6. Dallas

CHAPTER 6

DALLAS

I stand at the edge of the floor, rigorously scanning the crowd, searching for any hint of suspicious activity. So far, my nights working security in this club—supposedly notorious for its illegal dealings—have been disappointingly mundane. I get to watch a mass of bodies sway, pulse, and grind to the rhythmic beat of the music that vibrates deep in my chest and my head is ringing by the end of the shift. Despite the earplugs.

I take it upon myself to quietly start deciphering the people who work here.

Are there any weak links?

Anyone accidentally spilling secrets?

But the majority of the Purgatory employees don't make it easy. They aren't talkative. The only phrases exchanged are usually from another bouncer landing a hearty thump onto my shoulder followed by the routine check-in one-liner: "All good, Hawk?"

"Same as usual," I would reply, keeping my expression neutral.

At this point, I’ve crossed paths with everyone whose photo was pinned to Jason’s whiteboard back in the FBI building. All the Hellhounds key players: Jeremy Ramirez, Donald "Ocho" Delgado, Colt "Seven" Adamski, Ricky Rott, Marco Elrod.

Yet, beneath Hawk's nonchalant exterior grows a nibbling frustration due to the lack of progress in the investigation.

Isaac Thoreau—the inscrutable leader of the Hellhounds I'm supposed to be getting close to remains an enigma. He keeps slipping away like quicksilver from grasp.

The opportunity—or more like opportunities—present itself on my third week at the club when I arrive for my shift earlier than usual to see if I can quietly canvas the area. I'm aware there are security cameras everywhere and I know I have to be creative with how I approach this task. That's why I need help. And I’ve got just the man in mind.

Colt Adamski.

Who simply goes by Seven.

As I'm changing into my suit in the back room, he walks in. He’s always the first one to arrive and he is one of the biggest guys working here, head and shoulders above the rest, with heavily muscled arms, a square jaw, thick brows, and an easy smile that doesn’t go with the rest of his appearance.

Adamski and Isaac met in prison, and I've zeroed in on him for this very reason.

"Hey, Hawk," Seven calls out, approaching his own locker while I’m pretending to be changing into my suit. In reality, I’ve been fumbling with the buttons on my shirt for a good ten minutes.

"Seven." I nod. "What's up?"

"Ah, you know, same old." He chuckles, running a hand through his short-cropped hair. "How are you settling into the job? Getting used to working here?"

I give a shrug. "Well enough. Still getting familiar with how things operate."

"You from Arizona, right?"

"Phoenix."

Seven pulls his locker door open. "Never been."

"You're not missing much. Hot as fuck and no opportunities to make decent money." I'm hoping Seven takes the bait but when he pulls out his suit from the locker, he changes the topic. "You're coming to our monthly team meeting next week, right?"

"Wasn't aware," I reply, feigning ignorance while my mind races.

"Consider yourself informed then," Seven says, grinning. "Gotta come, man. It's a good time, and Isaac always makes it worth our while."

The mention of Isaac Thoreau has all my senses spiking. "The owner?" I ask matter-of-factly.

"He manages the club for his family."

"Is it like some sort of monthly training or what?"

"Nah, just a regular team hang."

"Alright," I agree, tucking away this information. Weird. But whatever. "I'll be there."

"You better."

Another opportunity comes later. My shift is about to end and the night is slowly winding down. I'm on my last break by the bar to grab a bottle of water and I purposely position myself on the side a tiny redhead is handling.

Jessica Ramirez.

Jeremy's younger sister.

Both were in foster care, bouncing from house to house.

Her record is clean and I have this gut feeling, though she works at the club, she's not tangled up in Isaac's dealings, but any information is better than no information. Besides, I gotta give my superiors something. And soon. If I have to use some of my charm, then I will.

"Hey, Hawk!" she calls out, handing me the water. "How's the job treating you?"

"Can't complain," I reply with a smile, leaning against the counter and twisting the cap open. "You know how it is."

"Of course," she purrs, flashing me a teasing grin. "But I bet it's more fun than your last gig, huh?"

"Definitely."

