Impulsively (Dante's Nine MC)

by Colleen Masters

  “I will Chuck,” I assure him, sarcasm aside. “And thanks for everything these past two years. You’ve been—”

  “Come on, now. Don’t ruin a perfectly fine goodbye with that mushy shit,” he says, signaling the bartender for another round.

  It doesn’t take long to pack up all my belongings. I never really settled into my little San Bernardino apartment, even after two years. Milo hates staying here, and I’m so beat after work that I usually just conk out when I get home. Mitchell has assured me that I’ll have a furnished place to stay in Las Vegas, an apartment passed down from agent to agent, so I only grab a few personal items: my favorite pillow, a tin of coffee from the neighborhood roaster, and some framed photos of Brandon and I ride shotgun in a cardboard box. My entire life so far fits snugly in the passenger seat of my Mustang. Don’t quite know what to make of that.

  I set out for Vegas at the crack of dawn, eager and nervous as hell. I have to trust that I wouldn’t have been given this opportunity if I couldn’t handle it. I ready myself for whatever lies ahead and take off into the sunrise.

  There’s barely any traffic at this hour of the morning. Just me and the wide-open road. The sky opens up above me as I clear Los Angeles, stretching its back like a big, lazy cat. In just over three hours, I roll into Las Vegas—my new home. Well, at least my new place of work. I can’t say there’s a place in the world that really feels like home to me. At least, not one that I’ve found yet.

  I arrive too early to head straight for the field office, so I grab a shitty cup of gas station coffee and an obscenely huge donut to nosh on while I wait. Sitting on the hood of my car, coffee and pastry in hand, I look out over the dusty land sprawling all around. The Las Vegas strip bursts up out of the ground like the Emerald City, surrounded by a swell of rolling hills. I can only wonder what kind of mayhem is erupting all around me, out of sight, on this seemingly peaceful morning.

  As the hot sun begins to warm the earth, I head over to the Las Vegas field office to report for duty. This place is the real deal, a fortress-like building far more imposing than my little San Bernardino outpost. And with its close proximity to Sin City, I can only imagine the kind of depraved shit these agents have to deal with on a regular basis. But I guess I won’t have to wonder for much longer. Now I’m part of the team.

  I brush a lingering donut crumb off my lap up and step out of the Mustang. Giving myself a once-over in the tinted car window, I have to admit that I approve of what I see. This is a brand new office, after all, so I’ve decided to up my work attire game. My white silk blouse is cut just low enough to hint at my rather excellent rack, and my charcoal slacks flatter my slender legs and athletic ass. I’ve even gone so far as to wear my red hair down, falling in loose curls over my shoulders. I’ve decided that there’s no reason to hide my body beneath drab office clothing. And if anyone takes me less seriously because I choose to dress well, that’s their own damn problem. I’m through playing meek and mild just so the guys can feel more comfortable.

  Flicking a stray curl over my slender shoulder, I stride up to the front door of the building. I feel like such a badass, marching into this busy central office. It’s not a very familiar feeling for me, so I try to memorize this incredible moment. I wrench open the heavy front door, go to take a step across the threshold—

  And cry out in surprise as a big, immoveable shoulder slams into me, knocking me aside.

  I stumble through the door, my balance thrown off by the unexpected check. The sharp high heels bearing me into the office are not prepared for hand-to-hand combat, and I go down in a heap. I hit the ground, landing hard on my shapely ass. My cheeks are flaming red as I look up at my assailant. A huge man storms past me, his battering ram shoulders hunched high toward his ears. The back of his thick neck is red, holding up a big shaved head. He doesn’t even turn around to see if I’m OK, let alone to apologize.

  “I’m fine, thanks,” I call after him, disgruntled by his rudeness.

  “I don’t remember asking if you were,” he snarls back, not even bothering to glance over his shoulder. “Learn to stay out of the way, Princess.”

  “Learn some manners, ogre,” I snap back. But the man disappears into a waiting elevator before I can go on. “There’s always one,” I mutter, pulling myself to my feet. Luckily, no one else caught sight of my less-than-graceful entrance. I brush off the embarrassment and continue upstairs in search of Mitchell’s office.

