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Hard Play
by Sheryl Nantus

Copyright © 2017 by Sheryl Nantus. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the Publisher.

Chapter One

The Las Vegas nightclub was rocking and rolling with the usual Saturday night traffic, the Devil’s Playground filled to capacity. Dylan McCourt stood in his office, set high above the dance floor, and watched their lead bartender zip back and forth along the polished wooden bar filling orders from thirsty customers and a seemingly never-ending line of waitresses. The one-way glass and the scenic view gave him a chance to catch trouble before the men on the floor could see it.

His eyes narrowed as he studied a nearby table filled with businessmen in expensive suits, yelling and hooting at the live band. One of them reached out to grab a server as she walked by, and succeeded in getting a yelp as he squeezed her ass.

“Ace,” Dylan growled into his earpiece, the comm link connecting him with the club staff. “Trouble on two. Get those assholes out of here. Just copped a feel on April. We’ve got plenty of people waiting outside who’d be glad for the table. They can slide down the street to the next club if they want to act like that.”

“Done.” The single word reply helped settle his rage.

A minute later Ace and Finn walked up to the table.

Dylan couldn’t help grinning as the soon-to-be-ex-customers stared at the two men, mouths slightly ajar as they realized the situation had changed, and not in their favor.

He couldn’t blame them. It was a rare man who could hold his own against these two. Both wore black T-shirts and jeans, an informal uniform for those in the know. Ace’s ponytail and his cowboy boots marked him as a bit more laid-back than Finn, who still enjoyed the military buzz cut and combat boots of his service days.

Both men crossed their arms and glared at the offenders.

Ace spoke first, and although Dylan couldn’t hear him, he could imagine what was being said—and the likely responses from the offenders, given their facial expressions.

They were trying to hold their ground, claiming they didn’t mean anything by it, and what’s the problem, everyone does it, and why didn’t someone get them another round of drinks.

Bad move on their part.

Finn shook his head and stepped forward, right into the ass-grabber’s personal space.

Ace continued, punctuating his speech with a jerk of his thumb at the exit. His expression didn’t change, and anyone else would think the two men were discussing their fantasy football choices with the customers. The businessman who had grabbed the waitress shifted uncomfortably in his chair while his companions glanced at each other, eyes growing wider as the one-sided discussion continued. Ace stopped speaking and Finn arched one eyebrow, staying silent. All five men got to their feet and headed for the door at a rapid clip.

“Well done,” Dylan said. “Thought we might have a situation there for a second.”

“Nah,” Ace said. “Finn was itching for a fight, and I told them that. Along with how he got the nasty scar on his face.”

“What story did you use this time?”

Finn came on the line. “Ace told them it was a machete attack by a Taliban soldier. And how I took it out of the insurgent’s hand and chopped the fool into tiny pieces.” Dylan could almost hear his laugh over the roar of the crowd. “Not the best tale, but I’ll go with it.”

“Anything that avoids an actual bar fight. Save your strength for a real challenge.” Dylan spotted the newest patron at the door and paused. “Speaking of, check out the woman at the front door. If she’s in the wrong place, send her on her merry way. But if she’s got a card, bring her to my office.”

“What makes you thinks she’s got one?” Ace asked.

“She looks confused, lost.” Dylan nodded, forgetting the men couldn’t see him. “Not what we usually get in the Playground.”

“Affirmative,” Ace said. He turned to Finn, leaving the comm link open. “Damned man’s got sniper eyes.”

Dylan ignored the comment.

The pair headed for the front door where the young woman stood, wide-eyed and obviously out of place, judging by her attire. She wasn’t dressed for a night of dancing and drinking—her casual clothing was more suited for a quiet café or a bookstore. Her long blond hair was pulled into a tight bun, and a pair of glasses were perched on the bridge of her nose as she took in the sights around her.

She could have made an honest mistake, could have been headed for a quiet restaurant instead of a noisy, rowdy nightclub. But if his instincts were right, she was exactly where she was supposed to be.

He settled at his desk with a bottle of water and waited. He was rarely wrong when he saw someone looking for the Brotherhood’s help.

A soft rapping came at the door.

“Come in.”

The door opened and Ace stepped in, followed by the young woman.

“This is Lisa Boudreau.” He mangled the French last name, but she didn’t correct him. “She got our name from Peter Hendry.” Ace placed the business card on the desk.

