Impulsively (Dante's Nine MC) (5 page)

Dante’s Nine has been very cooperative with us in the past,
when it’s been in their best interest. A year or so back, they helped us bring
down the head honcho of the Lorenzo Family and put an end to a series of deadly
cage matches. They got their slate scrubbed clean for that bit of assistance,
full immunity for all club members, but they’re fair game again now that
they’re allied with the Wraiths.”

“Dante’s Nine has always relied on a variety of income
sources to stay afloat. From what we can tell, they’ve shuttered most of their
questionable operations of late in favor of a modest auto shop, built adjacent
to their club house. One of the members bailed them out around the time we
offered immunity, so they seemingly haven’t had to resort to their old ways.”

“So if they’ve gone legit, what’s the problem?” I ask.

“The problem is, it’s clearly a front,” Bruno says, rolling
his eyes. “We just don’t know for what yet.”

“The Devil’s Wraiths are less apologetic when it comes to
the source of their money, and less family friendly, too,” Mitchell cuts in.
“They’ve got a wildly successful strip club built on their compound. The
Devil’s Playpen, it’s called. They bring in porn stars with niche followings
and draw in the fan boy big spenders from Vegas. Good strategy, I’ve got to
hand it to them.”

“So they’re scum bags,” I shrug, “No big surprise there.
What’s happened recently that has the FBI back on their case?”

“Both of their clubs’ businesses have flexed a bit, lately,
to accommodate some changes,” Mitchell says, leading me closer to the wall of
intel. “There have been some changes to the MC ranks. New members and current
members trading positions of influence.”

There are two sets of photos displayed on the wall, arranged
in pyramids of rank. One set is labeled “Dante’s Nine”, the other “Devil’s
Wraiths.” At the head of the first is a devilishly handsome silver fox bearing
the tag “John Baxter, President.” Topping the other pyramid is a round-faced,
mean-looking sonofabitch with wispy white blonde hair, tagged “Malcolm ‘Mac’
Donnelly, President.”

But far more eye-catching than the two men in charge are
their second-in-commands. Flanking each MC president is an insanely attractive
young VP. “Declan Tiberi,” the intense, clean-shaven VP of Dante’s Nine, and
“Leo Bane,” the bearded, golden-eyed VP of the Devil’s Wraiths, could easily
pass for rock stars. And in their world, I bet they do.

“It’s the clubs’ VPs that seem to be stirring up the most
trouble,” Mitchell goes on, seeing my gaze fix firmly on the striking outlaws.
“Tiberi just got promoted a few months ago. Standard changing of the guard.
They’re each being groomed to take over their clubs as president one day, and
are making their mark on the way things are done. But the real agents of change
have been their old ladies.”

“Their what?” I ask, ripping my eyes away.

“Club wives, more or less,” Bruno says. “Tiberi and Bane
have each picked up feisty little honeys this past year. Civilians turned MC
bitches.”

I cringe at his blatantly sexist language. “Is ‘MC bitch’
the proper terminology, Bruno?”

“Proper or not, that’s what they are,” he shrugs. “And
they’re making more trouble than they’re worth for these guys.”

“What kind of trouble?” I ask Mitchell.

“Bane’s old lady, Kelly Rodgers, has helped the girls of the
Devil’s Playpen start their own porn production company. Tiberi’s girl, Kassie
Bennett, runs a crowd funding site,” Mitchell tells me.

“So they started their own businesses. Good for them,” I
reply. “How does that make trouble for the clubs?”

“We’ve been receiving tips about both of these endeavors, and
then some,” Mitchell tells me. “Their operations may not be so squeaky clean
after all. Bruno’s been going undercover at the Devil’s Playpen, following some
tips about solicitation.”

“I’m sure that’s been a real struggle for you,” I grin at
Bruno.

“I’m not complaining about the view,” he says. “And I’m
getting to know some of the new girls. Something’s bound to give there. No way
a strip club-based porn company is above bending a few rules.”

“Isn’t it entrapment to bait them into doing something
wrong?” I ask.

