The hotel manager had said that the smoke was no big deal. I still checked it from time to time and kept the room’s window cracked. The manager wasn’t much of a trustworthy person. He’d offered me the option to give him a daily blow job instead of paying the regular room fee.
An upstanding guy, that one.
I’d declined. But lately, as my funds dwindled into single digits, I’d been considering that option to my utmost regret.
I’d even gone back into exotic dancing. That was how I spotted the three thieves and came up with my plan.
I’d been watching the gang ever since I’d seen them rob another club I worked in a few months back.
That Sunday night long ago, they’d stomped in, wielding guns and shooting up the ceiling. Everyone dove to the ground, including me. Dread had rocked me into compliance. Who knew what type of men were robbing the place—killers, rapists, sadistic assholes that got off on torture and tears?
The whole time, I remained on the floor and did what they asked, but I kept my gaze on them too, just in case there was a moment I could escape.
So smooth, they marched to the club’s center stage. The leader forced the dancer on the main stage to hold the bag while men stuffed it with their money and credit cards.
Terrified, the poor dancer had pissed on herself. Urine soaked her thong and streamed down her thighs.
The leader cursed, yanked off his shirt, and helped her with cleaning up.
I knew right then that he wasn’t a deranged killer.
A psycho wouldn’t have cared.
And I knew psychos.
At the end, the guys grabbed the money and rushed out of there, harming no one but the men’s wallets.
The next morning, I checked the news. The reporter explained that the same gang had struck again. Their names were unknown. Inaccurate face drawings of them plastered the screen.
They’d been smart enough to not rob a club with security cameras. Plus, it was so dark it was hard to truly see what they looked like. And even if the male customers or dancers did see their faces, we were all too scared to come forward.
Basically, it wasn’t a bad hustle.
That strip club closed down due to the robbery.
I lost a job and found another place to dance.
Then they robbed the second club I worked in. And just like before, it was a busy Sunday night. Again, they had the center stage girl gather the money and hand it to them. No casualties came from the hit. They stormed in, grabbed the money, and dashed out.
And an idea uncoiled in my mind like a satin ribbon being unwound from its spool.
I’ll rob them.
For weeks, I danced at night and researched their robberies during the day. They only mugged clubs not owned by the mafia. They remained far away from the strip clubs in Paradise—the big city next to us. All of those clubs were owned by a criminal network called the Syndicate.
The men also never hit the same club twice.
All of this information narrowed their new targets down to four clubs around Glory.
Once I decoded their pattern, I laughed at how simple it was—they hit clubs on busy Sunday nights and when not many bouncers were scheduled to work.
No fool, I stalked them for another month, trying to see if I could guess their next target. Many times, I picked the right one and was there, while they—completely unaware of me—robbed strip club after strip club, fast, in and out.
And they were good. Each time they finished faster than before.
I was impressed with their accuracy and skill.
Unfortunately for them, I was better and less predictable. A woman always had the upper hand in a strip club. She could be invisible or be seen.
They never realized that I’d been at the other clubs while they robbed them. Once, I’d bumped into the leader, inhaling his sexy cologne.
Another robbery, I stood right next to the short one, assessing his moves.
I did it with no problems.
Now all I had to do was turn the jewelry into cash and grab the Louis Vuitton briefcase from Quin.
I had big plans.
Unfortunately, it sometimes took money to make money.
With no high school diploma, there weren’t many options. Going back to school for my GED wasn’t an option either. I felt too dumb to even try.
However, the crime world provided a few paths. The most high-end track involved the Syndicate in Paradise. They were always hiring and they paid damn good.
However, one couldn’t just walk up to the Syndicate’s door, knock, and ask for a job. I would be guaranteed to get shot.
A Syndicate recruiter had to give the introduction to one of the top people. The recruiter’s job was to search out the right type of criminals to fill positions—ones that were loyal, smart, and hard working. And when the recruiter connected the people, it wasn’t free. The Syndicate didn’t want a bunch of broke criminals trying to get a job. They expected people who were smart enough to wrangle large funds—one that could absolutely hustle.