3. Zoe
3
ZOE
“This is too risky, Strauss. I’ve changed my mind. We’re not sending you in.”
“Too late, Chief,” I reply in an amused tone, locking the slide of my Sig Sauer into place. Muzzle pointed at the ground, I pull the trigger to release the firing pin and check everything’s working correctly. The pistol joins the arsenal of firearms and ammo. I’ve got a whole duffel bag and a holster strapped to my waist. Shooting him a smirk, I add, “Plane ticket’s already bought. You know how these airlines do. No refunds.”
“Damn it, Strauss. Ditch the cocky attitude. This isn’t time for your ego. The mission is pulled. End of.”
I lose my smirk as I hoist the heavy duffel bag over my shoulder and then slide on my shades. I’ve got my car keys in hand and everything else I need to take with me.
My guns, a suitcase of skimpy clothes, and my alias ID.
It’s go time.
“What you call ego and a cocky attitude is confidence . You said it yourself when I was first assigned to this team: you haven’t seen a female agent like me in over a decade,” I say. “How do you think I’ve made it through the training I have? I had to believe I was the best shit since sliced bread.”
He gives a shake of his head, the sigh he releases exasperated. “Exactly why I refuse to risk my best agent on an operation that’s doomed from the start. Intel says Boone and his org are onto us. They’re on the lookout for a turncoat. We’ll have to find a different in. Stand down, Strauss. That’s an order.”
Director Duchovny bumps his shoulder to mine on his way out.
The door slams shut behind him and silence weighs heavily on the room, taking up too much space.
Probably because I’ve got little to no furniture filling up my living room. What’s the point when I’m rarely home?
All I’ve ever needed was a basic couch, a TV mounted to the wall, and the treadmill in the corner for my occasional home work outs.
The same can be said for the rest of my apartment. My place isn’t full of the pretty photogenic crap you see on social media, where people flaunt the “aesthetic” of their home.
My place is plain, impersonal, and nondescript.
Just the way I like it.
I sigh and let the dense duffel bag roll off my shoulder and thump on the floor.
From an official duty standpoint, Duchovny’s position makes sense. He’s the head of our department and any fuck ups will ultimately fall on him. If he sends a special agent into an operation he knows will fail, then that’s his ass on the line.
This isn’t about my safety or some kind of concern for my well-being.
He’s covering for himself more than anything.
I’d probably do the same if I were the director.
But I’m not. I’m the agent that was about to be sent into the fold of Asa Boone’s underground organization and it was about to be the highlight of my damn year.
Of my entire eight-year-long career.
Finally a shot at making Boone pay.
If anybody deserves to bring him down, it’s me. I’m the person who should get the honor. It doesn’t matter if the mission is a death sentence. The risks didn’t faze me when I first went into this line of work and they damn sure don’t faze me now that I’m closer than ever to taking Boone down.
Taking Boone with me as I go out sounds like the perfect way to go.
I pace the length of my living room.
Back and forth. Wall to wall. Thoughts spinning.
My adrenaline is on high. It rushes my bloodstream and thuds in my ears like a drumbeat.
I’m on edge and usually this is where I’d seek out some way to exert this pent-up energy. I’d go for a run or throw myself in the ring for an extra shift at the bureau or call up Jeremy for a quick fuck.
But none of those things will suffice right now.
Not when Boone’s slipping through my fingers.
My gaze lands on the duffel bag and my ring of keys. Intrusive thoughts whisper at me, telling me exactly what I need to do.
The flight leaves in two hours. You can still make it.
In the next second, I’m rushing toward my bag and snatching up my keys. I’m tuning out the more responsible, reasonable side of me that screams to stop and back the hell away from the door. That reminds me I’ll be in serious trouble if I do this.
I could be relieved from duty for this. The final strike in a record that’s been stacking up for years.
“It’ll be worth it,” I mutter to myself, adrenaline racing as I slam the door and make quick work of the stairs leading to the parking lot. My duffel bag is tossed into the back seat and I slide behind the wheel to start up my 4Runner. “Boone is going down.”
When I first agreed to go undercover, I had to accept the fact that as a female agent, I’d be going undercover at a strip club. I wouldn’t be on stage, but I’d be one of the scantily clad bottle girls prancing around like a bimbo, giggling for tips, and pouring liquor for men who would probably smack my ass.
Basically the exact opposite of who I am and what I normally tolerate from the opposite sex.
