Undercover Justice

by Adrienne Giordano

  Yes, she’d lied.

  To Mitch.

  Had to. Telling him her real assignment would have made him a madman.

  “Tami!” someone called from the doorway. “You’re up!”

  Tami, her undercover name that Mitch had picked for her. The pity bone she’d thrown him. At least according to Mitch.

  “I’m ready.”

  She peeled her foot from the floor and slid back into the killer shoes. “Let’s roll.”

  3

  The production assistant, a young guy wearing faded Levi’s and a graphic T-shirt that reminded her once again of Mitch—quit thinking about him—led her down a narrow hallway even grungier than the back room thanks to the dank odor of moisture and mold. Place must have had a recent flood.

  “Hang on,” the production assistant said.

  He stopped in the hallway, adjusted his headset. “This is Toby… Yeah. I’ve got her. Just about to take her in… Okay… Got it.”

  He disconnected. “Sorry. One of the women parked herself next to the door you’ll go through. They wanted to get her out of there. No distractions when you walk in.”

  Reality show wargaming. Excellent.

  Grey owed her for this.

  In seconds she’d throw herself into the main part of the club where, no doubt, any number of men would leer and objectify her. Her barely hidden boobs and crotch guaranteed that.

  But she’d play along. Sure would. Because playing along meant finding a missing girl.

  On the other side of the door, music thumped and Caroline’s skin buzzed. That instant rush that came with a UC assignment. She’d never tire of working undercover. Never. Even this nasty one. Call her demented, but she got off on the lure, the danger of entering a potentially volatile situation.

  Toby recited last minute instructions regarding mingling and not monopolizing certain men—no chance of that, pal—and pushed open the door. The music thumped and vibrated against the floor and red, blue and yellow strobe lights blinked and swiveled, illuminating the crowd huddled around the dance floor. High-top tables lined the wall to Caroline’s right. On her left, the sofas and high-backed, cushioned chairs were all filled. With men.

  Okie-dokie.

  A visual swoop of the room netted a short guy on the right, hands wandering low on a woman’s back and four men at the bar staring. Another group slowly turned to her—hello, boys—and one leaned to his buddy, saying something that made the man laugh. Give her five minutes alone with him and he wouldn’t be laughing.

  Her initial survey indicated three women, including herself, all dressed in various versions of slut-wear. The man-count? Easily fifty.

  But the sizable room left room to maneuver. A good thing in case Caroline had to kick the crap out of a few pervs.

  A tall guy in a trim-fitting Italian suit wandered up to her. His blond hair was cut short on the sides, but left longer on top and the hairs swept across his forehead.

  To his credit, he kept his eyes on her face. “Hi. I’m Evan.”

  Evan. Okay, Evan, let’s play. She shook his hand and smiled despite the smarmy squeeze. “Hi, Evan. Nice to meet you. I’m Tami.”

  “Brace yourself, you’re about to be swarmed by a bunch of horny guys.”

  And her without a weapon. “Well,” she said, laughing a little. “Thanks for the warning.”

  “Of course. I just wanted to be the first to say hello.” He waved his hand. “I’ll be around. Save me a dance.”

  Another man came up behind Evan, smacking him on the back. “I see my man beat us all here. He’s sneaky that way.” The guy angled around Evan, pushing him out of the way. “Hi. I’m Greg.”

  Barely out the door and she couldn’t even move. She’d have to nudge sideways, working her way into the crowd before she became penned in. “Hi Greg. Wow, you guys don’t waste any time.”

  “Can’t with this crowd, babe.”

  Babe. Lovely. At least when Mitch called her that he did it purely to be annoying. And from him it didn’t sound so condescending.

  Greg cocked his arm out. “Let’s get you away from this door and into the crowd.”

  “I like that idea.”

  She slid her hand into the crook of his arm, forcing herself not to roll her eyes when he flexed. Mitch Monroe, lunatic of all lunatics, made these men look like weasels. As much as she needed to work this assignment alone, she missed him. Missed working beside him and knowing they’d take care of each other.

