“His name is Xavier Damico. He has ties to the Mahoney Cartel.”
“I thought Mahoney was in prison.” This had been huge news around the country.
“He is, but we have reason to believe that some factions of his organization still exist and are continuing to function.”
“This Xavier guy owns the club?”
“Yes, and he has a group of henchmen who do anything and everything he tells them to do.” She began handing me more photographs, pictures of big men, small men, ugly men, and handsome men. There were nearly a dozen. “Memorize their faces so you know who you’re dealing with. Their names and backgrounds, too, if you can.”
It would have been hard not to memorize those faces. The idea of what they were capable made their faces hard to forget.
“Our information tells us that the club makes promises to the women they hire: if they do everything asked of them for a select amount of time, they will be given the means to bring their family members into the country.”
“Everything asked of them? What does that mean?”
Joss tilted her head slightly. “I’m sure you already know the answer to that question.”
I did. I just wished I didn’t.
“Are you interested in taking this case?” Joss touched my hand gently. “I would completely understand if you weren’t. We have another asset we could place in the club.”
“But she’s trained.”
“She is.”
“And her training might give her away?”
Joss was quiet for a long moment. “Our operatives are trained to work as bodyguards, as investigators. We don’t often place someone undercover in quite this way, but when we have, it’s worked eighty percent of the time.”
“And the other twenty?”
Joss bowed her head slightly. “No assignment ever goes exactly to plan.”
I found myself staring at a photograph of a young black woman, her dark skin made ashy in death. If I hadn’t met a young Army recruiter drowning his sorrows at the bar in the club where I worked, I could have ended up just like this girl. Could I really, in all good conscience, walk away and allow other girls to meet this fate just because I was a little frightened by the assignment?
“I’ll do it.”
“You’re sure?”
I nodded, looking more confident than I felt.
Joss hesitated. I got the impression she wanted to discourage me from taking on this assignment and that seemed somewhat counterproductive to me. But then she smiled softly, reaching over to shake my hand again.
“Welcome to the team, Audra.”
Chapter 3
Audra
My hands were shaking. I pressed them together, but that didn’t seem to help. They were sweaty and the shaking was a bit intense. I could face down an insurgent at fifty paces without so much as a quiver, but I couldn’t walk into a strip club and keep control of my fine motor skills. Go figure.
It’d been ten days since I’d met Joss Matthews, and those ten days had been something of a whirlwind. We went on a shopping spree to buy a wardrobe appropriate for a poor, illegal immigrant from Columbia. That was my cover. Joss thought I looked Columbian because of my dark skin and dark eyes. The fact that I really was mixed race was actually an asset because nearly half of Columbia’s population is made up of Mestizo, people of European and Amerindian heritage. It was just the wrong mix of races. My actual heritage was Irish, Italian, and African-American. Just the right mix of temper and beauty, as my mom used to tell me.
After buying an entire wardrobe from a variety of thrift stores and consignment shops in Los Angeles, Joss rented me a one-room apartment on the right side of the wrong part of town despite the fact that I’d just moved into a rental house in a lovely neighborhood in the right part of town. It was just for the case, part of the back story, but it seemed weird having two residences at the same time after spending most of my life with no real home at all.
Joss had given me an alias, Audra Moreno, deciding my first name was classic enough—thanks to its European origins—to be a plausible Columbian name. And it sounded good with Moreno.
She had her team create this background for me that was not all that different from my real story. I was born and raised in Monteria where my mother died of cancer when I was only thirteen. My father struggled to raise my two younger siblings and me on his own and eventually disappeared. Where the story differed was when I supposedly met a man who brought me to the United States illegally, then dumped me when he got tired of me. As an illegal, I’ve worked as a stripper and a prostitute most of the time, taking the occasional off-the-books job. I’ve come to Santa Monica from Louisiana because I heard that the owner of The Red Door Gentleman’s Club helps his dancers bring their family to America. My story was that I wanted to bring my siblings to the states.
The truth was, my younger brother was serving time in Folsom and my baby sis was currently working on her fifth kid with her third baby daddy.
If my cover story were the truth, I don’t think I’d bother for those two. They had their choices and they made the wrong ones.
Joss stressed over and over that it was important to keep the cover story as close to reality as possible so I wouldn’t have to struggle to remember details, or be forced to make up too many lies to keep up with. I understood her reasoning, but I had never liked discussing my life in Louisiana once I escaped it and this case really hadn’t changed that. I hoped no one asked me too many questions about my past or my family.
Now was the time to put it all to the test.
I stepped through the outer doors into the darkened corridor beyond, pausing a moment to allow my eyes to adjust. I could hear voices deep inside the club, a few quiet female voices, but mostly male. I didn’t see anyone but the bartender as I paused again at the end of the corridor. The place wasn’t as bad as some of the places I worked in, not as good as others. There were four stages, one large platform for the primary performances and three smaller ones where lesser dancers kept the crowd entertained between acts. There were small tables scattered all around the room for the pedestrian patron. In the back were booths with curtains pulled back along the sides, space for VIPs who had the money or the reputation to warrant special attention from the star dancers. And, of course, along the far wall were doors that led to private rooms for even more special attention. Then there was the large one-way mirror that stared down at it all from the second floor.