But I had agreed, because I wanted to catch Boone that damn bad.
Once I arrive at the seedy motel where I’ll be staying for the next few weeks, I toss my suitcase onto the bed and unpack my things. I set my toiletry bag of grooming items and medications on the bathroom counter where they’ll be within reach when I need them.
I lay out the barely-there outfits I’ve packed and model them in the mirror.
Lots of fishnet. Too many crop tops and thongs to count.
More leopard print and lace than I’d ever wear otherwise in my life.
I’m supposed to be a bottle girl working her way through college.
Jade Fowley is twenty-four, deep in debt, and just trying to start over in Houston. She’s exactly the kind of young woman who would take a job at a gentleman’s club like Déjà Vu in order to pay the bills.
The manager, Benz, makes it no secret he’s undressing me with his eyes when I turn up for my first shift. He flashes a grin of approval once he reaches my exposed stomach and spots the sparkly Playboy Bunny gem I have dangling from my pierced navel.
“You’ll fit right in, honey,” he hacks in between a wet cough. He flashes a smile, showing off his missing front incisor. He’s balding, though holding onto a few thin strands up top, and he wears a gaudy shirt with a golden baroque pattern on it that tells me he thinks it’s peak fashion. “You’ll be working weekends and Tuesdays and Wednesdays. Sugar will be training you on the basics. All bottle girls wear the uniform. Yours is in the back dressing room.”
The uniform he speaks of is a black cropped tee with the club name in fiery red letters and a miniskirt that’s more a patch of fabric than it is a real piece of clothing.
It doesn’t come close to covering my ass.
But that’s the point. Being eye candy for the paying male customers.
I step out onto the club floor with the urge to tug down my cropped tee and cover my ass with my hands.
I’ve got the urge to walk the hell out of here altogether.
Sugar happens to pass by and winks at me with an encouraging smile. I’ve only known the blonde for an hour and she seems ditzy but she’s been welcoming.
All the girls have been.
The girls at Déjà Vu aren’t in competition with each other like at other clubs. Everybody has a different look and seems to have their own set of clientele and dedicated customers.
I inhale a deep breath, soften my expression, and then strut toward the bar. I’ve waitressed before. Posing as a bottle girl at a strip club can’t be that much different. Some of the same skills are required—being pleasant, sometimes flirtatious, serving customers as fast as possible, and most important of all, observation and memorization skills.
Half the clientele at Déjà Vu is affiliated with Asa Boone in some way. Every moment is a chance to collect intel.
My first night at the club is uneventful. The hours drag by at a snail’s pace with only a handful of regulars coming by for their favorite girl on the stage.
“Tuesdays are always dead,” says Versace, another one of the bottle girls.
Wednesday’s not much better. I make only fifty-two bucks in tips, which is low for the hours I pull. My phone vibrates with messages from people at work. Duchovny and Rodriguez, my partner, checking in on me.
They have no idea where I am; they think I’m still in D.C.
By Saturday night, I turn off my phone altogether. It’s just another potential weak spot if somebody were to suspect me and search my person.
It’s perfect timing, because Asa Boone actually does turn up despite the big gambling tournament being canceled.
But just as I’m settling into my undercover alias, making inroads with Boone and the rest of his table, the most unexpected wrench is thrown into my plans.
Oswald Gallagher from the Steel Kings Motorcycle Club decides to turn up in Houston and then point out how he recognizes me from a previous case I’d worked on the Chosen Saints cult. He’s crass, loud, covered in tattoos, and thinks a mohawk is a great hairstyle to rock. He’s obnoxious and has no concept of discretion as he comes up to the counter and points out that he recognizes me.
It’s the worst possible timing as I’m servicing Boone’s table. I’m behind the counter putting together their drink order while trying to play it cool and pretend I don’t notice how a few of the men in Boone’s company start glancing over.
“Mr. Gallagher, what are you doing in Houston?”
His brows raise. “Thought I just asked you the same thing.”
I start scowling, my cheeks hollowing out, before I catch myself. “I’m working.”
“Since when do you work at a titty bar?”
“None of your fucking business,” I mutter under my breath. I leave Gallagher staring after me as I balance the tray in one hand and strut toward Boone’s table.
Their loud and raucous conversation drops off as soon as I’m at their table delivering their drinks. Ignoring the sudden strange energy, I smile and begin placing their drinks down.
