Even without having to be radioed, I knew the moment our suspect, Chuck Sutton, arrived on the scene. An awareness hummed through my bones, and I shifted into my chameleon persona. From his teenage days, Chuck had outsourced guns to some of the toughest Atlanta street gangs. After several prior convictions, he’d grown wiser in his older age, and he had learned how to evade our usual methods. We needed him in custody on a lesser charge so we could outwit him on the case we had been building.

That was where I came in. If Chuck had an Achilles’ heel, it was women, especially ones he bought. There must’ve been something about the illicitness that he craved.

When I heard him behind me, I turned around. After giving him my sexiest smile, I said, “Hey there. You looking to have some fun tonight?”

He licked his lips, and I fought the urge to throw up. “Maybe.” With slight apprehension in his eyes, he glanced around. “Is it just you tonight?”

I gave a quick nod. “I work for myself.”

“I like that. I don’t like middlemen.”

I ran my hand up his arm before squeezing his shoulder. “That’s just one of the things we have in common.” To bust him, I had to have him agree to a price and start off with me. Dancing around the subject the way we were now wouldn’t hold up for an arrest. “Wanna go somewhere so I can see what else you like?”

A slow smile spread across his face. “Yeah, I would. How much we talking about here?”

“A hundred for an hour whether you take that long or not.” When I could see the flash in his eyes, I purred, “But I’m sure you’ll last long enough to get your money’s worth.”

My petty compliment fueled his fire. “I’ve been known to be a big tipper if you make it worth my while.”

“Of course I will, sugar.” I dropped my hand from his shoulder to take his hand. “Your car okay, or you want to be a big spender and spring for the motel up the street?”

“My car is fine.”

Just as he started to lead me to it, one of the other agents on the case pulled a dick move by jumping the gun and coming in early. The moment he stepped out of the shadows and Chuck got a look at him, the shit hit the fan.

Chuck not only dropped my hand, but he shoved me back, causing me to stumble on my heels and fall on my ass. Then he sprinted off down the opposite side of the street from where his car was parked. “Greenburg, you dumb fuck!” I grunted at the errant agent as I tried to get my bearings.

“We had enough to take him.”

As I pulled myself to my feet, I glared at him. “Really? Then why the hell aren’t we taking him?” I didn’t bother waiting for a response. I hadn’t just spent the last thirty minutes in mortifying attire, not to mention having to say the sick shit I did, to lose out on a suspect.

While my knowledge of the area was somewhat limited, I still knew of a way to catch up with Chuck. Pounding my heels into the pavement, I pushed myself to run as fast as I could go. Within my mind, I focused on the four-block radius on the map I had studied for days before the bust. After a split-second decision, I cut down a side alley.

Glancing around, I looked for something that could incapacitate Chuck. My eyes homed in on a discarded broom, which I quickly grabbed. I then sprinted toward the end of the alley. I made it there just as Chuck ran by. I swung the broom like a bat at the backs of his knees, sending him spiraling and finally skidding along the ground. I tossed the broom and then grabbed my gun. “Don’t even think of moving!” I shouted as I pointed it at his head.

Chuck held up his shaking hands in surrender. I didn’t bother alerting the team of my location, since they had me on GPS. After what seemed like only a few seconds, police sirens wailed down the street and screeched to a halt beside us.

At the sight of Greenburg, I said, “You can haul him in.”

He gave a sheepish nod before beginning to work on Chuck. I was putting my gun back in my holster when I felt a hand on my shoulder. “You okay?” Gavin asked, his deep blue eyes filled with concern for me.

“Fucking fine and dandy now that I took out that douche bag.”

With a shake of his head, Gavin asked, “Nothing really rattles you for long, does it?”

“Nope. Just dumb-asses pissing in my Cheerios,” I replied, glaring at Greenburg.

“You mean people trying to steal your thunder,” Gavin countered.

“Watch it, McTavish, or I’ll take you out at the knees with a broom, too.”

Gavin slipped an arm around my shoulder as we started to head back to the car. Pretending to be a prostitute in the scorching Atlanta heat was just one of the many masks I wore as an agent with the ATF—or Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms. When my father was gunned down over the long-standing war on drugs between the feds and bikers, I lost all interest in following in his footsteps to the DEA. After I’d earned a criminal justice degree at FSU, my interest in the FBI eventually led me to the ATF, where I had spent the last four years as an agent. With the ATF, I was able to fulfill my childhood dream of putting away the bad guys, as well as feeding my need for a job that kept me on my toes.

When we reached the car, our superior, Grant Peterson, was leaned against it.

“Good evening,” he said, with a smile.

“Evening,” Gavin replied.

“Did you feel like slumming a bit tonight? I mean, you’re used to your cushy office with its air-conditioning,” I said. Although Peterson was my boss, we had a comfortable rapport with each other.

Peterson laughed. “A good general always stays in the trenches.”