"Aren’t you from Phoenix?"

Dallas Bradley was born and raised in the middle of nowhere somewhere in Northern Cali and joining the Marines was his only way out of that shithole of a town. But Hawk... His roots are stretched under Arizona's scorching skies. And right now I'm him—a disgruntled vet, feeling discarded like day-old news after leaving service. And looking to make real money. And Jeremy's sister, with her sparkling green eyes and flirty demeanor, is an easy target.

"I am," I tell her before taking a sip from the water bottle.

Her gaze locks on mine. "I hope you're planning to stick around."

"I hope so too." I take another swig and tap the counter with my palm. "Anyway, I'll let you get back to work."

"Don't be a stranger, Arizona, okay?" She gives me a playful wink, her ruby-red lips curling into a cheeky smirk.

I step away from the bar, not wanting to draw too much attention to our interaction. If her brother sees us, he may not like it. I know. I have a sister too. We don’t talk much these days but the need to protect is always there.

For now, I choose to tread carefully. I choose to be what a guy like Hawk would be.

Simple.

Not overly chatty.

Polite.

Disciplined.

Lonely.

Eating takeout after work in his poorly furnished one-bedroom apartment somewhere on the ninth floor of the building with a decent view of the Strip. Hawk isn’t renting this crappy place because he can see the slick curves of Aria or the miniature Eiffel Tower of Paris. He wants to be close to where money is, he wants a reminder of what he could have in the form of opulence that are those massive hotels and casinos.

The place itself isn’t much. Tiny, with shitty plumbing, and perpetually no kitchen. But for a guy like Hawk, who’s been ignored and forgotten, it's enough. He can’t afford to spend more. He can’t afford something that America promises to every American. Even though he’s paid his dues.

Yes, that’s what Cody Smith would be pissed about.

And that’s what I’m trying to make myself feel—anger—as I enter the apartment and toss my keys onto the counter. The sound echoes through the dead silence like a gunshot. My brain is exhausted after a night of hard techno and I wince at the noise, suddenly paranoid that someone might hear and discover my true identity. But the moment passes quickly, and I'm left wondering why I even thought that.

No one in Purgatory is suspecting me.

At least, I hope so.

Another week slips through my fingers like sand, each day at the club blending into the next useless one in a haze of sweat, loud music, and deception while I’m patiently waiting for the team meeting everyone’s finally starting to discuss.

I sincerely hope Seven didn’t bullshit me and Thoreau will be there, but the man is pretty much invisible, so I don’t hold my breath. Instead, I work out a backup plan in my head—get closer to Jeremy.

Use his sister if necessary.

Big moment, Hawk , I think in the privacy of my mind as I stand outside the back room on a hotter-than-hell afternoon, three hours shy of my shift.

Despite the ACs blasting on full, I can still feel the unforgiving heat seeping through my basic black tee and worn jeans. It’s hot as fuck outside, hotter than it has been these past few weeks.

I can hear voices coming from inside the room. Mundane chatter mingling with an undercurrent of jazz notes and punctuated by steady footfalls.

They sound disarmingly normal. Like regular people hanging out and not a bunch of shady individuals involved in all sorts of questionable activities in the seedy underbelly of Vegas.

Inhaling sharply, I push the door open and step into the room.

"Hey! Look who finally showed up!" Seven greets me with a grin from across the way.

"Wouldn't miss it."

"Good man," someone says off to the side, claps me on the shoulder, and shoves me a beer. I slowly make my way through the clusters of people and shake a few hands. Although I know most of these guys, there are still a few unfamiliar faces.

But no Thoreau.

Disappointment washes over me.

"New guy." Jeremy waves me over to the corner of the room where he is sitting at the table. "Come here."

"You like tacos?" Marco asks. "Cuz you're in for a treat tonight. We got the best ones in town today."

I'm embracing life's rhythm and going with the flow—savoring some food, bantering away, knocking back another beer—all while counting the seconds for Thoreau to make his grand entrance.

It’s just a touch over an hour before my shift starts—a round of sobriety to clear any alcohol fog from my brain by the time I slip into work mode.

