The Payback (Team Zulu 2)

“I don’t particularly want to get involved in this, and I’m not sure there’s anything I can do. I don’t even work in organized crime anymore. I hunt terrorists now. The correct channel, as you’re aware, is to request your boyfriend’s case be reopened. If the DA’s office reassigns it to a new team, they’ll review the evidence.”

“You must still have connections, right? Could you ask one of your old colleagues to check? Please, Agent Williams.” I shifted on my feet and wrung my hands. “If nothing comes of it, I promise you won’t hear from me about this again.”

She searched the sky for something, probably the patience to deal with the fledgling criminologist who was fast becoming a pain in her ass. Her eyes came back to mine. “Fine. I’ll see what I can do. I’m not making any promises, though.”

“Thank you. I knew you’d help.” Actually, I’d thought she’d flick me away like a small, annoying insect. This washuge. “My cell number and email are at the bottom of the sketch.”

“All right. I really have to go. Nice meeting you, Ms. Allen. I have a feeling one day you’ll be raising hell for the Philly reprobates.” She shot me a parting smirk before walking away.

Outside a hole-in-the-wall Vietnamese restaurant on Wolf Street, I sat at a dirty table poking chopsticks at a steaming box of noodles.

Behind me, orders were called while utensils scraped against a sizzling wok, and the fragrant scents of fresh cilantro and mint lingered in the air.

I wasn’t hungry. Nor had I been when I’d placed my order, and I certainly didn’t want to fill my stomach right before Muay Thai training. I was here for the cover the busy restaurant afforded and the direct view of Vixens strip club across the street.

Among Philly locals, it was no secret that the unassuming red brick building was owned and run by the Wolf Street Mafia. As their unofficial clubhouse, it was an invitation-only establishment, its patrons sworn to secrecy about whatever went on inside. I shuddered to think.

A silver Mercedes stopped in front of Vixens in a clearly markedNo Parkingzone. I raised the hood of my gray sweatshirt and whipped out my cell phone, pretending to scroll through social media.

I recognized the two men who exited the vehicle. They were regulars, although I’d only been able to identify one so far. Using the video camera on my phone, I zoomed in and hit record.

The dark-haired guy wearing an expensive-looking three-piece navy suit was Dante Moretti. I’d discovered he was a well-connected billionaire, and he looked the part with his designer sunglasses and shiny black shoes. A Google search revealed the entrepreneur invested in commercial property, cutting-edge tech, and foreign acquisitions. So why would he visit a Mafia clubhouse regularly? I couldn’t be certain, but I thought he was a captain, or even an underboss. Dante Moretti wasn’t a household name, yet his personal wealth along with the Mob’s backing made him one of the most powerful men in the country.

Gangsters didn’t resemble the Sopranos anymore, nor did they flaunt their power in the city. They’d wised up and were cagey about their roles within the organization. Even the identity of the don wasn’t common knowledge, despite his reputation of being ruthlessly sadistic.

The other man, Moretti’s enormous, fair-haired bodyguard, wore a black suit. Each item must have been tailor-made because of his mountainous height and muscly bulk.

A bouncer opened the door, and they entered the club.

“Dammit,” I groaned and put my phone away.

The cool fall weather and the fact that most entering the club wore suits meant I was unlikely to spy a bare forearm until next spring. No tattoo spotting today.

Even though I hadn’t been able to track down the shooter, the stakeouts weren’t a total waste of time. For years, I’d been photographing those who entered Vixens. Most I suspected were mobsters, but there were others. Those I’d been able to identify came from every walk of life. Business owners, union officials, members of Congress—almost all of them with a position of influence or a truckload of money. I’d even spotted a couple of detectives heading in one Friday afternoon. I guessed they could be there in an official capacity, but I doubted it. The Mob had plenty of supporters eager to reap the benefits of their wealth, power, and connections.

After another fruitless twenty minutes of observing scumbags arrive at the club, I gave up pretending to eat and offered my untouched noodles to the guy camping out in a nearby alley.

The afternoon’s mission was a waste, and there was only one way to unleash my frustration.

Time for a few rounds of sparring.