  The main floor of the FBI field office is alive with activity, even first thing in the morning. I feel my pulse pick up as I survey the place. The excitement in the San Bernardino resident agency never peaked beyond the dull enthusiasm that arose when someone brought in bagels for the team. It’ll be so thrilling to work in such a vibrant place. My heart swells with satisfaction as I realize what a good decision it was to come here.

  “Collins!” I hear Mitchell shout across the crowded room. I look over to see him waving from an open doorway. “Good to see you, Agent. Come on in here and I’ll get you up to speed with the case.”

  I stride purposefully across the room, watching as curious eyes dart my way. The people here don’t eye me with suspicion, merely interest. Maybe this new job has boosted my confidence in a way they can detect just by looking at me. The thought only brightens my already sunny outlook.

  “Happy to be here, Agent Mitchell,” I smile, giving my new boss a firm handshake.

  “Glad to hear it,” Mitchell replies, showing me into the room. “First things first, let me introduce you to the agent you’ll be working this case with.”

  I look up, eager to meet my new partner. But that eagerness sours into disdain as I see who is waiting inside to make my acquaintance.

  “You?!” I exclaim, staring at the bullish asshole who barreled over me in the lobby.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me, Mitchell,” the big man groans through gritted teeth. He’s got to be close to six feet tall, and built like a wrecking ball. His shaved head makes it hard to say for sure, but I’d guess he’s about forty years old. He certainly has the jaded, miserable grimace of someone who’s been working the same job for a while.

  “Do you two...know each other?” Mitchell asks, closing the door behind him.

  “We just met in the lobby. Well, collided, more like...” I say, crossing my arms.

  “You’re sticking the new girl on my case?” the gruff man demands. “What kind of bullshit is this?”

  “How you two have already managed to get off on the wrong foot is a mystery to me,” Mitchell says coolly, clearly not giving a damn about our mutual discomfort, “but let’s start fresh, shall we? Quinn Collins, this is Agent Jeff Bruno. Bruno, Agent Quinn Collins.”

  I boldly hold out my hand to Bruno, leveling my blue eyes at his red face. He scoffs, gripping my hand tightly for half a second, before roughly dropping it. I don’t know what I’ve done to get on this guy’s bad side already, other than attempt to enter the building in an orderly fashion, but his opinion of my presence here is pretty apparent.

  “Fantastic,” Mitchell says, pressing ahead despite our furrowed brows, “let’s get Agent Collins caught up on the particulars of the case.”

  Mitchell and Bruno look up at the wide wall, and I let my gaze follow. Plastered there is an array of information, carefully collected and arranged. Photos, news articles, names and locations make up the tangled web I see before me. The question is, what does it all mean?

  “Welcome to Operation Inferno,” Mitchell says, sweeping his arm over the intelligence spread out before us.

  “Operation Inferno,” I repeat, tasting the words for myself, “catchy.”

  “We’re gathering intelligence on two of the most powerful and influential MC’s in the Las Vegas area,” Mitchell goes on.

  “MC’s are motorcycle clubs. Outlaws,” Bruno says, sneering condescendingly.

  “Thanks. I took Organized Crime 101 at the FBI Academy just like you did,” I snap back.

  “The clubs in quest
ion are The Devil’s Wraiths Nevada Chapter and Dante’s Nine, a smaller local operation that’s recently become a support club for the Wraiths,” Mitchell says. “We’ve been receiving more tips than ever lately, regarding these clubs’ illegal activities. We’ve never been able to pin anything major on either, but that might change soon.

  Dante’s Nine has been very cooperative with us in the past, when it’s been in their best interest. A year or so back, they helped us bring down the head honcho of the Lorenzo Family and put an end to a series of deadly cage matches. They got their slate scrubbed clean for that bit of assistance, full immunity for all club members, but they’re fair game again now that they’re allied with the Wraiths.”

  “Dante’s Nine has always relied on a variety of income sources to stay afloat. From what we can tell, they’ve shuttered most of their questionable operations of late in favor of a modest auto shop, built adjacent to their club house. One of the members bailed them out around the time we offered immunity, so they seemingly haven’t had to resort to their old ways.”

