her gaze away from Cross.

“You’re a feisty one. Is there any chance you could see yourself here in the club, entertaining the guests?”

“Over my dead body.”

“That’s what I thought. That can be arranged.” He jutted his chin, and the bodyguard roughly dragged the purse off her shoulder. A thought came over her: the man who is his own lawyer has a fool for a client . The saying seemed fitting. For her situation , what had she been thinking—that she could pretend to be a field agent?

Cross had the purse, opening it and looking inside.

Mercy hoped that Howie or McKinley would realize something was wrong if she didn’t come out of the club soon . She should have left by now. By the time they realized she was in trouble, it might be too late—she could be dead.

He took out the invitation, examined it, then laid it aside along with the lipstick. He peered inside the purse and found the hidden pocket where the camera was stored.

“Now we have a huge problem.”