Violence of Action, page 24
Chunk turned to Saw, looking for help.
“Look, boss, as much as I hate to say it, out of this lot the two of you are the prettiest. To blend in at this place, we need to send eye candy. Put some lipstick on Heels, get you a little haircut, and the two of you are gonna make one hot couple.”
Chunk let out a groan that sounded very much like an angry bear. He looked at Watts and raised his eyebrows: So, are you in?
“I’m sorry, but I have nothing to wear,” she said, her cheeks going rosy.
Trip theatrically checked his watch. “Plenty of time to go shopping. I’ll even go with you and pick out something for our intrepid leader to wear, otherwise he’ll go out in an NSW ball cap, Forged T-shirt, and 5.11 jeans.”
“All right, fine,” she said, acquiescing. “But you guys owe me big-time for this . . . big-time.”
CHAPTER 29
the conrad hotel
sheikh zayed road, trade centre 1
dubai, united arab emirates
2209 local time
His heart rate elevated, Chunk completed a round of four-count tactical breathing to center himself. Then he opened his eyes and looked at his teammate.
“Dude, are you sure about this?” Trip asked, meeting Chunk’s gaze. “Cuz there’s no going back once I start.”
“I know,” Chunk said, with a fatalistic exhale. “Just do it.”
Trip clicked the power button on the Wahl hair clipper and it buzzed to life. In the mirror Chunk watched his SEAL barber go to work grinning like the Cheshire cat.
Oh man, what have I done? he thought as his hair began to fall in tufts to the marble tile floor.
He watched as his brother frogman transformed him from shaggy roughneck into a redneck hipster—if there was such a thing—over the course of the next fifteen minutes. Trip barbered an expert fade from Chunk’s ears up to the crown but left the hair long on top which he slicked up and over from the side part in a James Deanesque gelled sweep. After finishing with his hair, the SEAL went to work on Chunk’s beard—creating a perfectly groomed lumberjack chic look one might find featured on the cover of Cigar Aficionado.
“All right, bro,” Trip said, stepping back to admire his handiwork. “Check you out.”
“Dude . . . what in God’s name have you done to me?” Chunk said, getting his first completely unobstructed view of himself in the mirror.
“I took you out of the honky-tonk in Carthage and put you into the Roosevelt Room in Austin,” Trip said with a proud nod.
Chunk shook his head and chuckled despite himself. “If you say so . . . What am I supposed to wear? I didn’t bring anything but jeans and a polo shirt.”
“I got your back there too. After the intel brief, I did a little shopping.” Trip ushered him out of the bathroom to his hotel room suite where a tailored dress shirt and a five-button tweed waistcoat were laid out on a chair.
“You want me to wear that?” Chunk asked, confused.
Trip nodded.
“With my jeans?”
Trip nodded again.
“Shouldn’t there be a suit coat or jacket or something to wear over it?”
“Nope, just the shirt and the vest. That’s the look, bro.”
With a resigned sigh, Chunk reached to put the dress shirt on over his T-shirt.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa, dude, you gotta ditch the T-shirt first,” Trip said. “Bare chest underneath, man.”
“Really?”
“Yeah,” Trip said and then screwed up his face at Chunk. “Seriously, boss, have you never been to a club before?”
“Lots of times,” he said as he pulled off his gray Don’t Tread on Me tee and shrugged on Trip’s dress shirt. “Just . . . the kind with country music, boots, and beer.”
“Well, where you’re going tonight ain’t that kinda place,” the younger SEAL said with a laugh.
“I don’t think this shirt is big enough,” Chunk said as he fastened the buttons up the chest.
“It’s supposed to be tailored. Just don’t Hulk out and you’ll be fine.”
Chunk arced his arms in a bear hug move, and the fabric got instantly taut across his back and shoulders.
“I said don’t Hulk out,” Trip said. “Or you’re gonna rip it.”
“It’s too tight,” Chunk complained.
“Dude, nobody moves their arms like that in real life. You’re not in some bodybuilding competition. The shirt’s perfect. Now stop being a baby and put on the vest.”