Dylan looked at the simple logo. There was no lettering, only a picture of two hands clasped, as if in a handshake—an image that could mean anything. But in this case it meant something specific, something only Dylan and his men could deal with.

“Thanks,” he said. “I’ll call you if I need you.”

Ace left with a gentle nod to their visitor.

Dylan wasn’t really alone with Lisa. Tucked away in his control room, Trey would be monitoring them through the security system that kept every room, every corner of the Devil’s Playground safe.

The young woman cleared her throat. “Thank you for seeing me.” She rubbed her eyes. “I wasn’t sure what to do and—”

“Please. Have a seat.” He gestured at the chair in front of his desk. “Can I get you some water?”

It was the obvious question to ask anyone in Las Vegas. The dry heat sucked the energy out of you unless you stayed hydrated.

“No, thank you.” She glanced around the room before sitting.

Dylan followed suit. It looked like any other business office, the one-way window pointed out onto the dance floor to allow him to keep track of what was going on in his nightclub.

There was no evidence of anything other than a slick professionalism here. The Devil’s Playground was a solid entertainment spot with a good reputation and a decent set of DJs who kept up with the latest music trends. Security was tight and polite, and anyone trying to cause trouble would be shown the door quickly and efficiently, as the nuisance customers had been.

Not what Lisa Boudreau wanted right now, if his guess was right.

Let’s start.

“You spoke to Peter.” He reached out and drew the business card over to rest in front of him. “And he gave you this and told you to come here and talk to us. Talk to me, specifically.”

“Yes,” Lisa said. She chewed on her lower lip before continuing. “I have no place else to go, no one else to ask for help. You’re my last chance.”

“Tell me your problem.”

He’d get a briefing from Peter to compare stories, but he wanted to hear it from her first.

“I have a friend. Her name is Jessie.” She caught herself. “Jessica Lyon, that’s her real name.” Lisa reached into her purse and withdrew a photograph. She placed it on the desk and slid it over to Dylan. “We met in high school and became best friends. When we graduated, we promised to look out for each other, be there if one of us needed help. When you have a bad breakup and need someone to sit and cry with, or you have a bad date and need someone to pretend she’s your mother calling you to come home.”

Dylan nodded.

“I got a job working for one of the hotels, and she joined the Las Vegas Police Department. She quit and went out on her own, started working as a private investigator ’bout a year ago.” Lisa tapped the photo. “This is from two years ago, when we were on vacation at Yellowstone Park.”

Dylan looked at the image. The two women were laughing, standing in front of a monster redwood tree, waving at the photographer. Jessie’s cheerful smile was infectious and he grinned, caught up in the fun for a split second. It was easy to imagine her out in the wilderness, enjoying the sounds and smells of nature.

With him.

What are you doing?

He blinked, pulling himself out of the scene with an almost audible pop in his ears. This was going to be a simple missing person case—nothing more, nothing less.

Nothing more.

“She’s been missing for a week. No phone call, no contact at all.” Lisa shook her head. “And before you ask, she’s gone undercover before. One time she played a homeless person for a month to investigate a shelter and possible physical abuse by the staff. Got a smack in the face when she asked about getting some extra food. Client got the report and fired the staffer.”

Dylan nodded, silently urging her on.

Lisa ran her index finger along the desktop. “When she started working as a PI we set up a system for when she goes undercover and needs a safety net. Once a day she’s supposed to text me with some random letters. It looks like a wrong number. Maximum going without contact is three days. Then I’m supposed to raise the alarm.” She shook her head. “It’s been way longer than that, and I can’t get anyone to listen to me. She’s in trouble.” Lisa paused. “On the fourth day I went to her apartment, used my key to get in, and found it’d been searched. It was a mess, clothing everywhere. That’s not how Jessie lives.”

“Was the front door lock broken?” Dylan asked.

“No.” Lisa shook her head. “Whoever it was used her house key.”

“She didn’t tell you anything about what she was working on? Not even a clue?”

“Nothing. But that’s not uncommon; she respects her clients’ privacy. Doesn’t blab about what she’s doing until it’s over, and even then nothing but the bare bones. Jessie has been going out at odd hours for the last few months, and I figured she was working on something requiring shift work. One day she wouldn’t be available for lunch, then she’d be tied up for dinner the next. I didn’t think anything of it until she out-and-out disappeared, no check-ins, no anything. I tried her phone and left messages almost non-stop for a day.”

“What about her family?” Dylan asked.