I’m convinced my target won’t show up.

And then he appears.

Isaac Thoreau strides into the room like a storm. His presence commands immediate attention and reverence from all those around him. The air crackles with unseen electricity as he moves.

I’ve forgotten about everything else. My attention zeroes in on him, carefully observing every detail of his appearance. His—possibly intentionally unkempt—jet-black hair falls onto his forehead, longer on top and shorter on the sides and back.

He's about my height, fit without bordering on intimidatingly bulky. The black silk shirt he’s wearing is casually unbuttoned down to reveal a well-sculpted upper portion of his chest. A silver chain around his neck seems to only highlight the paleness of his skin. A rare sight in the desert, almost as if the man never goes outside when the sun is up.

Unlike most guys in the room sporting jeans and khakis, Thoreau is wearing fitted dress slacks. There’s a massive watch on his wrist that somehow looks authentically classy instead of flashy.

But it’s not the clothes or even his apparent youthfulness that catches the eye. It's this fresh-faced charm underlining his mature demeanor—an effortless blend suggesting he could easily grace the glossy pages of GQ or rule any magazine cover if he so desired.

The mugshot the FBI has tucked away in their files doesn’t do Thoreau justice.

"Here's to the boss!" someone yells, raising their glass in a toast. The others echo the sentiment.

I’m in the back of the room and away from Thoreau’s line of view while he’s shooting the shit with the rest of the guys gathered here, but when he draws closer, Seven nudges me forward and in the direction of Thoreau and shouts drunkenly, "Boss! Have you met the new guy?"

My entire world pinpoints to the man who moves to stand in front of me all of a sudden, the man I know very well, the man who violently killed his father, the man who was in prison for this crime, the man who I’m supposed to send back there.

"Isaac." He extends his hand for a shake. "Welcome to Purgatory." The corner of his mouth twitches as if he is trying hard not to smirk. And then I realize… his voice. It's the same voice—a low velvety rumble—that haunted my dreams since my encounter with a stranger in the casino bathroom. It’s the voice of a man who held my life in his hands with me never laying eyes on his face.

Well, I have that opportunity now—to look my fill, to memorize the lines of his features, the brown eyes that hold mischief and secrets, the nose remarkably straight for someone who’s been in the lockup, the cleanly shaved square jaw, the faded trace of a scar across his throat, the mouth that seems a little too big when he smiles. Just like he’s smiling at me now as he’s shaking my hand.

His grip is tight despite his hand not being overly large and his fingers are long and slender. They could be the fingers of someone who plays the piano. But they belong to the criminal mastermind behind the elusive Hellhounds and I have to remind this fact to myself.

The air between us is charged with an unspoken recognition, a shared secret. And for a brief moment, the two of us are engaged in a silent battle of gazes, and his is sharp as a knife, cutting through me. And right before we break the handshake, I feel something squeezing in my chest and then twisting my gut as if Thoreau can see me, can read my mind, can tell who I am and why I’m here.

There's heat radiating from his skin where it comes in contact with mine and I withdraw my hand first.

"Hawk, right?" he says, immediately hiding his own hand in the pocket of his slacks.

"Yes," I choke out, trying to sound humble. "Thanks for giving me a chance."

"Don’t thank me." Thoreau jerks his chin toward Jeremy standing off to the side. "If my head of security thinks you’re a good fit for Purgatory, then that’s that."

"New guy is alright, boss," someone pipes up.

"Keep it up," is the last thing Thoreau says to me before he’s dragged away by Marco and Ricky.

I'm left standing under low bar lighting that flickers intermittently like a poorly played Morse code message, fending off unsolicited advances from Janine, one of the waitresses.

Janine's usual territory is catering to the high rollers in the VIP section upstairs. She could be invaluable when it comes to hearing muffled whispers worth knowing. Despite her helpfulness though, there's an edge of complication with her—hands too quick to casually skim across forearms, too many lingering glances that tell me they are more than just friendly affection.

