Chris Mooney - The Secret Friend

A bar was set up to his right. The counter was covered with Plexiglas, bright white lighting beneath it. Waitresses wearing black leather pants and matching bikini tops placed drinks on their trays and hustled off to a roped-off area behind the bar crammed with black leather couches and chairs – the VIP area. Malcolm Fletcher, still wearing his black-lens sunglasses, stood next to a jaw-dropping young woman wearing a tight black dress. She was tall and had long, dark red hair. She looked like Darby McCormick.

The woman whispered something in Fletcher's ear, then walked away.

A moment later Fletcher stood and followed, swallowed inside the crowd of gyrating bodies and groping hands.

Christ, where did he go? Bryson looked around the club. The techno music was deafening. One song blended into the next, boom-boom-boom, that same hideous beat playing over and over again, vibrating inside his chest.

There; there he was, standing on the opposite side of the dance floor with the redhead, who was talking to a security guard, a pissed-off looking gentleman sporting a long goatee and a lot of jailhouse tattoos inked on both forearms.

The guard nodded and stepped aside. The woman opened a door marked 'Private'. Fletcher followed.

So that's why you came here, Tim Bryson thought. Fletcher was heading downstairs to get laid. Perfect.

Bryson put on his earpiece. The lapel mike was already in place.

'Lang, can you hear me?'

'I hear you.'

'Stand by,' Bryson said as he pushed his way through the dance floor.

The bouncer guarding the door marked 'Private' put his hand out and asked for a password. Bryson flashed the badge and had to scream above the music to tell the guy with the goatee not to let anyone else down here.

Bryson descended the black-painted stairwell in the dim light, the shit music shut off by the thick metal door but the same hideous beat pounding inside his head, boom-boom-boom, Watts running behind him. No doors, the stairs kept leading down and down, Christ, how deep was this place buried?

Six flights of stairs and here was an archway leading into a room with a marble floor. Aquarium tanks were built into the walls, packed with bright coral and colourful fish. Standing behind a podium much like the kind in restaurants where they took your dinner reservation was a tall man with a shaved head. He was dressed in a black suit and silver tie.

'Good evening, gentlemen.'

Bryson looked to his right, to a change room with lockers. White terrycloth robes were neatly folded on the shelves.

The man with the shaved head smiled. 'You must be new. Welcome. My name is Noah. You can change into your robes or, if you prefer, you can go directly to a private room. Let me see what's available.' He looked down at the podium. 'Room sixty-two is available. Shall I give you a key? Or would you like to enjoy the bathhouse first?'

Bryson flashed his credentials. Noah cleared his throat.

'Officers, this is a private establishment. Our members pay for their -'

'I'm interested in only one member, a tall man with black-tinted sunglasses,' Bryson said. 'He came through here a few minutes ago with a redhead. Where did they go?'

'They requested a private room – room thirty-three.'

'Is it locked?'

'I would imagine so.'

'Do you have a spare key?'

'It's in the back office. Give me a moment.' Noah disappeared behind a black curtain. Watts followed.

Now Bryson had to figure out the logistics of removing Fletcher. Marching him up the stairs and through the crowded dance floor was not a viable option. Too many things could go wrong.

Noah returned with Watts and handed Bryson a key.

'Is there a separate, more private exit for your members?' Bryson asked.

'I was going to suggest using our elevator. It's next to room thirty-three. It will take you up to the main floor and out a private door that leads to the back of the club.'

'You're talking about the alleyway.'

'Yes. Our members value their privacy, as I'm sure you can understand.'

'We'll be very discreet, I promise. This room you're taking us to, are there any other doors in there?'

'No sir, just the single door which leads into the hallway.'

'What about cameras? Do you have anyone watching this level?'

'Certainly not,' Noah said. 'Security cameras would be a violation of our members' privacy.'

Bryson talked to Lang through the lapel mike. Lang didn't respond. I must be too far underground, Bryson thought. The walls are blocking the signal.

He had better luck with the cell phone. The signal was weak but it would do. He told Lang where he was.

'Repeat that?' Lang said.

'We're going to bring Fletcher out through the alley. Move everyone into position. If you don't hear back from me within twenty minutes, storm the club.'

What to do with the bald man? Bryson didn't want to leave him here. He might call management. He might bring additional security. He could do any number of things to protect his job. Bryson wanted to play this nice and quiet.

'Lead the way.'

Noah escorted them into a hallway of white tile and dim lighting designed to hide faces. There was a steamy reek of chlorine from the bathhouse. Murmured conversations and moaning from behind each of the closed doors. From a room far down the hallway, a man screamed in either pain or ecstasy, maybe a combination of both.

Noah stopped in front of room 33. Grunting came from the room across the hall. The door had a mesh grating in it. Darkness in there but Bryson could make out the shape of a man. He was tied down to a table and wore a leather mask.

'Harder,' the man cried. 'Harder.'

A woman laughed.

Bryson removed his handgun and listened at room 33. He heard running water. He motioned for Noah to step closer.

'Is there a shower in this room?' Bryson whispered.

'Each room has its own bathroom.'

'Where is it?'

'When you open the door, it will be to your left.'

'Locks?'

'Yes, each bathroom door has a lock. I don't have a key. If you'd like additional help, I could call security.'

'No. Please step back. Stay right here.'

Noah moved against the far wall, looking as though he might faint. Bryson turned to Watts.

'I'll go in first and you'll cover me. If he makes a move, take him down.'

Watts nodded, sweat dripping down his face. The hallway was uncomfortably humid from the steam. Bryson slipped the key inside the lock and held his breath for a moment before turning the handle. Don't throw the door open. If it banged against the wall, the sound would alert Fletcher, might give him enough time to reach for his gun. Okay… now.

Snapshots in the candlelight – a massage table in the corner, clothes piled on a fabric-covered bench, the assortment of toys, handcuffs and bottles of lotion lying on a shelf next to folded towels.

Clear. Bryson turned to the bathroom, the light on, relieved to see the door was cracked open. He threw his shoulder into the door and rushed into the thick steam. Clear. Watts moved past him and yanked the shower curtain aside.

The showerhead was running hot, steam everywhere, but nobody was standing under the water.

On the floor was a metal canister shaped like a soda can only it had the kind of handle and pin seen on a grenade. Underneath the pounding water Bryson heard a hissing sound.

From the bathroom doorway came a muzzle flash. Watts was hit in the back. He fell inside the shower as Bryson turned around to fire – a second flash and Bryson felt a force like a hot, metal fist slam into his stomach.

Bryson fell against the bathroom wall, gasping for air, saw the third flash from the doorway and the fist hit him again high in the chest as he tripped over Watts and crashed sideways into the shower stall.