“Don’t tell me how to do my job, Princess,” Bruno snarls,
all the humor gone from his voice.

“Moving on,” Mitchell says smoothly, “Quinn, I’m assigning
you as a second agent to this case to investigate from another angle. Your
extensive computer science knowledge will be incredibly helpful when it comes
to gathering intelligence about Ms. Bennett’s site.”

“Sounds like something that’s very much in my wheel house,”
I nod. “So, what do you need me to do? Hunt around to see if there’s any
malware hiding in their emails? See if money is being siphoned off from their
transactions? All I need is a desk and computer here in the office, a few cups
of coffee, and—what? What is it?”

Bruno and Mitchell are exchanging glances across the room,
silently conferring about how to proceed.

“The thing is, Collins,” Mitchell begins, “we don’t see this
investigation happening purely online.”

“I don’t follow,” I reply.

“Bruno here has been having some real success working
undercover on this thing,” Mitchell goes on, “so we’re going to have you do the
same.”

My stomach twists into a painful knot as I realize my boss isn’t
joking. For a moment all I can do is stare at him, my jaw hanging wide open.

“Did you not include that little detail when you went to
fetch her?” Bruno asks.

“Nope. Forgot to mention that particular nugget of
information,” I finally manage to say, my breath caught high in my chest.
“Agent Mitchell, I have absolutely no undercover experience. My training is in
cyber surveillance.”

“I know this isn’t what you normally do at the Bureau,” Mitchell
begins.

“It’s completely outside of what I normally do!” I exclaim.
“For the past two years, I’ve been sitting at a keyboard, putting my hacking
skills to use. I’ve barely spoken to anyone outside of work, and even then not
for very long. How do you expect me to go—?”

“Agent Collins,” Mitchell says sharply, “you are a Special
Agent of the FBI. You will do what is asked of you in service of this
organization. And right now you’re being asked to go undercover in order to
gather vital intelligence about this potentially criminal group.”

“Yes. Of course, sir,” I mutter, hot red patches lighting up
my cheeks.

“You’re going to infiltrate the clubs’ business through
Kassie Bennett’s site, CrowdedNest,” Mitchell continues, ignoring my outburst.
“She and Kelly Rodgers are the senior developers and co-owners of the site.
Declan Tiberi provided the original start-up cash to get it off the ground. And
lucky for us, CrowdedNest is hiring.”

“Hiring?” I echo, totally at a loss.

“You’re going to reach out to Ms. Bennett and Ms. Rodgers,
under an alias of course, and ask be considered for a job at CrowdedNest,”
Mitchell reveals. “You’re completely qualified for any job they could offer
you, given your tech background. And you’re a young, attractive woman. They’ll
be more inclined to hire you because of that.”

Disappointment tugs at the corners of my mouth. So when
Mitchell said I was perfect for this job, it had as much to do with looks—and
tits—as it did my computer skills? I can’t help but be bummed out about that.

“You’ll start working for CrowdedNest and get access to all
the records, correspondence, and data you could dream of,” Mitchell says.
“You’ll remove as much intel as you can using an external drive and dig through
it for suspicious activity. It’s a bit of a needle-in-the-haystack gambit, but
we’re confident that something good will turn up. We suspect that the girls are
funneling some of their money to the Wraiths and the Nine, especially seeing as
Tiberi is a key investor. And if the finances of the site and the clubs are intertwined—”

“Then if one goes down, they all go down,” Bruno finishes
with a grin. “We can demolish the whole goddamn lot of them.”

I let my eyes wander across the vast array of intel
displayed on the walls. Each club boasts nearly a dozen members; hardened,
ruthless men, most of whom are proud criminals. Each photo makes me sicker than
the next. There’s only one blank space in the ranks of Dante’s Nine, one last
member the FBI hasn’t identified yet. But the rest of their eyes stare out from
their mug shots, cold and unfeeling. A surge of hatred rises like bile in my
throat as I look them over.

“Penny for your thoughts, Agent?” Mitchell prompts.

