Chapter Four
Pete drove past the exclusive Bowen Golf and Country Club to where the Vault was situated, a mile behind and to the west of the fairway.
“I have to say, this Shep guy is impressive,” Calista said from behind me. “A penthouse in Dubai and the use of a luxury SUV. Rescue missions. Helicopters on standby. A Grand Wagoneer delivered this afternoon. Is there anything he can’t pull off?”
In the years we’d worked with Shepherd Drexel, I’d yet to find something he couldn’t get or find. And I didn’t know for certain, but I was confident he did and found and delivered everything from behind a keyboard.
I’d never met the man in person. Neither had any of my teammates, and we’d worked with him for years.
Hell, I didn’t even know where he lived or if he was in the US.
For all I knew, he had a fortified lair deep in some jungle.
Further, I knew all his save-the-world missions were funded by money collected from accounts Shep had seized.
Yes, Downrange missions were paid for with stolen money.
I gave zero fucks we saved victims of sex trafficking, domestic violence, femicide, and a multitude of other atrocities with the money Shep stole from assholes who made their fortunes from trafficking and other felonious activities.
It came to us dirty and we cleaned it—literally—by rescuing women, men, and children.
Setting up safe houses, and donating large sums to victim-assistance organizations.
“I asked him to send me Hershey bars while we were on an extended-stay mission in Peru. He failed,” Mason pointed out.
“It was February in Peru,” Pete reminded him. “It was over a hundred degrees and humid as fuck. What did you expect?”
“Ice packs,” Mase returned dryly.
I thought back to the box of melted chocolate and my teammate’s absurd love affair with chocolate. “Dude, you still ate the mushy chocolate with a plastic spork.”
“And?”
“You’re ridiculous.” I chuckled, taking in my surroundings.
The full moon cast just enough light to make out the golf course to my right and the untouched, unmanicured natural shrubbery of the woodland to my left.
No streetlights to guide the way. An ornamental sign back at the entrance declaring this a private road.
You had to know the Vault was tucked back behind the country club, making it feel more exclusive.
The nonmember nights were by invitation of a member or management.
An invite Shep had managed to secure through an active member who had concerns.
Last week’s briefing had been, well . . .
brief. Shep’s file didn’t offer much, just a friend of a friend of Shep’s expressing concern about something he’d overheard, which prompted this member, Dorian Whitmore, to reach out to his buddy who was in law enforcement.
Unfortunately, the Bureau couldn’t open an investigation with nothing to go on but a conversation.
The FBI agent reached out to Shep, asking him to look into it.
How Shep knew this field agent, he didn’t say.
But Shep followed up, didn’t like the players involved, the money, the opportunity, and the reach, and decided to send us in.
To the average person, the conversation was benign.
To someone who did the kind of work we did, it absolutely was not.
And to a man whose friend worked in the FBI and had heard enough stories to know words like product, secured, buyer, and ready to move were at best case about drugs.
Worst case, the product in question was women.
And with Sterling Blackwell’s fleet of jets, moving product—be it women or drugs—would be easy.
Three cell phones simultaneously alarmed.
Before I could pull mine out of the pocket of my slacks that cost a fucking fortune, Mason announced, “Jammer.”
“Expected,” Pete grumbled.
Shep’s informant had warned there were cell phone jammers on the premises, but not in the parking area.
And speaking of, the lighting was shit. The building’s entrance was no better.
Strategically placed sconces gave a warm glow to the dark stucco exterior, giving it a posh, affluent charm.
The kind that was meant to scream old money but fell short by a fraction.
The gold door and window trim was on the wrong side of gaudy.
Pete rolled to a stop in front of the valet. Two men, both unremarkable in every way, down to their slight builds, approached the SUV. Still, I cataloged their every movement. A fighting-aged male was a fighting-aged male regardless of his size.
My door was opened. The valet moved to the door behind mine and opened that as well. But when he saw it was a woman, he held out a hand to help Calista out.
“If you don’t mind.” I tipped my head to the open door.
“Of course, sir,” the valet said, immediately stepping away from the opened door.
I reached in and helped Calli maneuver out onto the sidewalk, holding on to her hand long enough for her to steady herself on her dangerously high spiked heels.
Not that that was necessary; Mason was at her side like a man possessed.
Not that I blamed him. Calli in a pair of jeans, tee, hair in a ponytail, and flip-flops—her go-to when she and Mase were at the Plank—was stunning.
Calli with bold red lipstick on, in a tight black dress with some complicated twist of fabric under her tits, hair done in loose curls, and in a pair of high heels was head-turning gorgeous.
“Mr. York.” The doorman approached Pete with his hand extended. “Welcome.”
Pete took the man’s hand and with an incline of his head, muttered, “Thank you.”
“If you’ll follow me in, Muriel will get you and your guests to your section.”
A Geena Davis look-alike in a silver one-shoulder dress that hit her knees appeared as soon as we filed into the foyer.
The woman had to be in her sixties and had cougar written all over her.
Not because she looked like she’d go after younger men, but because younger men would trip over themselves to get to her.
“Mr. York,” she greeted with a smile but didn’t offer her hand.
“Miss . . .” Pete let that hang.
“Muriel, please.”
Well fuck, she didn’t bite.
Shep’s report didn’t include Muriel’s last name. Dorian only knew her as Muriel, and to his knowledge she ran the club but didn’t handle the membership process. Mr. Mercer—no first name—conducted the membership intake.
“Muriel,” Pete conceded.
Her smile didn’t falter as she took in the rest of us. “Mr. and Mrs. Hart. Mr. Sinclair. You’re just in time. The first show of the evening will begin in five minutes. If you’ll follow me, I’ll get you seated.”