An uneasy feeling prickles at my neck. I’m not sure I’m willing to sleep with someone for information. Although it’s against the rules and is heavily judged within our circle if it does happen, some undercover agents follow that route. Bureau regulations and personal ethics aside, practical and other complications always come along with sleeping your way into secrets.

Consent.

Compromised objectivity.

Danger to the mission.

In the end, it's just not worth it—getting physically involved with someone who works at the club. That's what I keep telling myself, at least, as my eyes keep darting to Isaac, who's immersed in conversation with several staff members. Contrary to what I expected, he doesn’t smile often. Almost never. And I wonder why he did so with me.

Was it a warning?

Was he mocking me?

I can't seem to shake the tension that coils in my stomach. It tightens its grip on me every time my gaze meets Thoreau’s.

"Listen up, boys!" Jessica calls out, vaulting herself onto a chair that Jeremy holds firmly for her. "And girls," she adds, shooting Janine a stare. "The highlight of our scandalous little mixers has finally arrived." She launches both hands into the air.

The room responds immediately; resounding cheers crack the silence like an arrhythmic heartbeat, woven together by sharp whistles and tipsy applause that drowns the hollow corners of the room.

"We’re going to give out some prizes now!" Jessica continues. She motions at Isaac who’s retreated to the corner. He’s leaning against the wall, the sleeves of his shirt rolled up and arms crossed on his chest. "Please give a round of applause to our wonderful employer who puts up with assholes like us every day."

Laughter dances in scattered echoes around the space.

I'm rooted to the spot, patiently waiting and wondering what it’s all about.

"Let’s kick off this shindig by announcing our most popular bartender of the month!" Jessica shouts and claps furiously. Caught in her own buzzed storm of delight, she swings wildly, teetering precariously on her chair. Jeremy swoops in, steadying his sister before gravity can claim its victory.

Before I can even catch up with what just happened, Jessica’s already announcing a name. "Caleb Wesley!"

The ex-military guy.

The crowd parts and Caleb walks over to the chair Jessica is occupying. On the table behind her, there’s a large box and she gives some sort of signal to her brother and Jeremy retrieves what appears to be… a credit card? Or a gift card?

"Come here, you sexy animal," Jessica says jokingly and hands Caleb his present.

He accepts it with a grin and then a small bow in the direction of Thoreau.

Interesting.

"Don’t spend it all in one place, buddy," Seven shouts drunkenly. I hope he’s off today. He’s too fucked up to be working. Wait! Why should I care? These people aren’t good people. If something happens to them because of their stupidity or the dumb choices they make, it’s their own damn fault.

"Next up," Jessica announces, holding a small gift-wrapped box in her hand. "For the most badass bouncer!" She makes a pause for effect while Ricky drums out a beat with his fingers on the table. "Marco!"

The room erupts in applause while Marco makes his way over to Jessica. He’s grinning while accepting the token. Then he tears into the wrapping in front of everyone to reveal a sleek pocketknife. "You've proved your worth again and again, man," Jeremy says proudly.

For the next thirty minutes, the room is filled with excited chatter, rustling of wrapping paper, and Jessica’s tipsy nomination announcements. And I almost feel this giddy anticipation each time a new present comes out from that box Jeremy’s guarding.

"Is this a regular thing?" I ask Seven as the team continues to receive their gifts.

"Absolutely. Boss does this every month," he replies, nodding toward Isaac who’s still propped against the wall and away from the commotion. It’s like he doesn’t want the spotlight. He just wants to watch. And I understand it. Understand more than I care actually.

"Never had anything like this at my other gigs," I tell Seven quietly.

"We're family here at Purgatory. Many of us couldn't find a job anywhere else." He leans in closer and adds in a hushed tone, "Some guys have records and most places won't give them a chance. But Isaac trusts us to do our best. He can be a hardass sometimes, but if you stick around long enough, you’ll see that he’s fucking great."

Right.

He’s also a convicted murderer, who killed his own father.

The laughter of the back room fades into a distant hum as I sneak away into the privacy of the back alley for a pre-shift smoke.