“She doesn’t have any. Her mom died when we were in high school. Cancer. Her dad was a cop—he got shot about five years ago and ended up in a nursing home, paralyzed from the neck down. He died a year ago from complications. Jessie quit the force not long after. I think she was having a bit of a personal crisis over it. But she was okay, not depressed or anything. We spoke about it, and she told me it was time for her to move on, open her own business.” Lisa dug in her purse again and came up with a key chain, putting it on the desktop. “This is her spare set of keys for her office. I haven’t been there in weeks, and I didn’t bother going there now. I’ve no idea what to look for and wouldn’t know a clue if I found it.”

“Did you go to the cops?” Dylan picked the keys up and looked them over. A small metal lion hung from the chain, jangling against the pair of metal keys.

“I did. Right after I saw the condition of her apartment.” She scowled. “I filed a report, but I could tell they weren’t taking me seriously by the way they acted. They blew me off when I mentioned the apartment and how messy it was. Said since the front door wasn’t busted there wasn’t any definite sign she was in trouble. They suggested she just walked away from it all and didn’t want to tell me she was leaving, and she tore up her place on the way out. I got the impression they weren’t all that interested, to tell you the truth.”

She paused and her fingers clenched around her leather purse. “I think it’s because when she left the force it wasn’t on the best of terms. She didn’t get into the details with me, but I got the impression she was being held back, kept from doing what she wanted. Jessie always has been a bit of a rebel, always one to push the edge.” She waved a hand. “You how it goes. You want to do the right thing, but you can’t because the rules are written in stone and there are no exceptions. Even when they’re needed the most.”

Dylan felt a familiar ache in his chest. “I’m familiar with the concept.”

“That’s Jessie, inside and out. But now she’s gone and I don’t know what else to do. I spoke to a friend of mine, a lawyer. He told me to go talk to this mechanic. Peter.” She cleared her throat. “So I did. And he pointed me to you. So now I’m here, and I want to know if I’ve wasted my time or if you can find Jessie. She’s my friend, my best friend, and I need to know where she is and if she’s alive or dead.” She stared at Dylan. “Can you find her?”

Dylan nodded, the blood beginning to sing through his veins. “Yes. I believe we can.”

He got to his feet and went to the small refrigerator to pull out another bottle of water. He handed it to Lisa before returning to his seat and finishing off his own drink.

She took a sip, despite her previous refusal.

“I represent a group of people who take on cases that are…” Dylan paused. “Outside the norm.”

Lisa leaned forward. “I’ll pay whatever you want. I can hock some stuff, clean out my accounts—” She fell silent as Dylan raised his hand.

“We’ll discuss payment later. Right now we need to bring her home.”

Lisa pulled a file folder out of her oversize purse and placed it on the desk. “This is all I have. It’s her resume and a list of things I remember her talking about lately. There’s not much there about her work. She was very adamant about her clients’ privacy. You’ll find more at her office.” She tapped the folder. “I’ve attached my business card to the first page if you need to talk to me again.”

“I’m sure we will.” Dylan got to his feet and looked at her. “But first I want you to understand that no matter what happens, you can’t say anything about this meeting to anyone. Ever.” He paused, letting the sentence sink in. “What we do isn’t so much outside the law, but running alongside. But for us to keep on helping people we need total secrecy. We need to stay off the radar. If someone talks about our efforts, reveals who we are and what we’ve done for them, it all ends.”

He flinched inside, thinking of the Simonson family. He’d been sworn to secrecy, forced to lie about their son’s death because telling them the truth wouldn’t have been politically expedient. Dylan had gone along with it out of duty, out of obedience to the oath he’d sworn.

Never again.

Now he and the others did what was right and didn’t worry about the political ramifications, or playing by rules that shifted depending on who and what was involved.

“We’ll do everything we can. But you have to trust us and stay silent, no matter how this turns out.” He eyed her. “Can you do that?”

“I’d do anything for Jessie.” She nodded. “As far as I’m concerned, I came in here”—she raised the bottle—“paid an outrageous amount of money for a bottle of water, and now I’m going home.”

Dylan grinned. “Jessie’s lucky to have you.”

“Damned straight.” Lisa stood up. “Thank you so much.”

He moved out from behind the desk and went to the office door, opening it. “We’ll call you if we need anything else.”

Ace looked in from where he’d been standing in the hallway. Dylan caught his eye and nodded.

