Power and Empire

Ryan and Chavez each took a twenty-dollar bill from their pockets and stepped up to the stage. The two tired-looking girls turned, lowering their gyrating bodies to allow the men to stuff the money into their G-strings. The girl nearest Jack looked even younger up close. She had to be in her teens, probably the reason the cops were here. Throwing a quick look over his shoulder to make sure the giant by the door was watching, Jack gave an exuberant catcalling whistle, then put both hands flat on the stage as if to climb up and dance with the girl. Though not unheard-of behavior in a titty bar, it was exactly what Fee Fi Fo Fum had warned them not to do. They had not paid for the privilege.

The giant sprang from his stool by the door with surprising dexterity. “¡Pendejo!” he roared above the throbbing music, lumbering toward Ryan. His bullish neck was arched and his head down, as if he intended to bowl Ryan over.

Extremely big men may have doled out countless beat-downs, but they rarely had much real experience with anyone fighting back. Unfortunately for the bouncer, both Chavez and Ryan had plenty.

Ryan yanked a wad of assorted bills from his pocket and pitched them onto the stage, hoping the investment would keep the girls busy doing something besides kicking him in the head. Chavez stepped deftly aside as the giant chugged by, giving him a stout two-handed shove from behind and causing him to go faster than his legs could carry him. Jack caught the man mid-stumble, grabbing him by the shaggy hair with both hands and directing his forehead toward the lip of the stage. Inertia and gravity did the rest. The resulting collision of bone against wood cracked like a rifle shot. Fee Fi Fo Fum piled up on the filthy carpet at the base of the stage, moaning, both hands on his gashed forehead, trying to stanch the flow of blood.

Chavez gave Ryan’s arm a tug. “Haul ass!” he said, without looking back.

The nearest cartel guys sat at their table and blinked. It was inconceivable that anyone could knock out the big bouncer. Everything had happened so fast, it took them a moment to process what this white kid with the frosted hair and dark beard had done.

Ryan turned to run but came face-to-face with Eddie Feng, who was now on his feet, clutching his tablet computer in crossed arms. A commotion at the front drew the Taiwanese man’s attention toward the door. Ryan took that moment to dip into his pocket and then reach under the edge of Feng’s table. A strong adhesive held the GSM slap mic in place — leaving Ryan free to run down the hallway and out the back door, joining Chavez in the alley at the same moment law enforcement poured in the front door.

Fourteen members of the Crimes Against Children Task Force button-hooked through the double doors two at a time, moving quickly as they came in to make room for the person behind them. They hadn’t knocked or announced, so they’d seen no reason to cover the back door. With their sidearms drawn, they divided areas of responsibility as they scanned for danger. Chicas was a cartel joint, so it was a given that there would be guns inside. Joe Rice, the Waxahachie detective, had suggested they call Dallas PD SWAT. Callahan had demurred, though she knew it was probably the smarter call. She wanted to take Eddie Feng herself and right damn now, too, before he had a chance to contact even one more child online. She wasn’t about to screw around waiting for a bunch of SWAT guys to convene and scratch their asses while they drew up a plan.

With her FBI badge hanging from a chain on her neck, Kelsey Callahan pointed her pistol at the Sun Yee On triad turd nearest her and gave a shrill whistle to get everyone’s attention. On cue, Special Agent Olson cut the music and turned on what lights there were — which still didn’t brighten things up much. A dead quiet fell over the club.

The triad and cartel pukes just blinked, sizing up the task force like dogs consider a piece of meat. They were starting to get twitchy.

“Eddie Feng!” Callahan shouted, staring down a skinny Chinese gangbanger beside the stage. She lowered her voice slightly in an effort to defuse the situation. “I only want Eddie Feng.”

The triad guy’s shoulders relaxed a notch. He tipped his head sideways toward a man with a fauxhawk holding a computer tablet and a can of Red Bull. The bleeding gigantor lay at his feet.

Two CAC Task Force officers moved in on Feng. One took the tablet while the other spun him none too gently and put on the cuffs. Callahan continued to scan the shabby club. “Nice and calm,” she said, her voice steady and remarkably controlled considering how fast her heart was beating. She had to concentrate to focus on the threats and not the poor kids standing topless on stage. “Hands!” she said. “¡Manos! Let’s see hands.”