  “So if they’ve gone legit, what’s the problem?” I ask.

  “The problem is, it’s clearly a front,” Bruno says, rolling his eyes. “We just don’t know for what yet.”

  “The Devil’s Wraiths are less apologetic when it comes to the source of their money, and less family friendly, too,” Mitchell cuts in. “They’ve got a wildly successful strip club built on their compound. The Devil’s Playpen, it’s called. They bring in porn stars with niche followings and draw in the fan boy big spenders from Vegas. Good strategy, I’ve got to hand it to them.”

  “So they’re scum bags,” I shrug, “No big surprise there. What’s happened recently that has the FBI back on their case?”

  “Both of their clubs’ businesses have flexed a bit, lately, to accommodate some changes,” Mitchell says, leading me closer to the wall of intel. “There have been some changes to the MC ranks. New members and current members trading positions of influence.”

  There are two sets of photos displayed on the wall, arranged in pyramids of rank. One set is labeled “Dante’s Nine”, the other “Devil’s Wraiths.” At the head of the first is a devilishly handsome silver fox bearing the tag “John Baxter, President.” Topping the other pyramid is a round-faced, mean-looking sonofabitch with wispy white blonde hair, tagged “Malcolm ‘Mac’ Donnelly, President.”

  But far more eye-catching than the two men in charge are their second-in-commands. Flanking each MC president is an insanely attractive young VP. “Declan Tiberi,” the intense, clean-shaven VP of Dante’s Nine, and “Leo Bane,” the bearded, golden-eyed VP of the Devil’s Wraiths, could easily pass for rock stars. And in their world, I bet they do.

  “It’s the clubs’ VPs that seem to be stirring up the most trouble,” Mitchell goes on, seeing my gaze fix firmly on the striking outlaws. “Tiberi just got promoted a few months ago. Standard changing of the guard. They’re each being groomed to take over their clubs as president one day, and are making their mark on the way things are done. But the real agents of change have been their old ladies.”

  “Their what?” I ask, ripping my eyes away.

  “Club wives, more or less,” Bruno says. “Tiberi and Bane have each picked up feisty little honeys this past year. Civilians turned MC bitches.”

  I cringe at his blatantly sexist language. “Is ‘MC bitch’ the proper terminology, Bruno?”

  “Proper or not, that’s what they are,” he shrugs. “And they’re making more trouble than they’re worth for these guys.”

  “What kind of trouble?” I ask Mitchell.

  “Bane’s old lady, Kelly Rodgers, has helped the girls of the Devil’s Playpen start their own porn production company. Tiberi’s girl, Kassie Bennett, runs a crowd funding site,” Mitchell tells me.

  “So they started their own businesses. Good for them,” I reply. “How does that make trouble for the clubs?”

  “We’ve been receiving tips about both of these endeavors, and then some,” Mitchell tells me. “Their operations may not be so squeaky clean after all. Bruno’s been going undercover at the Devil’s Playpen, following some tips about solicitation.”

  “I’m sure that’s been a real struggle for you,” I grin at Bruno.

  “I’m not complaining about the view,” he says. “And I’m getting to know some of the new girls. Something’s bound to give there. No way a strip club-based porn company is above bending a few rules.”

  “Isn’t it entrapment to bait them into doing something wrong?” I ask.

  “Don’t tell me how to do my job, Princess,” Bruno snarls, all the humor gone from his voice.

  “Moving on,” Mitchell says smoothly, “Quinn, I’m assigning you as a second agent to this case to investigate from another angle. Your extensive computer science knowledge will be incredibly helpful when it comes to gathering intelligence about Ms. Bennett’s site.”

  “Sounds like something that’s very much in my wheel house,” I nod. “So, what do you need me to do? Hunt around to see if there’s any malware hiding in their emails? See if money is being siphoned off from their transactions? All I need is a desk and computer here in the office, a few cups of coffee, and—what? What is it?”

  Bruno and Mitchell are exchanging glances across the room, silently conferring about how to proceed.

  “The thing is, Collins,” Mitchell begins, “we don’t see this investigation happening purely online.”

  “I don’t follow,” I reply.