Dallas doesn’t smoke: it's never been his vice. But Hawk does. And while Dallas isn’t particularly keen on developing unhealthy habits, all rules blur when you're desperate for results. Sometimes you have to waltz through fire to score your victory. But what I noticed a long time ago is that people have this strange affinity for spilling their beans with a fellow smoker.

My mind is churning as I retrieve a pack of Newports from the back pocket of my jeans. The gritty pavement beneath my boots feels like a tether to reality, anchoring me in my mission as I lean against the brick wall and light a cigarette.

Smoke curls into the hot evening air, momentarily obscuring the neon signs that cast an eerie glow on my shadowy surroundings.

I try not to get used to the icy sting of menthol on my tongue as the smoke caresses my lungs like an unwanted guest while I prepare myself for another round of silent warfare waiting for me inside Purgatory.

The blurry edges of sobriety begin to take a crisp, acute form—a brain on high alert, a goal etched in crystal. Clear.

The door creaks open and I fully expect to see Seven or Ricky.

Instead, I’m blindsided by Thoreau’s silhouette as he slips out from the inside, quiet and stealthy like a cat. He turns toward me, standing against the wall of light streaming into the alley from one of those ego-filled buildings on the Strip that need to shine brighter than all.

His face is a dark blob. His features are drowning in the playful blend of light and dark.

Then a whisper-veiled challenge echoes through the stuffy air. "Mind if I join you?"

Grammatically, it’s a question but I realize he’s not asking. He’s telling me.

For some reason—and it rarely happens during missions when I work the target—my heartbeat quickens and an alien sensation grips at my pulse.

I maintain a stoic, unimpressed fa?ade that’s supposed to scream 'barely interested.' I nod subtly to acknowledge his presence.

Thoreau continues to stand in his spot for a moment between us that stretches, both hands in the pockets of his slacks, lean body framed by neon. He’s long-legged, with a thin waist, and broad—but not bulky—shoulders and I realize I’m staring at him for too long—longer than rules permit in our volatile social survival game.

"How’s the job treating you so far?" Isaac finally asks, taking a slow step in my direction, hands never leaving his pockets.

As he draws closer, his face becomes clear, his features embedding themselves into my brain over and over. He’s almost… delicate in some places. Like his veined wrists. Elegant. Thin. I have no explanation for why this particular observation flashes through the forefront of my mind but in this moment I don’t question it because Isaac Thoreau is in front of me. It’s just the two of us and it’s a perfect opportunity.

"The job is great," I tell him, holding his gaze.

His eyes are intense, the color of dark chocolate, framed by thick, long lashes any woman would be jealous of.

He takes another step, swallowing up the distance between us, his shoes clacking lightly against the warm pavement.

When he’s close enough that I can smell his cologne—something fresh and salty like an ocean breeze in this sweltering desert hellhole—every single muscle in my body tightens. He is in my personal space now, his face on the same level with mine. He is studying me with ruthless efficiency as if searching for something. And this proximity with him—with my target—sends a strange thrill through my veins.

"Can I?" Isaac husks out, reaching out for my cigarette I’m holding between my thumb and my finger.

I release it and he slides into the corner of his mouth and inhales.

Just one long drag.

His chest expands, the silk straining against his skin a little, as he inhales deeply.

Then he returns the cigarette.

I take it.

Seconds tick by…

He exhales, pushing the smoke out and blowing it right into my face, his expression almost mocking, the same silent challenge I sensed earlier inside.

"I like it," Isaac half-whispers.

I’m utterly confused as to what exactly he is referring to. I lift my eyebrow in a silent question, waiting—not hoping—for some clarification.

"The fact that you’re good at keeping your mouth shut." Isaac pauses. "Hawk."

I jump on this opening. "Loose tongues make people disappear." I shove whatever is left of the cigarette into my mouth and pull in a deep breath. The smoke slips inside—we are already familiar with each other and know how things work and the smoke rings come out with ease when I blow them out.

They float around lazily in the tight space between Thoreau and me.

"Smart," he says.

No soft sentiments here, no mincing words, no innuendos, or hiding behind emotionally enigmatic euphemisms–only blunt truths.

He says nothing else, just turns around and leaves.