Page 9 of Kings Against the World

He’s covering for himself more than anything.

I’d probably do the same if I were the director.

But I’m not. I’m the agent that was about to be sent into the fold of Asa Boone’s underground organization and it was about to be the highlight of my damn year.

Of my entire eight-year-long career.

Finallya shot at making Boone pay.

If anybody deserves to bring him down, it’s me. I’m the person who should get the honor. It doesn’t matter if the mission is a death sentence. The risks didn’t faze me when I first went into this line of work and they damn sure don’t faze me now that I’m closer than ever to taking Boone down.

Taking Boone with me as I go out sounds like the perfect way to go.

I pace the length of my living room.

Back and forth. Wall to wall. Thoughts spinning.

My adrenaline is on high. It rushes my bloodstream and thuds in my ears like a drumbeat.

I’m on edge and usually this is where I’d seek out some way to exert this pent-up energy. I’d go for a run or throw myself in the ring for an extra shift at the bureau or call up Jeremy for a quick fuck.

But none of those things will suffice right now.

Not when Boone’s slipping through my fingers.

My gaze lands on the duffel bag and my ring of keys. Intrusive thoughts whisper at me, telling me exactly what I need to do.

The flight leaves in two hours. You can still make it.

In the next second, I’m rushing toward my bag and snatching up my keys. I’m tuning out the more responsible, reasonable side of me that screams to stop and back the hell away from the door. That reminds me I’ll be in serious trouble if I do this.

I could be relieved from duty for this. The final strike in a record that’s been stacking up for years.

“It’ll be worth it,” I mutter to myself, adrenaline racing as I slam the door and make quick work of the stairs leading to the parking lot. My duffel bag is tossed into the back seat and I slide behind the wheel to start up my 4Runner. “Boone is going down.”

When I first agreed to go undercover, I had to accept the fact that as a female agent, I’d be going undercover at a strip club. I wouldn’t be on stage, but I’d be one of the scantily clad bottle girls prancing around like a bimbo, giggling for tips, and pouring liquor for men who would probably smack my ass.

Basically the exact opposite of who I am and what I normally tolerate from the opposite sex.

But I had agreed, because I wanted to catch Boone that damn bad.

Once I arrive at the seedy motel where I’ll be staying for the next few weeks, I toss my suitcase onto the bed and unpack my things. I set my toiletry bag of grooming items and medications on the bathroom counter where they’ll be within reach when I need them.

I lay out the barely-there outfits I’ve packed and model them in the mirror.

Lots of fishnet. Too many crop tops and thongs to count.

More leopard print and lace than I’d ever wear otherwise in my life.

I’m supposed to be a bottle girl working her way through college.

Jade Fowley is twenty-four, deep in debt, and just trying to start over in Houston. She’s exactly the kind of young womanwho would take a job at a gentleman’s club like Déjà Vu in order to pay the bills.

The manager, Benz, makes it no secret he’s undressing me with his eyes when I turn up for my first shift. He flashes a grin of approval once he reaches my exposed stomach and spots the sparkly Playboy Bunny gem I have dangling from my pierced navel.

“You’ll fit right in, honey,” he hacks in between a wet cough. He flashes a smile, showing off his missing front incisor. He’s balding, though holding onto a few thin strands up top, and he wears a gaudy shirt with a golden baroque pattern on it that tells me he thinks it’s peak fashion. “You’ll be working weekends and Tuesdays and Wednesdays. Sugar will be training you on the basics. All bottle girls wear the uniform. Yours is in the back dressing room.”

The uniform he speaks of is a black cropped tee with the club name in fiery red letters and a miniskirt that’s more a patch of fabric than it is a real piece of clothing.

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