  At the edge of the dance floor, two men approached, one of them not wasting any time checking her out, his gaze moving over her like a greedy pimp and that sick feeling, a brick in her stomach, reared up again.

  “Jesus,” Greg said. “You’re so fucking rude.”

  “What? I’m just looking.” He looked back at Caroline and grinned. “Plenty to look at.”

  “Go away,” Caroline said.

  The guy’s head snapped back. “What?”

  “You’re a pig. Go away.”

  Greg burst out laughing and the other man nodded at her, clearly impressed that the woman wearing half a Band-Aid had a set of balls.

  She might have to do this, but the amount of objectifying she’d take had a limit. And this guy had reached it.

  “What a bitch.”

  “Sorry,” Greg said as the man stormed off.

  Caroline shrugged. “Comes with the territory I guess.”

  Then she turned to the other man. “And who do we have here?”

  “Bruce,” he said.

  He shook her hand, immediately releasing it, which scored him a few points. “So, gentlemen, as they say, let the games begin.”

  * * *

  Mitch didn’t like being thrown a pity bone. Especially by Caroline.

  So while he was supposed to be gambling and watching scantily clad, beautiful women entertain him, he was in a taxi in front of the Happy Humper wondering what the fuck.

  Just what. The. Fuck.

  Caroline was supposed to be interviewing people who’d seen Megan Dutch or interacted with her for the reality TV show. But the show wasn’t at this bottom-feeding Vegas joint, was it? Because even for Vegas, this place was total trash.

  The GPS on Caroline’s phone, that Teeg had synched with his, without Caroline knowing, said she was inside. The sign out front, all flashing neon lights—half of which were broken—confirmed his fear. Welcome Sin City Bachelorette staff and crew!

  Sin City Bachelorette. The hottest new reality TV show of the year needed a serious upgrade if this was the best they could do for their stars.

  Mitch climbed out of the cab, threw some bills at the driver, and started for the front door. He’d been to Megan’s hotel room, letting himself in and finding her clothes and her cell phone still there. The phone was plugged in and fully charged, but it had a passcode he couldn’t break. He’d swiped the phone anyway. Caroline was good at breaking codes; she’d figure it out. If she couldn’t, Teeg would.

  Megan was a social media whore from what Caroline had told him. She’d live-tweeted during the audition, hashtagging herself as #SinCityBitch, and claiming she was going to #goforthewin.

  After that last live tweet, there’d been radio silence.

  Deep bass music filtered from the worn out windows of the club and colored lights behind the shades pulsated in time with the music.

  A handwritten sign taped to the door stopped him. Closed for auditions 8 PM – midnight.

  Damn it.

  A crawling sensation on the back of his neck made him itch to rip the sign down. Something wasn’t right about this.

  Mitch walked around to the back alley. He needed to get in there and let Caroline know what he’d found in Megan’s hotel room.

  Beer bottles and trash lined the narrow space, two dumpsters overflowing with garbage scenting the humid night air. The back door—a heavy wooden one that was probably original to the 1960’s building—was locked as well. No surprise there. Mitch was about to pull out his lock pick when the door swun
g open and a kid with an unlit cigarette between his lips stepped out.

  “Nice shirt.” He pointed at the words adorning Mitch’s chest. I’m sarcastic because punching people is frowned upon. “Bro, you got a light?” The kid slapped at his pants pockets. “Lost mine.”

  Mitch had a pack of matches he’d picked up at the hotel. He tossed them to the kid. “You work here?”

  “Me, here?” The kid laughed. “No man, I’m one of the bachelors. You?”

  The lie rolled right off his tongue. “Yeah, got the call to audition last night. Guess one of the other guys got sick.”

  The kid, who couldn’t be legal, nodded as he lit his cigarette and handed back the matches. “That whiner Cole probably. We were partying last night with one of the girls, but he couldn’t hold his liquor. Megan, the one we were with, didn’t stick around, but the one taking her place?” He blew smoke and made a rude hand gesture. “I want to fuck her hard in every way possible.”