“I just...have a bit of a bias against men like them,” I say
softly. “Call it a grudge, call it a vendetta, I just call it reason. I despise
organized crime, especially gangs. And we all know that’s what these clubs are,
in the end. My little brother was shot in Philly. Got caught in the crossfire
of some gang shootout. That’s the whole reason I decided to go into law
enforcement.”

“And now you finally get to have a hand in taking these
assholes down,” Mitchell says, laying a supportive hand on my shoulder.

“But I don’t know how I’m supposed to be in a room with one
of these low-lives,” I tell him. “Without spitting in his face, that is.”

“That’s the beauty of your assignment:” Mitchell says, “you
don’t have to go anywhere near the members of the Nine or the Wraiths. You
never have to set foot in one of their clubhouses. You’ll be dealing
exclusively with these two old ladies.”

“As if they’re not complicit,” I scoff, shaking my head.
“They may have been civilians, once, but they’re as much a part of these gangs
as any of the members now. And just as guilty. Maybe not of anything we’ve been
tipped off about, but guilty of being thugs all the same.”

“You don’t seem like the type to fly off the handle and
start shooting at random,” Mitchell says. “I trust you to be around these
people without going berserk. So, what do you say, Collins? Are you still in,
or do I need to find someone else for this operation?”

I glare up at the MC members, staring daggers at each and
every one of them. Even the mystery man in the ranks of Dante’s Nine. If I can
have some small part in bringing down just one gang...well, I can’t think of
anything else that would be more rewarding.

“I’m in,” I say resolutely, “When can I start?”

“Immediately,” Mitchell grins. “Why don’t you go check out
your new place and get to work contacting the girls at CrowdedNest?”

“Sounds great,” I nod, turning to go.

“Oh, and one more thing, Agent,” Mitchell says. “You’re not
allergic to cats, are you?”

I stand in the middle of the barren one-bedroom apartment
I’ve been assigned to, just off the Las Vegas strip. I’ve been locked in a
staring contest with my brand new roommate for the last three minutes. And I’m
ashamed to admit that he’s winning.

“You don’t scare me, buddy,” I mutter, fixing my blue eyes
on my testy new bunk buddy. “I’ve faced down worse than the likes of you in my
time.”

An old gray cat stares back at me with utter indifference.
Apparently he was a stray kitten, once upon a time. Until, that is, one of the
agents who used this place on assignment let the bugger in for a saucer of
milk. No one’s been able to coax the cat out of the place since. Plenty of
agents have come and gone from this apartment in the meantime, but the cat has
always stayed put. I’ve been told that he’s simply called The Mayor. And for
the time being, I’m expected to take care of him.

It could be worse, I suppose. That agent could have adopted
a baby alligator, instead.

I blink my dry eyes, surrendering to The Mayor’s prowess. He
flicks his puffy tail and struts away into the other room. Guess we know who
runs things around here. Sinking down onto the twin bed in the corner, I look
around at my new digs. The apartment is spare in every sense. About 500 square
feet with nothing but the most basic utilities: a bed, a fridge, a stove, and a
shower. I kick myself for neglecting to bring along my French press and cushy
comforter. But again, no one ever said that working for the FBI was going to be
a glamorous affair. I arrange my photos on the plain dresser, plunk my tin of
coffee down in the kitchen, and give my pillow a good, tight squeeze. Home
sweet home, indeed.

I decide that I might as well get right to work. Grabbing a
cold beer from the fridge—either a welcome gift or something another agent left
behind, I assume—I pull out my laptop and settle down on the threadbare couch
across the living room. I open up my browser and punch in CrowdedNest.com. At
once, the site in question pops up on my screen.

“Let’s see what we’ve got here...” I murmur.

Kassie Bennett came up with the CrowdedNest concept herself,
I learn in the “About” section of the site. It’s a crowd-funding platform that
allows friends and families of senior citizens to contribute to their
retirement nest eggs. Apparently, some family tragedy of Kassie’s inspired her
create the site, so that no other families leveled by the recent financial
crisis would have to suffer like hers did. Noble, sure. But she’s still an MC
old lady, and therefore crooked as hell in my book.