Grumbling, Chunk put on the gray tweed vest and fastened the buttons. Then, feeling very constrained, he undid the shirt cuffs and rolled up his sleeves. Feeling Trip’s eyes on him, he said, “Sorry, forgot to ask, am I allowed to roll up my sleeves?”
“I’ll permit it,” Trip said with a laugh.
Chunk walked over to the full-length mirror on the bathroom door and surveyed himself from head to toe. “I look like a bartender at a speakeasy.”
“That’s the point. You’re gonna make all the girls thirsty, bro. All right, final touch.”
Trip pulled a watch, an elegant blue-faced watch with a black leather strap from his pocket. Instead of handing it to Chunk, he took the bulky Suunto from his boss’s wrist and put the watch on for him.
“I know how to put on a watch,” Chunk grumbled. He took a closer look. He liked the look, just couldn’t imagine where in the hell he would ever wear such a luxury timepiece. “Dude, you bought a damn watch for me to wear?”
Trip laughed.
“That’s mine, bro,” he said. “Be careful with it, it’s a Declan James. Believe it or not, the company is owned by a former frogman. His stuff is drip.”
“Whatever that is,” Chunk said, his hands into his pockets and rolling his eyes.
I look ridiculous, he thought, and suddenly, the urge to pack a dip was overpowering. “I suppose dipping is out of the question at this club?”
“Yeah, better get your fix now,” the SEAL said and tossed him a tin of wintergreen Copenhagen.
Chunk packed the snuff with a snap of his wrist and his index finger hitting the side of the can. After three slaps, he twisted off the lid, grabbed a heaping pinch, and stuffed it in his lower lip.
“Have you been to trendy, rich clubs like this before?” he asked as he tossed the tin back to Trip.
“Of course,” Trip said and looked like the question had offended him.
“Please tell me I’m not going to have to be out there on the dance floor with Heels all night.”
“Would Watts grinding on you for a couple songs really be so bad?”
“Not gonna happen. Gotta keep things professional,” Chunk said, looking around Trip’s hotel room for something he could use as a spitter.
“Dude, seriously, sometimes you’re like a thirty-five-year-old dad. How can you be so chill as a SEAL and so lame as a man?”
“What the fuck is that supposed to mean? I’m twice the man you’ll ever be.”
“Yeah, dude, in Alabama in 1955—you do know it’s 2022.”
Chunk flipped Trip the bird and then used the water glass on the bedside table to deposit his dribble of brown tobacco juice.
“I was drinking out of that, dick,” Trip said.
“I know,” Chunk said with a wry grin. “Where the hell is Heels, anyway? Shouldn’t she be ready by now?”
“She’s a chick, dude. They take longer.”
“Yeah, but you gave me a haircut and a beard trim. All she had to do is put on a dress,” Chunk said, pacing and spitting. “I just wanna get this over with.”
“Seriously, Chunk. You need to chill and just go with it. This is probably the only time in your operational career you’re gonna get to NOC out at Club Cavalli in Dubai on the government’s dime. Would you rather be in some shithole in the Hindu Kush right now?”
Chunk shrugged. “Hell yes, wouldn’t you?”
Trip shook his head. “You’re a lost cause.”
A knock came at the hotel room door, and Trip popped to his feet and trotted excitedly to answer it. “Oh man, I can’t wait to see what Heels looks like.”
Chunk turned and watched as Trip opened the door to reveal a lithe beauty standing in the doorway dressed in a shimmering, barely there silver cocktail dress.
“Holy shit, Heels!” Trip said, theatrically stumbling backward with his hand over his heart. “You look like friggin’ Kendall Jenner.”
“This is Yi’s fault,” she said and stomped into the room. “I’m literally naked and it’s horrible. All I want to do is— Oh my God, Chunk is that really you?”
Chunk, for his part, couldn’t believe his eyes either. This was the first time he’d seen Watts with makeup, and he’d never seen her wear anything remotely resembling the sexy slip dress she wore now.