  Nice. Real classy. “After you propose, of course. That is the rule on the show, right? No sleeping together until you’ve proposed?”

  “Right. Those rules are a joke. They’ve already told all of us bachelors we get bonuses for banging the girl ahead of time. The first one to get her in bed on camera gets a $1000 bonus.” He made another gesture, this one with his middle finger. “Marriage is for douches. I have plans, man. Gonna get my own reality show after I’m on this one. I’m not getting married.”

  That made two of them. “But that’s what the show is about. Finding a partner and getting married.”

  The guy laughed again, all of this one big joke. “Look, this new piece of ass is exactly what the producers are looking for and it’ll be no hardship to bang her, but I have no intention of marrying her. Just fucking her blind. Get me a bonus to boot.”

  No wonder the show had to save money on the front end when they were giving cash bonuses for breaking the rules. “She must be a real looker,” Mitch said, gritting his teeth while he imagined ways to use a beer bottle on the kid to make him respect women.

  “Banging hot, but a bitch. Have to shove something in her mouth to keep her quiet during sex.” He winked. “If you know what I mean.”

  Mitch’s hands fisted. He was going to stuff the kid in one of the dumpsters where the trash belonged and then…

  Before he could finish the fantasy, the back door opened and a guy with a headset around his neck stuck his head out. “Jesus, Steven, enough with the cancer sticks. Get your ass in here or you’re off the show.”

  “Keep your fucking underwear on, Toby.” The kid took one final drag on his cigarette and ground it out under his loafer. “I’m not going anywhere, thanks to Daddy-o being besties with your boss. But do me a favor and get that new bitch under control. No one tells me to get lost.”

  He motioned for Mitch to follow him. “Come on.”

  Toby gave Mitch the once over. His ID badge read Assistant Producer. “Who are you?”

  Mitch’s radar, already on high alert, went Code Orange. Caroline’s cover was assistant producer. Did the show have two?

  Steven grabbed Mitch by the shirtsleeve and hauled him forward. “My new bestie, since Cole was such a pussy and called in sick. Now if you’ll excuse us, we have a Sin City bitch to ogle.”

  The music pulsed in Mitch’s ears as he followed Steven through a series of hallways and into the main room. Toby followed on their heels. “You need a name tag,” Toby shouted in Mitch’s ear. “Go see Anita.”

  “I’m looking for Tami,” he yelled back.

  “Tami? Yeah, we’ll get to her in a second. She’s on the dance floor. First, get your nametag. Anita’s up front.”

  They’d arrived at the source of the music. Bodies churned, dirty dancing to the beat and the light show. Others gathered at the edges of the dance floor, drinks in hands, eyes locked on the dancers. A spotlight was on a couple in the middle and for half a second, Mitch thought he’d died and gone to heaven.

  Steven was a moron, but he was right if this was the new bachelorette. The brunette shaking her ass in a dress that showed off her long legs and generous breasts was, indeed, banging hot.

  And then she twirled around and Mitch’s stomach—along with his heart—plummeted right down to his toes.

  CodeRedCodeRedCodeRed.

  I’ve died alright, he thought, a sharp pain pinching his chest. And gone straight to hell.

  The bachelorette busting a move on the dance floor under a dozen men’s naked, leering gazes was Caroline.

  * * *

  In the last fifteen minutes, the volume on the loud, thumping dance music had steadily risen to well within ear-hemorrhage territory.

  Caroline’s ears weren’t the only things bleeding. The blister on her pinky toe, courtesy of the do-me shoes, had definitely torn open. How did women wear these things?

  Give me a bullet over these suckers any day.

  One of the men dancing nearby shimmied his way over to her and Caroline counted backward from one hundred to stay focused. She quirked the side of her mouth into her version of a come-hither smile.

  The man moved closer, his stare feral. Hungry. Could be trouble. He lifted one hand toward her, ready to grab her waist—no way, fella—and Caroline spun away, casting her gaze toward the bright red exit sign. The one she’d like to run straight for.

