Chapter 1
"It was just one touch!" the man howled as he was thrown out the rear door of the building.
Ezekiel Harding didn't give a fuck. The man didn't want to follow the rules of The Club so he was removed, as per policy. The fact that he didn't want to leave quietly wasn't a deterrent. If anything, it simply confirmed Zeke had made the right call and pulled the guy out at the appropriate time.
Safety, privacy, and reputation were the most critical elements of The Club's success, which made sense since it was one of the most elite BDSM clubs in Texas. Zeke understood mission statements. He believed in them, supported them, trusted them, and had been willing to die for them. Throwing a drunken idiot out on his ass was minor in comparison to the shit Zeke had gone through over in Syria.
"Come on, man," the drunk whined as he tried to stagger to his feet in the alleyway. "I didn't mean anything by it. Just let me back in."
That was an easy answer. "No."
"I can pay you–"
Seriously, how many times had he heard those exact words? As if a few hundred bucks on the side would somehow compare to the hefty sum Jet Mak paid each of his private enforcement staff members, his Suits. As if Zeke was such a loser that he wouldn't honor the contract he'd signed his name to. A contract that clearly stated bribes or side payments in exchange for access to The Club, its patrons, or its premises, would result in immediate termination.
Getting fired would be the least of his concerns though. Not getting his ass handed to him, or ending up thrown in a ditch for coyotes to scavenge was the more pressing issue. Mr. Mak valued loyalty and Zeke owed him.
The man didn't know any of this though. He was nothing but a drunk hoping to grope another woman.
"I don't want your money," Zeke stated. That familiar cold calm was settling over him, like hoarfrost crystallizing on an undisturbed surface.
The drunk could react two ways: accept that Zeke wasn't going to budge and walk away, or use his response to pick a fight.
"My money's not good enough for you?"
Clearly option two. Somewhere deep below that familiar chill, a spark caught. The adrenaline mixed into his blood, pushing comforting warmth under his shell, under the mask he projected. Zeke wanted to beat the living shit out of this douchebag, but patience was the key. After he'd gotten stateside and seen the cluster his capture had left in its wake, he'd promised that he wouldn't resort to violence unless it was the only way he could get the message across.
"You fucking mick! Think you're a man now?" And the idiot drew a crappy knife from his pocket with the flourish of a man who doesn't realize he's about to die.
Zeke cast his eyes heavenward, silently breathing a prayer of thanksgiving. A smooth flick of his jacket granted access to his twin Sig Sauer P220 Combats in their shoulder harnesses. Before the man could take a wobbly step forward, both barrels were trained on him.
"First," Zeke said quietly, "that's an incredibly offensive term. And second–"
The man whimpered and dropped his knife when Zeke let one barrel drift lower and lower until it was aimed at a very sensitive spot.
"–I'm more of a man than a coward like you would ever know. Now hold still."
The man closed his eyes and cringed, waiting for the shot that never came. Instead, he jerked and cried out in fear at the sound of Zeke's cell snapping a photo.
"There we go," Zeke said, slipping his phone back in his pocket and resting his hand on his holstered gun. "If I ever see your face around this building again, you will regret it. Have a safe trip home, sir."
The man staggered away, confused and too terrified to talk back. Zeke watched him finally reach the street and turn the corner, heading for the main plaza of old town Karim where he could pick up a cab.
With a sigh and a hand run over his hair, Zeke turned back to the subtle emergency exit. A biometric scan and carefully sequenced access code punched into the panel got the door to open.
Inside the narrow hallway, the world was almost peaceful. A concealed door connecting the hall back into the main section of The Club waited, the live singer's sultry voice teasing through the panels.
Jackson was waiting when Zeke emerged. "How'd it go?"
Zeke rechecked his jacket for the fifth time, ensuring it draped correctly, and shrugged. "He won't be back."
"Fucking guest night," Jackson muttered, looking out over the writhing sea of bodies on the dance floor. "Always get a few assholes."
"Price of doing business," Zeke agreed. "But they're few and far between."
"They should be. Shit, don't they realize how lucky they are to even be in here?"