Power and Empire

Ryan faced the dancers but scanned the rest of the club with his peripheral vision — a respite from focusing on the poor girls on stage doing their level best to look sexy. He knew Chavez was doing the same, taking the left half of the club — including a couple tables of triad types and Fee Fi Fo Fum, who remained by the front door. Jack looked predominantly at the area to his right. The strobe lights of the stage left the area extra-dark, but he could just make out the curtained booths in the shadows along the back wall — where the special “dance” arrangements were taken care of. At the far end of the stage, Eddie Feng sat next to an equally sleazy-looking Tres Equis guy and tapped away on his iPad in between slugs of Red Bull.

Feng was the polar opposite of the giant at the front door. His skin was pasty and pale, appearing to glow pulsing strobes. As with many of the people Ryan had followed over the years, there was nothing formidable about the man at all. In fact, calling him wormy was a disservice to actual worms.

In addition to working on the iPad, Feng scribbled notes in a spiral notebook on the table in front of him. Ryan didn’t know exactly what this guy was up to, but he knew he wanted to get a look at that spiral notebook as well as the iPad.

Ryan nursed his beer, casting enough looks at the dark-eyed dancing girls so as not to appear out of place. He leaned sideways toward Chavez and spoke under his breath, hoping the mic on his neck loop would pick up his whisper and broadcast it to the rest of the team.

“Our friend has a tablet computer I’d like to get my hands on.”

“Due time,” Clark said. “Does it seem like he’s being protected? Guarded by the cartel or triad?”

Ryan fought the urge to shake his head at the question coming from his earpiece. “No,” he said, still gawking at the stage and tilting his head as if speaking to Chavez. “There’s a Hispanic guy at his table chatting him up, but everyone appears to be guarding the girls.”

“He’s right,” Chavez mumbled. “I’d lay odds that there’s enough firepower in here to hold off a small army.”

“Good enough,” Clark said. “Keep eyes-on for another half-hour. Sing out if it looks like you’re starting to get stale.”

Adara’s voice came across the radio, calm but direct. “That small army you mentioned,” she said. “I’ve got eight plainclothes officers coming your way from a half a block south. I’m betting they’re Feds, and not trained counterintel types, either. They’re too overt-covert.”

Jack nodded to himself, as if in time with the bass beat from the speakers. He knew exactly what Adara meant. Men and women who’d spent long careers carrying large and heavy firearms on their belts often tended to walk holding their arms slightly away from their bodies — even when they transitioned to a smaller, more concealable weapon for different duty. It took practice and concentration to overcome the effect of being a beat cop or even a suit-wearing detective. Simply wearing plain clothes did not make one covert.

Dom broke squelch on the radio. “Six more of the same moving in from the north. There’s a redhead leading the pack. She’s Bureau, no doubt about it. I saw her belt badge when she got out of her car. I’m guessing this is some kind of task force.”

Clark’s voice was tight, agitated. “Ding, Ryan, haul ass out the back. I don’t want you caught up in some whorehouse raid.”

“Copy that,” Chavez said, nodding toward the dark hallway at the rear of the building. “You lead the way, ’mano,” he said to Ryan. “I’ll be right behind you.”

Jack was already on his feet, slouching between the row of tables and the stage toward the back door, as if he was looking for the restroom. He wasn’t the sort to run from a fight, but his getting caught in a place like this would cost his father a great deal of political capital. Not to mention the fact that the resulting media attention would severely damage Jack’s ability to continue working in a covert capacity.

Even so, he turned to Chavez as they reached the end of the stage, stopping in his tracks. “What about Fee Fi Fo Fum?”

Chavez groaned, having already reached the same conclusion. “He’s gonna hurt somebody.”

The two men had worked together long enough that they generally knew what the other was thinking in any tactical situation. Neither wanted to leave approaching law enforcement to stumble into the strip club blind and come face-to-face with the armed behemoth. The task force agents would eventually gain the upper hand, but one of them was bound to get injured — and possibly even killed — in the process.