Chapter 6
Agent X
I've been sitting in my car for exactly seven minutes, and I'm already regretting the coffee I downed before starting this stakeout.
The thermos on my passenger seat is mocking me with its remaining contents, but my bladder won't survive another cup.
For someone who's supposed to be conducting discreet surveillance, I'm already failing at the most basic requirement, comfort.
I can't linger too long. Fifteen, maybe twenty minutes at most before someone notices.
Security has been tight lately. Too tight.
From the outside, it looks like any other renovated warehouse in this part of the city. It has a brick exterior, minimal signage, nothing flashy to draw attention. But I know better. I've been watching long enough to know who goes in and who comes out.
Speaking of which, a sleek black SUV pulls up to the front.
The driver exits first and then moves around to open the passenger door.
A well-dressed man in an expensive suit steps out, glances around casually before heading inside.
Even from this distance, I recognize Carter Morgan, the owner of the club.
I've memorized his face from the limited photographs available.
The man is notoriously private, has barely any digital footprint, which makes him all the more suspicious in my book.
Minutes later, another car arrives, Hunter Crespin, the co-owner. These two are always careful, always watching. Ex-military, both of them, which explains their security consciousness. They run a tight operation. I'll give them that.
Shifting uncomfortably in my seat, I check my watch. I can't stay parked here much longer. Their security has become increasingly vigilant over the past few weeks. I suspect they know they're being watched, though they haven't pinpointed me yet.
Just as I think this, a man in plainclothes exits the club and starts walking the perimeter. Casual to the untrained eye, but I recognize a security sweep when I see one.
The regulars come and go, some stepping out of sleek black cars, others arriving in Ubers, dressed to blend into the shadows.
A few wear masks, likely high-profile clients who can't afford to be seen here.
I recognize some of the faces: businessmen from the city, but not the others.
They're ghosts. No names, no identities, just whispers in the dark.
I jot down two names. These are the only ones I've managed to pin down so far. Both local entrepreneurs, men who deal in money and power. They have clean records, or at least ones scrubbed well enough that nothing sticks. But their presence here? That's a thread worth pulling.
My fingers drum against the steering wheel as I check the time.
Fifteen minutes. I need to move before I draw attention.
I take one last glance at the entrance. A black SUV pulls up.
The windows are as dark as mine, and the figure that steps out is masked, wearing a tailored suit. He walks as if he owns the place.
Interesting.
After making a note, I drive off, blending into traffic. I can't afford to be reckless. Not now.
I need more than just famous people entering a sex club to build a case. I need evidence of illegal activity, coercion, blackmail, something concrete. The Virgin Auction photos that leaked to the press are the first real break I've had in years. If they're actually running auctions in there...
The next morning, I get a call.
"Boss wants you in his office. Now," one of my co-workers says.
Great.
I take the stairs instead of the elevator, needing a second to clear my head. By the time I push open the door to his office, he's already waiting, arms crossed, expression unreadable.
"Tell me you have something."
I toss the notepad onto his desk. "Two names. Local businessmen. Both regulars at Club Red."
He picks it up, flipping through my notes. "And security?"
"Tighter than I've ever seen. More guards are at the entrance, and more eyes are inside. Someone's spooked. Though I think it's more from the press coverage than any idea of us."
He leans back, studying me. "And you?"
I keep my expression neutral. "I'm careful."
"Be more than careful." He closes the notebook and fixes me with a hard stare. "If you get caught, you're on your own. We won't back you up."
I don't flinch. I knew this going in. "Understood."
"Keep watching. Report anything unusual. But don't get sloppy. You know what happens if they figure out what you're doing."
I nod once, then turn and walk out, my mind already racing.
That night, I take a different approach. I swap cars with a buddy of mine and sit in a different spot further down the street. From here, I can watch without being too obvious, but I don't have as great of a view.
Minutes pass. More masked figures slip inside Club Red. A group of women arrives together, laughing, blending into the crowd like they belong. Some do. Some don't. I focus on the ones who hesitate before stepping inside, the ones who check their surroundings like they're afraid of being seen.
One man catches my attention. Tall, built like someone who knows how to fight. He doesn't wear a mask, but there's something about him. He's not here for pleasure; he's watching. Just like me.
My instincts hum to life.
I snap a discreet photo with my phone and send it through an encrypted channel to my contact. A few seconds later, my phone vibrates with a response.
Unknown. No priors. No records.
That's even worse.
Who the hell is he?
My thoughts are interrupted by another vehicle pulling up, this one with tinted windows that make it impossible to see inside.