Right. Tonight I was Rhett Sinclair. Mase and Calli were Mark and Caroline Hart, and Pete was Peter York. Lucky bastard didn’t need a first name change since his name wasn’t Pete, it was Saint. Pete was a nickname from our time in the Navy.
I took in the foyer as we followed Muriel.
No hostess stand, an empty coat check to the right, no one manning the area as it was unnecessary this time of year.
Dark matte-navy walls. Polished wood floor.
Gold-framed mirrors in all different shapes and sizes adorned the walls.
Minimalist but effective, it gave the space an elegant feel without being over the top.
The theme continued into the club—navy walls, mirrors, and gold frames devoid of pictures hung on the walls.
It was much larger than I imagined. Maybe double the size of the Plank.
Padded taupe booth backs lined the walls.
Pastel pink leather chairs sat opposite.
A mix of two and four tops took up the rest of the space, with a few tables that would seat six.
To the far left was a glassed-off cigar section, the view of the room unobscured.
The room was currently occupied, six men and one woman smoking cigars, but no smoke lingered.
Opposite the smoking room was the bar. With all the patrons gathered around, I couldn’t take in the fullness, but from a distance and what I could see, it was damn impressive.
And the women . . . We’d passed two servers on our way to the table.
Both in tight black leather pants. One had on an electric-blue leather vest, the other a red leather corset with black lace ruffling the top.
The other servers bustling around were easy to spot, some in shorts or skirts, all of them black leather.
Vest, corsets, tank tops, some in ripped tees tied under their tits, showing skin but managing to keep it classy.
The woman patrons wouldn’t find the servers’ apparel offensive, and the men would find it alluring.
“Here we are.” Muriel stopped next to a four top. “Service is slow right before a show. Would you like me to get your drinks, or would you prefer to look over the cocktail menu?”
A couple fingers of bourbon would make sitting in this damn suit more bearable. “Eagle Rare. Very Rare if you have it.”
Muriel looked affronted I would question their bourbon selection.
“Of course, Mr. Sinclair.”
She patiently waited for the others to give their orders.
It was hard to beat back my smile when Pete ordered a bourbon, knowing damn well he’d prefer a Corona.
Mase ordered a vodka soda and Calli a glass of wine.
Neither looked happy with their selections.
Mase also favored IPAs. I wasn’t sure what Calista would prefer, but whatever it was, it sure as hell wasn’t an expensive glass of wine.
As soon as Muriel left to put in our order, Mason adjust his collar and muttered, “Thank fuck we didn’t need ties.”
He wasn’t wrong.
“You’ll live,” Pete shot back, not looking at Mase but instead scanning the room.
“I think I have a rash developing,” Mase continued to complain.
“You know there’s cream for that, right?” I shot back. “And really, it’s uncouth to discuss your crotch rot at the table.”
“Uncouth,” Mase choked out. “Did you learn that word from your Word of the Day app?”
Before I could answer, a man appeared with a tray of drinks.
We had good service at the Plank—our servers had it going on.
No one sat at a table longer than a few minutes without a drink in front of them.
We were in the business of selling booze, our servers were there to make money, and the only way they made that money was to keep the drinks flowing.
But, damn, that was quick.
“First round is on the house,” the man announced and passed out the drinks without having to ask who ordered what.
We all muttered our appreciation, Pete slipped the man his tip, and he was off.
“Shit, maybe we should be taking notes,” I mumbled, and picked up my tumbler.
The toasted oak, caramel, with a hint of vanilla hit my tongue. There was nothing like the first taste of a perfectly aged Kentucky whiskey. Smooth and lingering on the tongue before it warmed from the inside out.
Pete didn’t feel the same.
“Watching you choke that down is straight-up blasphemy,” I grumbled.
My friend shot me an unmistakable go fuck yourself look and shook his head.
“You know, real men drink bourbon,” I continued to prod.
“Is that . . .” Calli started but didn’t finish.
The music changed from a low hum of rock to pulse pounding.
It took me a moment to recognize the synthesized guitar riff.
And suddenly the leather made sense. Billy Idol’s iconic gritty voice pulsed through the speakers as the servers took the open spaces between the tables, dancing to “Rebel Yell.”
Some of the women wore leather jackets with bralettes underneath, some had on sunglasses, some were in heels, others in motorcycle boots.
The dancing wasn’t choreographed, which made it cool as hell.
Three women danced on top of the bar. The male bartenders stood behind them, either waiting to catch them should they fall or standing sentry.
It shouldn’t have worked, women dancing around posh tables to Billy Idol while those tables were occupied by men and women dressed to the nines, in an upscale club that cost a whack to join.
Yet it did.
Halfway through the song my gaze locked onto a familiar pair of hazel eyes.
What the fuck?
No, what in the actual fuck?
Chloe stumbled a step but quickly recovered. And fuck, the woman could move her body.
“Shit,” Pete ground out across from me, in a barely-heard-over-the-music grouse.
Shit didn’t begin to touch on the monumental snag in our operation.
Chloe Baughman should not be here.
Why was she here working when she had a fucking job—working for me.
“You need to contain her,” Pete ordered.
Contain her? I was going drag her ass out of here and demand she never wear leather booty shorts, bloodred heels, and a bustier in public again.
And what the hell had she done to her face?
At the Plank, she was fresh faced—if she wore makeup it was light and expertly applied to look like she wasn’t wearing any.
Now, however, her eyes were lined with black, smoky shadow on her lids, making the hazel pop.
Deep-red lipstick that gave a man ideas where he’d like to see those puffy red lips.
And where I’d like to see them was wrapped around my dick while she was on her knees in front of me, in that bustier that didn’t just highlight her cleavage—it showcased it.
Top to toe, the woman was the epitome of sexy vixen.
No, this wasn’t a hiccup for our operation. This was a motherfucking disaster.
This right here would be what made my control snap.