Blink, dude, you’ve got to blink or she’s gonna think you’re a perv . . .
“May I get you a martini, ma’am?” he said, his Texas twang coming on a little thicker than normal.
This made her laugh so hard she actually let out a little snort in between breaths.
“See, Trip, you made me look ridiculous,” Chunk said turning to his brother SEAL. “She’s laughing at me.”
“No, I’m really not,” she said, her hand over her mouth. “I just . . . I just wasn’t prepared for you to look so . . .”
“So metrosexual?” Chunk said, cocking an eyebrow at her.
“I was going to say hip.”
“Uh-huh,” he said and used his index finger to claw out the wad of tobacco from his lip and then plop it in the spitter. He then handed the sullied glass to Trip, wiped his finger off on his jeans, and extended his hand to her. “C’mon, let’s get this over with.”
“You got your earbuds in?” Trip asked, backing them up.
Chunk tapped the microtransmitter where it sat deep and virtually invisible in his ear canal. “Yep, thanks for the backup.”
Watts nodded. “Me too.”
By the time they got to the hall, the rest of their teammates were waiting outside to catcall as they walked by. Chunk chuckled and shook his head while Watts gave them a beauty pageant wave as they strutted to the elevator. The jeers and whistles continued until they’d stepped inside and the doors closed behind them.
“Well, that was fun,” she said, breaking the super awkward silence as the elevator began to descend.
“Yep . . .”
She let go of his hand and, seemingly unsure what to do with her arms, she crossed, then uncrossed, then crossed them again over her deeply exposed cleavage. “I hate not wearing a bra,” she said, almost talking to herself.
“Thanks for sharing.”
“I’m serious. It’s why I never wear these kinds of dresses. It shouldn’t even be called a dress. At least with a bikini, it’s on tight. Look how loose this is. I’m a wardrobe malfunction just waiting to happen. With my luck, it will probably happen while we’re walking into the club in front of everyone.”
“You’re going to be fine.” After an uncomfortable pause, he added, “You look really good, by the way. Seriously, Heels, smokin’ hot.”
“Really?” She turned to him with a tentative smile. When he nodded, she said, “Thanks, so do you . . .”
“As for me, I feel naked in a different way . . . not carrying,” he said, hating the fact he was not carrying a concealed weapon tonight. The decision to go to the club unarmed had been his, but it didn’t mean he had to like it.
“Do you always carry? I mean, wherever you go when you’re off base?”
“Certainly on mission. Back in CONUS when I’m bumming around town, I usually don’t.” Suddenly feeling the tug of duty, he asked, “Enough of that, you ready to go to work?”
She exhaled through pursed lips. “Yeah.”
“It’s gonna be loud and crowded, so we’re going to have to work as a team,” he said. “We need to photograph everyone Nadar interacts with.”
“Then we’re going to have to pretend to take lots of selfies with Nadar in the background,” she added. “Otherwise, we risk him noticing.”
“Yeah.”
“We didn’t talk about this, but um, do you want me to hit on him?” she asked. “Try to get him drunk and chat him up.”
Chunk considered for a second, thinking about the pros and cons. “I don’t know. The risk/reward seems pretty skewed to risk. He doesn’t seem like the type that’s going to spill his guts in a club to some random girl. I assume you’re not thinking about trying to coax him back to your hotel room.”
“No way in hell,” she said. “I’m not that kind of spook.”
“I know,” he said, his cheeks getting red this time. “I didn’t mean to imply . . .”
“No worries. Just making sure we’re both on the same page.”
The elevator slowed to a stop at the lobby floor and a chime sounded. She uncrossed her arms and once again gave him her hand, which he took. They stepped into the hotel lobby, and Chunk felt more self-conscious than he could ever remember. He felt dozens of pairs of eyes on him. Hold on, they’re not looking at me . . . they’re looking at Watts, he realized. He glanced at her, wondering if she felt it too, but she was strutting like a supermodel who gobbled up gazes for a living. He cued off her, imagining himself as someone who was better than all these people.