The driver exits, a massive guy, security written all over him, and opens the back door.
A man steps out, his face partially obscured, but I recognize him instantly: Marco "Mase" Castellano.
If there's one person who definitely shouldn't be walking freely into a "legitimate" business, it's one of Chicago's most infamous mafia men.
I make another note and check the time. I've already been here too long.
As I get ready to head out, a prickling sensation crawls up my spine.
I'm being watched.
I don't turn immediately. Instead, I buckle up and start the car before casually glancing at the rearview mirror.
A man stands across the street, partially shrouded in shadows. He's not moving. Not pretending to be on his phone. Just watching me.
Shit.
Gripping the wheel, I force myself to stay calm. I don't recognize him, but that doesn't mean anything. He could be security. He could be someone else entirely.
Either way, my cover might be slipping.
Time to disappear.
Starting the engine, I pull into traffic, taking a route that loops through the city before heading back to my safe house. I check my mirrors constantly, but the man doesn't follow.
Still, I can't shake the feeling that I've been caught.
By the next morning, the paranoia hasn't faded. I'm running out of time. If security at Club Red is ramping up, they're preparing for something.
And if they know someone's watching?
That means they're watching back.
I spend the afternoon combing through records, looking for anything I missed. Once again, I run background checks on Carter and Hunter. But their files are spotless. Too spotless. Either they're clean, or they have powerful friends scrubbing their past. I suspect the latter.
I go back through the footage I've gathered. My laptop screen flickers as I rewind, pausing on the masked man from the night before. His posture, the way he carries himself, it's controlled. Calculated. He's not just a client. He's something else.
I forward the image to my contact with a single message.
Me: Do we have any hits?
A response comes five minutes later.
Contact: Not yet. Keep digging.
Exhaling, I rub a hand over my face. Need to keep digging. Easy for them to say. I'm the one in the field, the one risking exposure. And the way things are going, exposure is feeling inevitable.
I check my watch, time to head into another meeting with my boss. After seeing Mase last night, I figured it was enough to make a move.
Once in the office, I go over all the information I've gathered from the last few nights.
"You're telling me you just sat in your car and watched people go into a club?" My boss looks unimpressed as I stand in his office the next morning. The fluorescent lighting makes the bags under his eyes more pronounced. He's been under as much pressure as the rest of us lately.
"Not just 'people,' sir. I identified two high-profile businessmen, the club owners, and most importantly, Marco Castellano. He's a known associate of…"
"I know who Marco is," he interrupts, rubbing his temples. "What I don't know is why you think watching him enter a club is worth an emergency meeting."
I take a deep breath. "Sir, this is the first concrete connection I've found between Club Red and the mafia. If Castellano is involved, that means organized crime has a foothold there. That opens the door for RICO charges, human trafficking investigations…"
"Based on what evidence, exactly?" he cuts in again. "A man walking into a building?"
I suppress my frustration. "The Virgin Auction photos."
"Which we still can't verify the authenticity of," he reminds me. "And even if they're real, we can't prove it was an actual auction of virgins rather than some staged fantasy thing for consenting adults."
He's not wrong, and that's what makes this so infuriating. I know there's something happening at Club Red. I can feel it in my bones.
"I want to set up more regular surveillance," I push. "Maybe even work on getting someone inside."
My boss looks at me for a long moment, then sighs. "Look, I appreciate your dedication. But we need more before I can allocate resources. Get me something solid. A witness, financial records showing irregularities, or evidence of coercion or trafficking. Then we can talk about a proper operation."
"And until then?"
"Until then, you can keep watching in your free time. Don't neglect your actual caseload, and for God's sake, don't get caught. If you're made and this turns out to be a wild-goose chase, the department will deny any knowledge of your activities. Understood?"
"Yes, sir."
"And no approaching potential witnesses or club members without clearing it with me first. We can't risk spooking anyone if there really is something worth investigating."
I nod, though my mind is already racing with potential next steps. As I turn to leave, he adds, "And Agent? Be careful. If you're right about Castellano's involvement, these aren't people you want noticing you."
Outside his office, I pause, collecting my thoughts. This isn't the full support I wanted, but it's not a shutdown either. I've been given just enough rope to either pull in the biggest case of my career or hang myself professionally.
My phone buzzes with a new message.
Unknown Number: Stop looking.
A slow chill creeps up my spine.
Someone knows. Someone's watching me too.
I tighten my grip on the phone, then delete the message. This changes things.
I was supposed to be the hunter.
But now?
I think I just became the prey.