  “Bruno here has been having some real success working undercover on this thing,” Mitchell goes on, “so we’re going to have you do the same.”

  My stomach twists into a painful knot as I realize my boss isn’t joking. For a moment all I can do is stare at him, my jaw hanging wide open.

  “Did you not include that little detail when you went to fetch her?” Bruno asks.

  “Nope. Forgot to mention that particular nugget of information,” I finally manage to say, my breath caught high in my chest. “Agent Mitchell, I have absolutely no undercover experience. My training is in cyber surveillance.”

  “I know this isn’t what you normally do at the Bureau,” Mitchell begins.

  “It’s completely outside of what I normally do!” I exclaim. “For the past two years, I’ve been sitting at a keyboard, putting my hacking skills to use. I’ve barely spoken to anyone outside of work, and even then not for very long. How do you expect me to go—?”

  “Agent Collins,” Mitchell says sharply, “you are a Special Agent of the FBI. You will do what is asked of you in service of this organization. And right now you’re being asked to go undercover in order to gather vital intelligence about this potentially criminal group.”

  “Yes. Of course, sir,” I mutter, hot red patches lighting up my cheeks.

  “You’re going to infiltrate the clubs’ business through Kassie Bennett’s site, CrowdedNest,” Mitchell continues, ignoring my outburst. “She and Kelly Rodgers are the senior developers and co-owners of the site. Declan Tiberi provided the original start-up cash to get it off the ground. And lucky for us, CrowdedNest is hiring.”

  “Hiring?” I echo, totally at a loss.

  “You’re going to reach out to Ms. Bennett and Ms. Rodgers, under an alias of course, and ask be considered for a job at CrowdedNest,” Mitchell reveals. “You’re completely qualified for any job they could offer you, given your tech background. And you’re a young, attractive woman. They’ll be more inclined to hire you because of that.”

  Disappointment tugs at the corners of my mouth. So when Mitchell said I was perfect for this job, it had as much to do with looks—and tits—as it did my computer skills? I can’t help but be bummed out about that.

  “You’ll start working for CrowdedNest and get access to all the records, correspondence, and data you could dream of,” Mitchell says. “You’ll remove as much intel as you can using an external drive and dig through it for suspicious activity. It’s a bit of a needle-in-t
he-haystack gambit, but we’re confident that something good will turn up. We suspect that the girls are funneling some of their money to the Wraiths and the Nine, especially seeing as Tiberi is a key investor. And if the finances of the site and the clubs are intertwined—”

  “Then if one goes down, they all go down,” Bruno finishes with a grin. “We can demolish the whole goddamn lot of them.”

  I let my eyes wander across the vast array of intel displayed on the walls. Each club boasts nearly a dozen members; hardened, ruthless men, most of whom are proud criminals. Each photo makes me sicker than the next. There’s only one blank space in the ranks of Dante’s Nine, one last member the FBI hasn’t identified yet. But the rest of their eyes stare out from their mug shots, cold and unfeeling. A surge of hatred rises like bile in my throat as I look them over.

  “Penny for your thoughts, Agent?” Mitchell prompts.

  “I just...have a bit of a bias against men like them,” I say softly. “Call it a grudge, call it a vendetta, I just call it reason. I despise organized crime, especially gangs. And we all know that’s what these clubs are, in the end. My little brother was shot in Philly. Got caught in the crossfire of some gang shootout. That’s the whole reason I decided to go into law enforcement.”

  “And now you finally get to have a hand in taking these assholes down,” Mitchell says, laying a supportive hand on my shoulder.

  “But I don’t know how I’m supposed to be in a room with one of these low-lives,” I tell him. “Without spitting in his face, that is.”

  “That’s the beauty of your assignment:” Mitchell says, “you don’t have to go anywhere near the members of the Nine or the Wraiths. You never have to set foot in one of their clubhouses. You’ll be dealing exclusively with these two old ladies.”

  “As if they’re not complicit,” I scoff, shaking my head. “They may have been civilians, once, but they’re as much a part of these gangs as any of the members now. And just as guilty. Maybe not of anything we’ve been tipped off about, but guilty of being thugs all the same.”