The walk to the Cavalli Club didn’t take long as it was located on the ground level of the Fairmont hotel next door. Yi had booked them a VIP table for two, and Chunk couldn’t help but wonder how much coin they were going to be dropping on this little surveillance operation. Certainly less than the cost of a Blackhawk ride to and from the X on a typical op. The thought made him realize how biased his thinking was toward the strategic and human cost of Special Operations without ever worrying about the financial cost. If I had to run my unit like a business, how many ops would I forgo because of the price tag?
Thankfully, that wasn’t his job.
That’s what the bean counters in the Pentagon were for.
In the circle drive in front of the club entrance, exotic sports cars, luxury sedans, and Range Rovers were dropping off VIPs dressed to the nines for a night of clubbing and partying. When a candy-apple-red Lamborghini pulled up, Watts squeezed his hand and he watched the scissor-style doors swing open like a gull’s wings. Out of the cramped front passenger seat, not one, but two supermodel-caliber women emerged in dresses so short they barely covered the curves of their respective asses. The driver, a middle-aged Middle Eastern man in a dark-purple suit, tossed the keys to the valet and trotted around to catch up to his two dates who were posing for pictures being taken—not by paparazzi—but instead by a small gaggle of tourists standing off to the side, watching the spectacle that was the Cavalli Club.
Massive vertical flat panel displays outside the entrance showed curated video footage of what lay in wait for them inside the hottest club in the Middle East. Chunk didn’t care about the Hollywood crowd or read the tabloids, but even he recognized a face or two in the Cavalli Club’s highlight roll of the global movers and shakers who’d dined and drank inside. Chunk felt Watts slip her hand out of his and reposition her grip to the inside of his elbow, which he bent and extended to her on cue.
He glanced at her, and in a quiet voice with a French accent, she said, “I’ll do the talking, ça va?”
He didn’t know what ça va meant, but her accent sounded convincing enough so he nodded and went with it. Strides in sync, they stepped onto the red-carpeted approach and walked up to the trio of suits at the entrance, who Chunk decided did double duty as hosts and bouncers. Despite still being outside the club, it was already hard to hear thanks to the speakers broadcasting what he presumed had to be the music playing inside. Watts rattled off something to one of the bouncer-hosts who looked them both up and down before gesturing to the club entrance. Chunk gave the dude a bro nod and led Watts toward the double doors, which were held open for them by two other less intimidating dudes in suits.
“Welcome to the Cavalli Club,” the one on the right said.
“Have a nice time,” the other man said with practiced disinterest, his gaze locked on Watts’s assets.
Neither of them replied—they were too important to interact with the help—as they stepped into the parallel universe that was the Cavalli Club. The first thing that caught Chunk’s attention were the chandeliers. Massive and draped with thousands of crystals, they looked like enormous shimmering jellyfish floating in midair. Although they weren’t moving, the light show inside the club reflecting and refracting off of them created the illusion of movement, like the phosphorescing creatures that inhabited the ocean deep. The second thing that grabbed his attention was a woman—barely clothed in a nude-colored bodysuit—dangling upside down from a pair of silk ribbons while performing an inverted split. Defying gravity, she performed feats of aerial acrobatics that the SEAL in him recognized as requiring a core strength to body weight ratio that he was certain eclipsed his own.
“You’ve got a little drool running down the side of your beard,” Watts said in his ear. “You might want to close your mouth.”
“Ha ha, very funny,” he said, shifting his gaze from the acrobat to her. “Do you know how much friggin’ core strength that requires?”
“Her core strength, really, that’s what you’re thinking about?” she said with a mischievous grin.
“Your table is this way,” a hostess said, stepping in front of them. “Follow me.”
The young woman led them to a small round table with two club chairs upholstered in faux leopard-pelt fabric. The hostess pulled out Watts’s chair for her before Chunk had a chance to do it himself, then gestured to his vacant chair.
“Thank you,” he said as he dropped into his seat, which was more comfortable than he predicted it would be.
“A server will be with you momentarily,” the woman said, smiled at Chunk with want-you eyes, and then strode away.