  Movement drew her gaze down to the shadowed area just below the sign where a group of men congregated with Julia, one of the bachelorettes. Behind the group, the top of one man’s head became visible as he walked. He reached an opening where he looked out at the dance floor and—oh, no.

  Mitch.

  Icy, hot panic spread from her spine, radiating out and curling around her torso. She swung back to the grabber, keeping him at a distance, but swaying around him while her boobs sent up a cry for help to stay in her dress.

  How the heck did Mitch get in here? And what the heck was he doing here? Of course, he had to worm his way into her assignment. He couldn’t be satisfied with searching the girl’s room. No. Mitch Monroe, ruler of chaos, had to get in on the action.

  And here they were. Him about to see her have a major wardrobe malfunction.

  She angled back to him and for a good twenty seconds, he watched her, his eyes drilling into her from the distance. Pissed.

  Any second now, the shock would wear off and he’d do his Mitch thing. Which, in this case could be one of two actions. He’d either haul her out of there or he’d wrangle his emotions, focus on the op, and grab her up into a Tango.

  Because that’s what Mitch did. He figured out how to spin a crappy situation to gold.

  But the seconds ticked on by and Mitch continued to stand there, that movie-star handsome face carved into hard, angry lines.

  Come on, Mitch. Do your thing.

  Caroline stopped dancing and leaned closer to the man who’d just tried to grope her. “Thank you. I need some water. I’ll be back.”

  She started toward Mitch who stood on the opposite side of the bar. She’d just detour. Detour and pretend to trip on something. Right into him. Where she could snap him out of his haze before he blew this whole op.

  What the hell was wrong with him?

  Hands loose at his sides, he watched her approach, taking her in.

  Every.

  Last

  Inch.

  Heat scorched her cheeks and she considered veering off. Just running from it. The humiliation. No. The guilt. She’d lied to him. Something she’d never done before. Her rotten luck he’d busted her on her maiden attempt.

  Typically, when Mitch looked at her she saw an array of reactions. Amusement, affection, anger, whatever. As a couple, they worked hard, fought hard, and loved hard. Balls to the wall, he’d say. All day, every day.

  What she saw now? The way his chin dipped lower and lower, his lips bowing down, she’d never seen on him.

  Disgust.

  At this moment, he hated her. She could see it in the hard stare and the stiffness of his st
ance. The steer-clear look those around him had grown used to. Only, that look had never—ever—been aimed at her.

  He backed away, swung to the door with the bright red exit sign, and Caroline picked up her pace, her ankles wobbling as she scooted around two men. Catch him.

  “Hey, beautiful?” Someone said, hooking an arm around her. “What’s your hurry?”

  She flicked him off, kept moving, setting her hand on a man’s back as she squeezed between him and another man. “Excuse me. Pardon. Coming through.”

  Dammit. She needed to get to Mitch. She plowed through the last group blocking her way, but Mitch was too far ahead of her. He shoved through the door, smacking it open, and she caught it just before it latched closed. The doorway led to an alley where the asthma-inducing heat from a blistering day mixed with the stink of three-day old garbage. She slapped a hand over her mouth. Between the smell and her rioting stomach, she might heave right in this alley.

  A siren blast sounded from the street to her left and she glanced over, spotted Mitch nearing the end of the alley.

  “Mitch, wait.”

  He kept moving. Damn him. And damn the blasted shoes and blasted blister that now rubbed her toe raw and had her hobbling after one pissed off man.

  At the end of the alley, Mitch hailed a cab.

  “Mitch, please. Wait.”

  The cabbie pulled to the curb and before Mitch could open the door, she caught up and slid between him and the car, mashing her body against his.

  “Move,” he said.

  “No.”

  She shoved him back a step and waved the cabbie off.

  “That’s great, Caroline. But stupid. I’ll just get another one.”

  “And I’ll send another one away.”

  “It’ll be a long night of hailing cabs.”

  He stepped back, folded his arms and the flashing neon sign splayed red shards of light across the harsh line of his jaw. As mad as he was, there was something intense, something hot blasting between them.