“Ace here will drive you back home. He’ll give you a phone number—call us if you hear from Jessie or if you think of anything you want us to know. The number is monitored day or night, so don’t hesitate to use it.”

Lisa headed down the hall, Ace falling into step beside her. He said something in a low voice, bringing a soft murmured response.

Dylan put her out of his mind for the present. She was in good hands with Ace playing guard dog.

“What do you think, boss?” The earpiece came to life, Trey’s voice a low whisper.

Dylan resisted the urge to look upward, seek out the tiny camera in the corner of his office. Trey Pierce was their best ghost, living in the walls. The man had excellent skills with electronics and knew his worth.

He was also a valued member of the Brotherhood, with two tours hunting insurgents in Iraq and the scars to match.

“I think you’ve got two hours to get all the information you can on this woman to my desk. Come get the keys to her office, go in with Wyatt, and sweep the place. Do her apartment as well—see if there’s anything left there we can use. If we’re lucky, she’s gone on vacation to some exotic locale and decided to go silent and deep, maybe make a break from her life here. If not—”

“Understood. I’ll also contact LVPD, find out what I can about her time there.”

“Good. Two hours. If she is really missing, we’ve already lost too much time.” Dylan went back to his desk and picked up the photograph.

He reached out and drew his finger along the playful smile, and his gut twisted as he worried that he might never get a chance see her for himself. It was easy to imagine her sitting across from him with that same grin, daring him to make the first move. There was something about her that drew him in.

What did you get yourself into, Jessica Lyon?

And how am I going to get you out?

…

Jessie tugged at the metal bars again, hoping against hope that somehow in the last few minutes they’d weakened enough for her to pull them free.

Not a chance.

She rubbed her hands together, feeling the heated skin complain.

Al, one of the guards at the nearby table, glanced up at her from his laptop. A second later, satisfied she wasn’t about to burst free in a gamma ray-induced rage, he returned his attention to the screen, likely watching more porn. She’d heard some of the grunting and enthusiastic screaming before he’d decided to turn the sound down. The other four men ignored him, busy with their card game.

Now there was only silence, punctuated by brief comments from the poker players as they studied their hands.

Jessie slumped against the bars and slid down to the floor, cursing under her breath.

Five minutes.

All she had needed was five more frakking minutes.

She’d been so close to taking the entire outfit down, smearing their names all over the front pages and showing those assholes at the cop shop how to get the job done.

And, finally, getting justice for her father.

Al licked his lips and tapped the keyboard. He wore the generic suit and tie of Molodavi’s men, his nondescript features allowing him to fit in everywhere.

He might be the one ordered to take her out of the cage and kill her. A short ride out into the desert, a bullet in the back of the head, and then oblivion.

There was a good chance no one would ever find her body. She’d become one of Las Vegas’s missing, one of thousands that vanished every year in Sin City and only came to light when some kid found a hand sticking out of a sand dune or a pair of lovers tripped over a desiccated body in the wilderness.

But she wasn’t going to go down easy. If Edward Molodavi wanted to kill her, she’d fight and kick every inch of the way.

She’d make him pay.

…

Dylan used a cardkey to take the elevator to the bottom floor of the building, the secure level below the club’s facilities. Here was where the Brotherhood worked and existed, hidden away from the general public and club employees.

He had some time before Trey came back with the results of his search, and spent it making and devouring a fast meal in the communal kitchen before relocating to the mission room.

Better eat now while you can.

Some habits he’d picked up during his Delta Force years had never gone away.

He wasn’t there long before Trey appeared.

Appeared being the right word. There was no one beside Dylan as he sat at the table, then there was.

“Hey.” The dark-haired man grinned, standing at Dylan’s elbow. He wore the same informal uniform as the rest of the Brotherhood members while at the club, the black T-shirt tight on his broad shoulders.

Dylan resisted the urge to flinch, knowing Trey loved seeing people react to his presence.

Aside from his computer skills, the man had an almost otherworldly ability to move silently, making him a valuable asset.

And very annoying.

Trey smiled. “Gotcha.”

Dylan held up a finger. “You know you’re going to do that to the wrong person at some point and get yourself hurt…or killed.”

“Maybe. But until then I’ll enjoy seeing you, and them, jump.”

Dylan shook his head. This argument had been going on for years and showed no signs of ending. “What do you have?”

