Chapter Three
Selene
Exactly seven days had passed since the Duchess and the other three showed up at my casino and made me an offer of a lifetime. So far, neither Zeke nor Kara had made an appearance, but I knew that only meant they were planning something brutal.
I eyed the stack of folders on my desk and flipped the top folder open.
Joker. No real name, just the handle, and not the DC kind.
Six feet even, lean as a whip, eyes that never smiled.
She fought bare-knuckle for ten years and trained in several martial arts.
You can always spot the ones who’ve learned to take a punch and get up grinning.
A text from Stephanie buzzed my phone. “Clock’s ticking. Show me what you’ve got.”
I ignored it for a moment, just to prove I still could. I lit a cigarette and watched the Las Vegas sunrise paint the strip in radioactive pink, then hit the reply. “I’m working on it.”
I grabbed my helmet, the one my father wore but also the one I’d modified to fit my head, and then shrugged into the cut. I locked up and left Marty with the keys.
The pawn shop was on Stewart, halfway to Nellis, an ugly building jammed between a vape lounge and a Vietnamese bakery.
The sign outside read “WE BUY GOLD,” but everyone knew the real currency here was pain.
I found the back entrance by the grease trail of spilled takeout and the scuffed footprints that always led the same way.
A guy with cauliflower ears and a tattoo of Calvin pissing on a Ford sized me up at the door. “No guns,” he said.
“You check for ovaries, too?” I said, smiling with all my teeth. He didn’t, and he didn’t ask about the blade taped to my boot, either. He just jerked his head toward the stairs.
The underground smelled like old beer and sweat.
The cage was sunk in concrete, surrounded by three rings of seating.
The crowd was mostly men, but not the fun kind.
These were dead-eyed, hungry types, the kind who’d sell their own mothers for an easy ten grand.
The only women were the ones who couldn’t leave or didn’t want to.
I spotted Joker before she hit the ring.
She was warming up in a corner, stretching her arms behind her back until the shoulder blades touched.
The tattoos on her forearms were new and showed a string of playing cards on one, a grinning skull with a broken jester’s cap on the other.
She didn’t make eye contact, but I could feel her watching me, just the same.
They called the first round, and Joker stepped in.
Her opponent was a slab of meat named Big Eddie, a former semi-pro wrestler, two hundred and eighty pounds if you counted the cinderblocks he called fists.
The fight wasn’t fair, but Vegas never is.
Vegas had changed me since my arrival. I now had an edge because, for a woman to be successful, she had to have an edge, a mean streak that people respected.
They circled. Eddie tried to crowd her, but Joker’s footwork was ballet-like, quick in, quick out, hands low, and taunting him.
She let him land a jab, took it on the chin, then slipped sideways and caught him in the ribs.
The crowd howled. She danced away and grinned wide.
That’s when I knew she was a good choice.
In the second round, Eddie was sucking wind.
Joker toyed with him, letting him grab her, then turned the hold into a flip, slamming him on his back.
The third round lasted twelve seconds. Joker fainted left, then right, then landed a knee between Eddie’s eyes.
Lights out, just like that. The crowd erupted.
I watched her post-fight. She didn’t celebrate. She knelt by Eddie, checked his pulse, then handed the ref a five. The gesture said everything. It was no hard feelings, just business.
I waited for her in the locker room. She entered with a towel over her head, still sweating, face streaked with blood. Her eyes flicked up to me and held. They were hard and cold.
“If you’re a fan, I’m not signing your tits,” she said.
“Not my style,” I said. “But I am hiring.”
She peeled the towel away, nose already swelling. “What for? You need a bodyguard, or you just like broken noses?”
I tossed the VP patch on the bench. She looked at it, then back at me, not touching it. “You want me to be your second.”
“I want someone who’s not afraid of losing,” I said. “Someone who doesn’t get rattled when the big dogs bark. Come to think of it, I want someone who is a big dog.”
She snorted and spat a bloody glob in the sink. “Plenty of tough bitches in Vegas. Why me?”
I shrugged. “Because you’re not afraid to win, either.”
A thick silence settled in for a few minutes.
Joker leaned in, hands bracing the counter, face inches from mine. “What makes you think you’re president material?”
“Because nobody else is fucking crazy enough,” I said. “And because I don’t need a second who agrees with me. I need one who’ll tell me when I’m about to eat shit.”