It was a typical setup for a club of this type. It was a little like stepping back in time.
I didn’t like it.
“Can I help you, sweetheart?”
I turned to the bartender and forced a clueless smile. “I certainly hope so,” I said as I approached him. “This is The Red Door, right?”
“It is.”
I sighed as though filled with great relief. “You’d be surprised how many places in this area call themselves The Red…something. This is the third stop I made today.”
“You’re looking for us in particular?”
The bartender glanced up at the one-way mirror, caution in his gorgeous blue eyes. I knew that look, knew he was aware of the boss or one of his henchmen keeping an eye on everything going on down here from their vantage point. I pretended to not notice his glance.
“I heard you were hiring. Is that true?”
“We’re always hiring, sweetheart. Do you dance?”
“I do.”
He studied me a moment, then gestured with his head toward the main stage. “Go for it.”
“Now? Just for you?”
“Not just for me, sweetheart.” He set down a glass he’d been drying, leaning on the bar toward me. “You ever dance in a club before?”
“Sure.”
“Then go do your best routine. Want music?”
“Something with a hard bass.”
He nodded, his expression bland. He wasn’t terribly impressed with me. He was about to be surprised.
I dropped the heavy, retro
purse I’d been carrying on a table near the main stage and climbed up, glad I’d decided on heels despite the fact that my feet were rebelling after ten years of combat boots. The music began as I approached the pole, something new and loud, the beat almost bearable. I began to move my body, creating a wave from my hips to my shoulders, moving slow but steady. I reached up and tugged the clip that held my hair in a messy bun away, tossing it on the table where I left my bag, shaking my head so that my thick, wavy hair fell around my face in a wild mass. For a long moment I just moved to the music, taking my time as I found my groove.
It was much easier than anticipated to find that particular groove again and get back into that particular mindset.
I tugged at the gauzy peasant blouse I was wearing, teasing my audience by showing a little skin around my midriff and then covering it up again. The music picked up speed, so I did too, gyrating and using muscles I hadn’t used in a long time. I was in good shape, but this was going to hurt tomorrow.
I pulled my blouse off, exposed my simple cotton bra, my full breast straining against the material like they knew what we were doing, like they knew what came next. Instead, I hooked my thumbs in the waistband of my jeans and began to tease the release of the single button holding the zipper in place. I was about to expose the top of my black boy shorts when the music stopped.
“They want you upstairs.”
I stopped dancing and glanced around, a hot blush spreading from my chest to my scalp. There were a couple of guys sitting in one of the booths where I hadn’t been able to see them before, two girls in skimpy costumes sitting on their laps. They began to clap as I stepped down, appreciation in the men’s eyes, jealousy in the girls’.
The bartender had come over and held out his hand to me in an effort to help me down.
“I’m Ali,” he said.
“Audra.”
“That’s a lovely name.”
I smiled, aware that his sudden change in attitude was a good sign. They must have liked me upstairs.
I tugged my blouse back on and followed him to the back of the club where he gestured for me to go up the stairs.
“Follow the corridor to the back. They’ll be waiting for you.”
My heart was pounding, but I didn’t hesitate. I knew hesitation indicated fear and I didn’t want them to see even a hint of fear in me. I knew from my past that showing fear was like admitting you couldn’t handle yourself in this world. If they thought I couldn’t handle myself, they might not hire me and I’d fuck up my first assignment for Gray Wolf. Since I really didn’t have anywhere else to go, I had to get my shit together and not fuck it up.
I took a deep breath as I reached the top of the stairs and found the corridor empty. I could hear them talking—could hear someone talking—so I followed the sound of the voices. When I turned the corner, I found myself in the company of four very large men. They were standing together, talking in low, deep voices until they spotted me. The chatter stopped, but the overall tone remained in the way they stared at me.
They’d been discussing me and—most likely—what they’d like to do to me.
“Gentlemen,” I said, inclining my head slightly.
One of them all but drooled as he stared at me, but the others managed to keep their tongues in their mouths.
“If you’ll follow me, Mr. Damico is waiting.”
A tall, leggy blonde in business attire stepped around the goons, her expression lacking all interest. She didn’t even look at me, really. She made a gesture and the men backed away. She turned on her heel and motioned for me to lead the way. Apparently, Mr. Damico didn’t like to be kept waiting.
His office was the last door on the left, across from the one-way mirrors. The blonde gestured for me to go inside, closing the door behind me without so much as an offer of a soda.
“You’ve danced before.”
He was walking out of a door I hadn’t noticed, wiping his hand on a pristinely white hand towel. He was tall, dark in an Italian sort of way, his hair jet black and his eyes a golden brown sort of color, but his skin seemed almost pale in the harsh fluorescent light. He was wearing dark slacks and a dark blue shirt with a black silk tie pulling it all together.