“Right.” The smile disappeared. “Keep in mind this is the bare bones. Two hours isn’t a lot to grab someone’s entire life.” Trey spread the pages across the conference room table, sliding the black and white photographs to lie on top of the printouts. “Jessica Anne Lyon. Only child, blah blah blah. Joined the Las Vegas Police Department after university and went platinum right out of basic—hard work, fast promotions, and ended up working undercover long before the rest of her peers. Then she crashed and burned a year and a half ago.”

Dylan raised an eyebrow. “Explain.”

“Drug money goes missing after a big bust. Internal Affairs gets involved, partner points the finger at her. IA suspends her while they run the numbers. Investigation shows she’s clean, case closed. No money retrieved, no one else charged, and no apologies for accusing her of being dirty.”

Dylan nodded. “So far, standard idiot procedure. Not surprising.”

“Seems it wasn’t the first time she’s been hung out to dry or targeted by her fellow detectives. Word is she complained about having to constantly play the hooker or the damsel in distress when working undercover. Woman wanted to do more than play a piece of ass. Put in requests to get shifted onto the big cases and got told she was more useful dressing up for the boys. Seems this last case pushed her over the edge. Her father passed away in the middle of the inquiry and, understandably, she snapped. Hangs in long enough to have her name cleared and up and quits the next day.” Trey looked up. “Can’t blame her. I talked to a contact I’ve got in the PD. She got a lot of grief from the other cops for no reason other than she didn’t have a penis. Still a man’s world there.”

“How did her father die?” Dylan asked.

“Beat cop, did his thing until he got shot and paralyzed from the neck down.” He kept talking, anticipating Dylan’s questions. “Came across a robbery at a store, didn’t call for backup, and went in alone to save the shopkeeper. Never saw who shot him, no arrest made. Pensioned out and cared for in a nursing home until he passed.”

Dylan nodded. “So Jessie walks away from the police, goes into private investigation, and now she’s missing.” He stood up and scanned the photographs and pages. “You tossed her office and her apartment. Anything there?”

“A whole lot. Personnel papers for working at Fluxxx. Extra uniform, pay stubs.” Trey held up three fingers. “That’s Fluxxx with three Xs.”

“The what?”

Trey let out a grunt. “You need to get out more. Big new splashy casino on the Strip, opened about a year ago. According to what we found, she got a job there as a blackjack dealer three months ago. Went full-time with rotating shifts, which explains why she didn’t see her friend too often.”

Dylan frowned. “So maybe she decided to give up being a PI and make some real money. Couldn’t hack it, got a steady job, and wanted to hide it from Lisa. She was embarrassed at not being able to cut it as a solo act.”

Trey balanced himself on the edge of the desk. “And then she ran away from home? I doubt it.” He eyed Dylan. “And so do you.”

“Yeah.” Dylan rubbed his chin. “What’s the word on Fluxxx?” He paused. “And what’s with the damned name?”

“It sounds cool, sounds naughty. Aimed at the young rich with too much money and too little common sense. Run by the Molodavi family.”

“Give me their background.”

“Old-school mobsters, in a nutshell.” Trey tapped his tablet and spun it to show a young man in his thirties, smiling for the camera. “Run by Edward Molodavi, age thirty-one. Father passed five years ago and he took over the operation. Two younger brothers, mother still alive. Family started off small and stayed small, keeping under the radar while the big boys fought over the big pot. Official picture from the casino’s opening.”

Dylan studied the image, picking up the nuances. Expensive Italian suit, black hair cut short—professional-looking to give the illusion of the right side of the fence.

He was sitting behind a desk, his hands clasped in front of him in the classic businessman’s pose. To anyone else he would look like a respectable casino owner, ready to make a deal.

But Dylan saw the tension in his face, the thin smile that warned not to look too deep or pull back the curtain to see what was behind the cocky grin.

Edward Molodavi looked like a hungry man who could never get enough, cursed with an insatiable appetite.

“Duck and cover, pick up the crumbs. Bide your time until someone makes a mistake and the authorities come rushing in,” Dylan prompted. “Let them take down the guys at the top.”

Trey nodded. “Happened about three years ago. Remember that big series of busts, the DA on television crowing he’d ‘dealt a death blow to organized crime’? When the smoke cleared, the Molodavis were there, ready to pick up the pieces and expand their holdings. They’ve got their fingers in a number of pies, from money laundering to prostitution to drug running.”

“Why haven’t the feds moved on them?”