“Double tequila for you, big boy,” I flirt at Jay Chmura, one of Boone’s righthand men.
Tall and heavyset with gelled hair and plenty of tattoos, he’s no stranger to the FBI. He’d come into the club last night and loved the attention I gave him (all because of his association with Boone).
It’s a different story tonight. He sits solemnly at Boone’s side and pretends we have no rapport.
Boone, who hides behind his dark shades, is watching every move I make. Most people would crack under the pressure of being the center of attention in such a circle. These are bad, dangerous men, and I’m like a guppy floating in shark-infested waters.
But I’ve never been one to back down. Even when the sharks start circling in the water.
“Can I get you anything else, gentlemen?”
It’s like the question pushes them to act. No less than a second after I’ve asked, two of Boone’s men leap out of their seats and knock over the bottles I’ve just brought over. They crash to the ground in an explosion of glass as they draw their guns, and the guy on the left wrenches me toward him by the hair.
Considering I’m wearing a bubblegum-pink wig, he almost pulls it clean off.
I scream in alarm like a woman like Jade Fowley would and twist helplessly in his hold.
In reality, if I really wanted to, I could easily break his grip and escape. But part of being undercover means sticking to the role even when the situation turns grim. Even when it seems shit is about to go down.
Boone sits calmly as I’m accosted by his men and the rest of the club goes silent. A lopsided grin crawls onto his otherwise stoic, square face. “You didn’t think you’d get one over on us, did you? Did you think we were dumb, sweetheart?”
“N-no… of course not…” I choke out. “I don’t know what you’re?—”
“Shut up!” he barks suddenly. “Drop the innocent act, sweetheart. I know an outsider when I see one. Boys, take her out back to handle business.”
SHIT.
The entire table rises to their feet with me still in the grip of the guy who’s grabbed onto my hair. They’re going to take me to the alley behind the bar and rough me up… or a lot worse. Somehow, Boone has come to the conclusion that I’m the turncoat he’s been paranoid about.
He’s right, but I need him to change his mind.
Thinking fast, my pleading gaze meets Chmura’s. “Big boy, please…”
He looks away, signaling he can’t, and won’t, be helping me tonight.
I struggle some more in the men’s grip as I’m dragged out through the back entrance of the club and then shoved into the alleyway.
Nobody steps in. Not Benz, the club manager. Not any of the bottle girls or strippers or handful of customers.
Everybody simply… lets it happen.
Not that I’m surprised.
I’ve never had anybody who’s bothered to fight on my behalf. I’ve never even had anybody loyal enough to stick by my side when shit got rough. Outside of my work for the bureau, I’ve always had to stand on my own.
Luckily, I’ve made sure I was strong enough to do so. I had to learn to be from a young age.
But I’m not Zoe Strauss right now. I’m Jade, and Jade is terrified as she’s thrown into the alleyway and pinned against a brick wall that bites into the skin on her back.
One guy holds me in place while another produces a pocketknife.
“You know what to do, boys,” Boone says, pacing in front of me. He’s lit a cigarette that smolders in the night air. “Check her for wires.”
The henchman with the pocketknife strides forward and slashes the blade down the front of my crop top. The cheap fabric falls apart and reveals my chest heaving in my equally as cheap lacy bra. Provocative underwear I bought in preparation for my role as Jade Fowley.
It’s like I’m caught in the middle of a pack of wild animals the second my shirt splits open and they can see my tits in my bra. I can feel the energy shift—the leers they give and way they practically foam at the fucking mouth.
“What you waiting for, Moe?” Boone snaps. “Keep going. We need to know she’s got no wires or cams or nothing else on her anywhere . That includes any private parts. Both fucking holes.”
The men grunt out their laughter as the one named Moe moves to slash my bra next. I brace for it, my body going tense as my pulse races so fast I’m practically lightheaded.
“Hold up!”
The voice comes from the other end of the alleyway. Everybody looks up, including me, as the crude laughter fades for confused silence.
It’s Gallagher.
He’s followed us into the alley, stepping toward the crowd of men as if he doesn’t care how outnumbered he is or how dangerous it could be.
As if they don’t have me at knifepoint with my top slashed open.
“What the hell do you want, Oz?” Boone asks, recognizing him like I do.
Ozzie tilts his head to the side, hands deep in his pockets. “I want to know what the fuck you think you’re doing with my girl.”