Sexy. The only problem was, he clearly knew it.
He studied me, one eyebrow cocked. I realized he was waiting for me to answer his question.
“I have. In New Orleans.”
“New Orleans? What are you doing in Santa Monica?”
I shrugged, remembering Joss’s advice: Don’t seem too eager.
He came around the desk, dropping the towel into the seat of one of the chairs arranged there, and slid his hands over my jaw, tilting my head backward. His thumbs rested lightly on my chin in a very intimate sort of way, so close to my bottom lip that it wouldn’t have taken much for him to make an even more intimate gesture. I stared him in the eye, trying to appear defiant even as I realized that up close his eyes were more hazel than brown, a kaleidoscope of colors. He was really hot, but he was also a psychopathic killer and I’d be better off if I remembered that little detail.
I twisted my head, pulling free of his touch.
“I’m a dancer, not a whore.”
“You’re neither, actually,” he said with amusement laced through his words. “You’re a stripper, and a pretty good one at that. I was just checking your pupils. I don’t hire drug addicts.”
“I don’t use illegal drugs.”
He nodded as he strolled around his desk. “I could see that.”
“You could have asked.”
“You could have lied.”
He had me there. Not that I would have because I had no reason to lie, but he wouldn’t have known that.
He sat in his chair and leaned back, looking me over unabashedly. “Where are you from originally?”
“I told you: New Orleans.”
“Before that. Your English is too perfect for you to be a native speaker.”
I wanted to laugh at that, seeing as how I really was born in New Orleans. Though, technically, he was right about English not being my first language. My mother spoke a Spanish Creole dialect around the house, something she’d picked up from a housekeeper her parents had when she was child, but I stopped speaking it when she died a little less than twenty years ago.
I tilted my head slightly as all this ran through my mind in an instant. I chewed on my bottom lip, attempting to give him the impression that I was hesitant to tell the truth. What was really stopping me was my own personal fear that I wouldn’t be able to pull off this cover story Joss had assigned me.
“Come on. I won’t tell anyone.” He leaned forward and rested his chin on his entwined fingers. “We get a lot of illegals in and out of here. I get it.”
I lowered my eyes, catching my hands behind my back. “Columbia.” I said it quietly, softly, forcing him to lean forward even more to catch the one word.
He sat back again, regarding me with renewed interest. “Columbia. What part? Over by the coast, I’d guess.”
“Monteria.”
“Hmmm, Cordoba, right?”
I nodded, wondering just how much he knew about the area. I wasn’t sure I’d stand up to too much interrogation.
“I’ve never been there, but I’ve visited Columbia on multiple occasions. Love the culture.”
I shrugged.
“Why’d you leave?”
I shook my head, twisting slightly, wishing I wasn’t just standing there looking like a child being called on the carpet by the principal. “Seemed like the thing to do at the time.”
He smiled. “Fair enough.”
He got up again, coming around the desk in that casual strolling sort of way he had about him. I backed up a little, afraid he was going to grab my jaw again, but he ignored me in favor of approaching a cabinet on the far side of the room. He pulled open a drawer and extracted a paper that he immediately handed to me.
“Fill it out. Don’t worry if you don’t have a visa or green car
d. We’ll deal with that.”
It was an application. He was doing this by the book.
Did mobsters really do things by the book?
“Take it downstairs. Ali will have pens at the bar.” He gestured toward the door as he headed back to his desk. “Then find Brooke and have her help you work out a performance for tonight. We might as well debut you immediately.”
His tone was dismissive, but his eyes were still on me, watching me stare in something like confusion at the application.
“Do you read English?”
I nodded. “Of course.”
“Good. Get out of my office.”
I walked out, swinging my hips a little because I knew he was watching and I knew it was something he would expect from someone like me—and because he was hot and I couldn’t really help myself.
“He hire you, bonita?”
I looked wearily toward the single one of the goons who had the balls to talk to me. “What do you think?”
“I think he’s a good businessman and he knows a cash cow when he sees one.”
There was laughter from the others, but the guy who spoke had the balls to walk up to me and slip his hands around my hips, taking handfuls of my ass like I belonged to him. I reacted the way any sane woman with combat training would have: I grabbed the back of his head, pulled him toward me, and slammed my knee right into his crotch.
He cried out as he bent over, grasping his groin through his slacks. The others stopped laughing. Instead, they were watching me wearily, clearly rattled by what I’d done. It was probably a mistake on my part, giving away a little too much training and ultimately my real story. All of a sudden the four men straightened up, one of them grabbing his buddy and pulling him into a standing position against the wall. I turned to find Damico standing by the door of his office. He eyed me for a long moment, then smiled before turning and disappearing behind his slamming door.
Maybe I hadn’t incriminated myself as much as I thought if I was reading that smile right.
This was going to be a very interesting experience.
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