“They’ve tried. No one can get the hard data to make a conviction stick. Their connections are legion, and deep in old-Vegas roots.” Trey flipped the tablet around and swiped through the images, most of them crime scene photos. “Plenty of dead people left in their wake. A few weak convictions of low-level men, usually bargained down to involuntary manslaughter. They’ve got their friends on the inside. Nowadays everything’s run out of the offices at Fluxxx, their home base.”

Dylan frowned, the picture becoming clearer. “Let me guess. There hasn’t been a hope in hell of an undercover officer from any agency infiltrating the casino.”

“You would be correct. From the feds to the locals, no one’s been able to place anyone inside. Their security is top-notch, their computer system quarantined from the rest of the outside world.” He paused. “Means they can’t be hacked. Servers in the basement, isolated from the rest of the internet. What goes out and comes in gets locked away or scrubbed. Their men can smell a cop from miles away, and word is there’s a mole inside every level of law enforcement ratting the authorities out every time they even look at Fluxxx.”

“Until now.” Dylan tapped the photo of Jessie. It was an official police academy graduation photograph, her long blond hair tucked up under the uniform cap as she gave the cameraman a stern smile. “She’s there now, working as a dealer. It’d be perfect for an undercover cop looking to get hold of some information, get inside and gather what would stick to put Edward and his boys away.” He leaned back. “They’d run her the same as we have, see she’s a pissed off ex-cop. Wouldn’t send up a red flag, not if their rat inside the department confirms she’s not part of any official operation. Add in the way she left and they’d probably embrace her like a long-lost sister.” He looked at Trey. “Did her files have anything on Molodavi?”

“I found a lot on a variety of crime families, including Molodavi. But it’s not surprising—it’d be a wise move if she’s working as a PI to keep tabs on all the major players in town,” Trey said. “Her laptop was pretty plain, not much information on it. She might have kept a lot of data on her phone. If they grabbed her it’d explain why we can’t find it, and why it went out of service.”

Dylan nodded. “It makes sense.”

Trey frowned. “But she’s not a cop anymore. And she’s got no client, as far as I could tell. No paperwork dated since she started working at the casino. No one’s paying her to do this. What the hell is she doing?”

“I’ve got a starting point. Only a theory, but let’s run with this.” Dylan held up the personnel file. “Jessie Lyon left the LVPD because they wanted to keep her down, keep her working the sleazy undercover jobs, playing the stripper or the prostitute. She’s more than that and wants to show them by scoring a coup.” He snapped the pages in the air. “Taking down the Molodavis will do that.”

Trey shook his head. “The Molodavi family will kill her as soon as they figure out she’s running solo, just for the fun of it.”

“It’ll do for now.” Dylan tapped the photograph. “First, we verify they’ve got her. Once we do, we retrieve her. Snatch and grab, fast and furious.” He looked at Trey. “Bring Finn in and brief him on the situation. Update Ace and tell him to ride bodyguard on Lisa for the time being. Don’t want her becoming a target for bringing us into this.”

Trey nodded. “Better safe than sorry.”

“What can you do right now to find Jessie?” Dylan asked.

“It’s likely her phone’s been scraped for data and destroyed by now so we can’t tag her GPS and track her. So instead I’ll hack into Edward Molodavi’s phone and see where he is.” Trey slid his own phone out of his pocket. “Guy like that, I suspect he’s going to want to be hands-on when it comes to Jessie. He’s not going to want anyone else to interrogate her. Once I get into his phone we can track him from Fluxxx to his home and anywhere else along the way. I doubt he’d keep her in the casino—too much of a chance someone might hear her. He’d have some place set up for her to be hidden away, guarded and secure. But he’ll visit it at some point and then we’ll have the location.”

“Make it happen,” Dylan said. “Call me as soon as you get the hack set up. I’m going to go over to the casino, see what they’re all about and do some recon.”

Trey looked at the picture again. “Woman’s got fire in her eyes. She’s a survivor.”

“I hope so.” Dylan couldn’t resist touching the image, running his finger along her cheekbone. “I want to find out in person.”

Trey nodded and headed for the door, leaving him alone.

He picked up another photo. This one was of Jessie with her fellow detectives, taken at some gathering in a bar. The body language was clear as the men stood behind and beside her, no one brave enough to get inside her personal space.

Her smile was forced, the edges of her mouth turned up in a faux greeting for the photographer.

One edge of his mouth twitched up as he studied her face and thought for a minute, one wild crazy minute, what it’d be like to kiss those lips.

And if she’d bite.