She laughed, a barking sound that was honest and sharp. “You don’t want respect. You want trouble.”
“I want both, in that order,” I said.
She stared at the patch, like it was a loaded gun. “You know my background?”
“I know all about you,” I said. “I know you broke a guy’s arm in three places and didn’t flinch when he pissed himself.”
Joker raised an eyebrow. “You do your homework.”
I nodded. “Every test, every time.”
She wiped the blood off her face with the towel. “Let’s say I take this. What’s the first order?”
I didn’t hesitate. “Recruitment. We get a crew. You want to run this town, you need people who know how to bleed.”
Joker smiled then, a thin line. “I’ll need a bike.”
“You’ll get one,” I said.
She took the patch, ran a thumb over the embroidery, then tucked it into her gym bag. “You got yourself a Vice President. But if you fuck me over, I’ll knock your teeth out.”
“Deal,” I said, and offered my hand.
She shook it with a steel cable-like grip.
As I turned to leave, Joker called after me. “President,” she said, the word sweet and sour.
I looked back.
“You know Zeke’s putting together his own squad, right?” She smiled again. “I do my homework, too.”
“I know,” I said. “He can have all the muscle in the world. I’ll take the smart ones.” I gave her the place to meet.
She laughed again, this time with real joy. “See you tomorrow, boss.”
Outside, the desert sun was blinding, but I liked it that way.
Six days left, and my first card was on the table.
***
The desert didn’t get hot until noon, but the shooting range was already shimmering with it by eight.
The drive east of Vegas was all sun-bleached billboard skeletons, tire-burst gravel, and scrub so mean it looked like it could draw blood.
I parked the Harley behind a Ford Bronco and killed the engine.
Spade was at Lane Six, alone. She stood with her feet perfect, her knees loose, her shoulders squared to the target.
The posture was ex-military, with no slouch, no slop.
She wore black jeans and a sleeveless tee, and her arms were tan and corded with sinew.
No tattoos, just a pale scar on her right forearm, neat as a scalpel line.
She wore ear protection, and her hair was in a severe bun.
No ornament except the gun, a custom SIG with inlaid grips.
She fired in three-round bursts, each set ticking off like clockwork.
I watched her finish a mag, pop it, and reload without breaking rhythm.
The target downrange, a standard silhouette, had a tight little daisy chain stitched up the chest, right through the heart.
I had to smile. This was the type that didn’t just aim, but planned every shot before stepping up to the line.
She wasn’t just dangerous. She was deadly.
I walked up, careful to keep my hands visible.
“Not many civilians here on a Tuesday,” she said, voice flat, eyes on the SIG as she chambered another round.
“I never liked crowds,” I replied.
Spade nodded, not looking at me. “You here to shoot or talk?”
“Both.” I set my helmet on the counter and leaned in. “I’m Selene. I run Aces Wild, a little casino on the strip.”
She put the pistol down and looked at me for the first time. Her eyes were cold gray, unreadable. “I know who you are.”
Of course she did. People like Spade never came in blind. “Then you know why I’m here.”
She didn’t smile. “I don’t do muscle work for free.”
“I’m not here to hire muscle,” I said. “I need a Sergeant at Arms. Someone who can run security, handle gear, and maybe run a few ops on the side. That you?”
She sized me up, a slow scan from head to boots. “You think you can trust me with that?”
“I think you’re smarter than most of the men on this line,” I said. “And I think you’re bored.”
That got a ghost of a grin. “Most people get nervous around guns.”
“Most people haven’t had one pointed at their face,” I said. “You want to talk inside?”
She shrugged. “I talk fine right here.”
I liked her already.
We stood shoulder to shoulder, watching the Nevada heat dance above the targets. “You left the Army in what, 2016?” I said.
She didn’t flinch. “Medical condition. Blew out my ACL running security in Kabul.”
“Looks like you still run.”
She picked up the SIG, spun it once in her palm. “PTSD doesn’t show up on a background check.”
“Neither does a tendency to make people disappear,” I said.
Now she smiled for real. “You came all the way out here to impress me with Google?”
“No. I came to recruit you.”
She holstered the pistol and turned to face me, eyes gone flinty. “Why?”
“Because you don’t miss,” I said.
She gave that a second. “Let’s cut to the chase, Selene. What’s the real offer?”