3. Dallas

CHAPTER 3

DALLAS

My shoes thud against the polished floors as I step into the main room of Purgatory.

Attired in a suit and dress shirt–borrowed fashion cues from Cody Smith's playbook for job interviews—I try to keep it cool. But it's hard when every pore on your body is working overtime fighting against Vegas' suffocating hundred-and-nine-degree heat.

You can take a guy out of normalcy, but you can't make him love Sin City's weather if he’s not from around here.

It's early afternoon and the place is almost empty except for a few workers and a bartender—a tall, muscular man with tattoos covering his arms. He wipes down the counter as he preps for the night ahead. His movements are deliberate, almost hypnotic, like a snake coiling around its prey.

I single out his name from the list of names I'm keeping in my mind.

Caleb Wesley.

He is an ex-military too. He doesn't partake in any criminal activities.

At least from what we know.

And it's my job to find out.

"Mr. Smith," a deep voice beckons from behind me while I stare up at the second floor. I turn to see a heavyset security guard in black pants and a matching T-shirt with a small bright-red Purgatory logo. His face is carved from stone, eyes dark and unreadable. "Manager is waiting for you in the back office," he says.

"Lead the way," I reply, my voice low and gravelly, the personification of Cody "Hawk" Smith taking hold of me.

As we walk through the club, across the floor and down to the hallway, the cacophony of construction noises grows louder. When we turn the corner, I see workers wearing hard hats and tool belts hustle about, their voices barely audible over the whirring of drills and the pounding of hammers.

"Busy day?" I ask the guard matter-of-factly, nodding toward the construction site as we leave it behind.

"Pipe burst last night," the man replies curtly.

We turn another corner and the noises lessen somewhat. "Gotta get it fixed before we open," he grunts, his jaw tight with annoyance.

"You like working here? The pay any good?"

"You'll find out if you get hired," he replies, his voice as cold and hard as an ominous slab of black metal. The door to the back office.

The man knocks twice.

"Come in," a voice echoes from the inside.

I pause for a moment, gathering myself, preparing to face Purgatory's head of security. Whoever he will be today.

I'm in luck.

Leaning against a massive wooden desk with arms folded across his broad chest is none other than Jeremy Ramirez. Thoreau's right-hand man and his ruthless enforcer.

I recognize him instantly. He's a big guy, who stands at six-four with a jagged scar across his left cheek, his gaze as razor-sharp and intimidating.

The low lighting creates eerie shapes and patterns on his features.

"Take a seat," he says, motioning to a chair in front of his desk. I do as he asks, feeling the weight of his stare as it bores into me. "I'm Jeremy." On the desk, there is a file. I know it's a file on me. These guys do thorough background checks.

"Cody," I give him my name. It rolls off my tongue with ease. "But Hawk is fine."

"How'd you hear about this job, Hawk?"

"Friend of mine."

"Which friend?"

"Frankie Loose Hands mentioned you guys were hiring."

"Ah, Frankie." Jeremy nods, a flicker of amusement crossing his face and for a second he doesn't seem so menacing. "He's got his fingers in a lot of pies."

"I figured that's why the nickname." I chuckle. The irony isn't lost on me though.

Jeremy doesn't know that Frankie is an FBI informant. He got himself into a predicament five years ago and to keep his ass out of prison, he turned. And truth be told, without Frankie this operation would have been ten times harder to run.

Infiltrating a gang like the one Thoreau runs isn't easy. Takes time and time isn't on our side.

Inwardly, I recite what I know about Jeremy from the file I've memorized. He's thirty-eight. Bounced around the foster system all his childhood. Younger sister works for Purgatory as a bartender, too. Loyal to Isaac Thoreau to a fault. Explosive temper, but he’s a man who knows how to read people, which means I need to be extra careful.

"How long did you work for High Sands?" Jeremy asks, interrupting my thoughts.

"Just a little over a year," I supply the information Cody "Hawk" Smith would supply to the potential employer.

High Sands is a real club back in Phoenix. The references are real too. Jason really worked his ass off to pull off this cover for me. Anyone asking around about Hawk in Arizona will remember a security guard by that name.

"This ain't Phoenix, man," Jeremy warns. "This is Vegas. High volume traffic. Lots of money. Lots of big names. Crowd can get rowdy."

"I have enough experience to know what I'm doing," I say confidently. "Did two tours in the Middle East."

"Yeah. I saw that," Jeremy grunts, motioning at my file. He seems satisfied with my response. "I respect that. So what did you do after service and before High Sands?"

"Freelance security," I answer curtly. There are definitely holes in Cody's employment history, which is part of the cover and normal for guys who are looking to work for people like Thoreau.

"Any specific gigs?" Jeremy probes, his gaze never leaving mine. He seems to be searching for something, some crack in my story that might give me away.

"Nothing worth mentioning," I say, trying to play the part. "Just random events. Weddings. Parties."

Silence fills the room.

"Look, Cody," Jeremy says finally, leaning forward and fixing me with a serious stare. "I like you. I think you'd make a good addition to our security team. You don't talk too much, you're fit, you have the experience. Know how to follow orders. There's just one formality." He opens a desk drawer and pulls out a small plastic cup, pushing it toward me across the polished surface. "Take this. We need a piss test to make sure you're clean."

I take the cup and say nothing.

"Is that going to be a problem?" Jeremy asks, nodding at the cup in my grasp.

I keep my expression impassive, aware that every word and gesture could affect the outcome of this mission. "No," I reply simply, meeting his eyes without hesitation.

"Good." He leans back in his chair, the leather creaking under his weight. "Get it done, then bring it back here."

"Understood." The cup feels cold and slick against my palm, a tangible symbol of the lies I must maintain to succeed in this dangerous game.

As I turn to leave the office, I feel the weight of Jeremy's gaze on my back, like a physical force pressing down on me. It's unnerving, but also exhilarating–a stark reminder of just how high the stakes are in this twisted world of deceit and betrayal.

And it scares me that I may be enjoying this a little too much.

"Oh, hey man," Jeremy calls when I push the door open.

"Use the staff restroom on the casino side," he instructs. "The club one's out of order."

"Got it."

As I weave my way through the corridors of Purgatory and toward the casino entrance, I find myself reveling in the knowledge that Jeremy seems to have taken a liking to me. If I can earn his trust, getting close to Thoreau will become infinitely easier. And once I've infiltrated their inner circle, it'll only be a matter of time before I can bring their entire twisted empire crashing down around them.

One brick at a time.