Page 9 of Intense
Elite. Hush hush. Invite-only.
A playground for the worst of the worst.
A fucking paradise for someone like me. But how you get in, or where the hell it even is, is still unknown to me.
I pull into the parking lot, cut the engine, and grab my duffel. Head down, fast steps, no eye contact, I quickly make my way to the dressing room.
I can’t let anyone here see me as Dr. Stephanie Miller.
She doesn’t exist in here.
Only Angel does.
And tonight?
Angel’s got work to do. It’s been a while since I’ve had some fun and let some revenge out of my system, and that needs to change.
Chapter 3
FINN
Iwasn’t planning on being here tonight.
Not when I have an operating room to dominate in eight hours and a list of patients longer than most hitmen’s body counts.
But then Drago called.
And when the Russian brainiac calls, I answer. And he’s been busy digging on The Preacher. It’s all hearsay at this point, but it’s got me intrigued. And what we’ve found so far ain’t good.
He said one of The Preacher’s men, those twisted, Bible-quoting traffickers, drinks here. Every Friday night. Same booth. Same drink.
I couldn’t let it go, not after what Abigail said. Not after killing that man, Luke. I want to know who our enemy is. And knowing one of these bastards has been stepping foot in Quinn territory makes me sick.
But tonight’s not about confrontation. It’s recon.
Get in. Watch. Identify. Get out.
That’s it.
The bouncer eyes me like I don’t belong here. Maybe I shouldn’t have worn a designer suit, but I flash the card Drago slid me. He nods and lets me through.
Inside, it’s the usual chaos.
Velvet seats. Stale sex in the air. Music vibrating in my spine. Half-naked girls twisting on poles or wrapping themselves around men who don’t deserve the attention.
I hate places like this. Inferno is where I belong. It’s made to our tastes. It’s clean, pristine. Not like this. And our women are protected, looked after.
I order a whiskey, neat, and slide into the booth Drago flagged. It’s dimly lit, with a perfect line of sight across the main floor.
Then I see him.
Booth six. Fat ring fingers. A flat nose that’s clearly been punched into his face. Finished off with a designer watch that doesn’t fit his cheap suit. Here we have it; it’s our guy, Troy Barnes.The Preacher’s logistics man.
He’s not alone.
A woman straddles his lap.
Red hair. Tight black corset and a red thong.
