Gothalia’s black heels touched the ground as the engine ceased. Adjusting her balance, she climbed off her bike. The last thing you want to do is show too much, she thought, disgruntled by the tight dress and its habit of inconveniently rising.
She paused, noticing two figures, one stationed on the roof that provided a perfect few of the car park and the other down the road who would watch her walk into the club. She would have found them creepy with potentially dangerous motives if she had not known they were Centurions. That’s unnecessary, she thought and parted with the bike.
Gothalia knew even after she managed to make her way inside, her comrades’ interference would be limited. Too much interference would mean a failed mission, something she and her comrades aimed to ensure never happened.
Examining the items within the bag, she acknowledged their average appearance, the usual items to carry. Perfume, roll-on deodorant, lipstick, lip balm, foundation powder and a wallet with money. She knew the money was the only thing that was real. She had to use it wisely; Anaphora would not take well to her having a little too much to drink while on a mission.
She felt the weapons discreetly lining her body and trembled as apprehension ran through her; she feared she would be caught. Then, she feared even more if she was not. “Then they’d have dodgy security,” she muttered to herself.
Taking a deep breath, Gothalia joined the end of the line, listening to the drunken jokes of the men before her. Effortlessly, she ignored them when they tried to catch her attention.
She trained her eyes ahead and on the bouncers, mentally counting the amount present, observing their builds, and estimating their weight.
The line was slow, but not too slow that she became bored. She showed her ID with a charming smile, and the bouncer allowed her to pay the entrance fee before heading inside.
She heard the buzz of the earpiece hidden beneath her thick hair. She noticed more bouncers lining the club and mentally counted their numbers, taking in their builds before estimating their weight once more and moved to the bathroom, smiling at the drunk men and women around her as if she were having the time of her life.
When she reached a stall, she heard the earpiece ring to life.
“Do you read, Lieutenant?”
“I read,” she replied in a whisper.
“Your coordinates are on track. Identify the contact,” Danteus informed her.
“That’s easier said than done,” she remarked. “What if he or she hasn’t had anything to drink or worse . . .”
“What’s worse than being sober?”
“Ha. Ha. You’re so funny.”
“I know, right?” Danteus muttered, equally sarcastic. “Stay on mission.”
“Sure,” Gothalia uttered, then did not speak on the matter any further, aware that Danteus was done with the conversation. The first question that slipped through her mind was where to find the contact, let alone how he appeared. “A picture would have been nice,” she grumbled, then fell silent the moment the door opened, revealing more women entering the bathroom. Fixing her make-up and hair, she vacated the bathroom without glancing back.
Music reverberated throughout the club, mingling with a cocktail of various alcohols, sweat, and perfume. Each scent unpleasantly tickled the back of Gothalia’s throat like foreign spice.
Cautiously, she moved through the crowd of people, aware of the vibration of each beat rumbling beneath her heels. Brushing by strangers, who invaded her personal space, she pressed on.
When Gothalia procured her drink, she purposely avoided eye contact with everyone except the bartender whom she ordered from.
With great lines and a thick crowd, it had taken her a long time to acquire a simple drink, not that she minded: it gave her time to think-to plan.
When she caught someone else’s eyes on her, she became conscious of her earpiece. She brushed her fingers through her hair, ensuring her earpiece was hidden. Even if it were as black as her hair, she knew that the various coloured neon lights above would reveal its hard edges to anyone close enough to identify it.
Gothalia relaxed her features into an unreadable expression. Even if her mild anxiety peaked within proximity of others, she knew she could not expose her intentions.
“So, how’s it going?” Danteus asked in her ear.
“There are fifteen male bouncers. The average height is five to six feet, plus or minus a few centimetres. Weighing approximately: eight-five to one hundred and twenty kilos. From what I’ve seen, all of them are right-side dominant.”
Her eyes drifted over the bouncer again; he looked at her accusingly. She let her eyes slowly drift from his face and the people in front of her.
Suddenly, a sharp screech pierced her ear, and she bit back a curse. Pressing her hand against the earpiece, she endeavoured to silence the noise and moved away from the bar and the bouncers, feeling their eyes follow her back.
She did not miss the judgmental gaze of the others, and she dismissed it as irrelevant. There was nothing she could do about it.
Once the noise ceased, she readjusted her hair before smiling back at the strangers, whom she could tell were too drunk to notice her slight drop in character.
“What happened?” she asked after the earpiece re-connected.
“Interference, you must be close. I have relayed the hostile profiles to the trackers. Don’t blow your cover.”
She ignored her Squadron Commander’s almost accusatory comment, so she scrutinised the remainder of the club: the DJ booth, the bartenders, and their waitstaff. Her eyes were cautious of everyone and anyone in the building.
The club was initially smaller than she had expected but big enough to fit a crowd of a few hundred. She now comprehended the need for high numbers of security. A group of people was often unpredictable.
Standing within the crowd, she was unaware of people pulling away from her as they closed the space within their cliques, intentionally reminding her she was not welcome.
Her dark eyes dithered over the green neon railings above, lined in emerald lights that laced the steel poles like poisonous ivy. The lights blinded her vision for a second, but not enough to deter her. Then she caught an icy gaze from the upper level, inviting confrontation.
That was enough.
She knew her target had to be on the upper level. Ignoring the crowd around her, she headed up the stairs.
She elbowed one man in the face, who intentionally slipped his hand up the hem of her dress, then disappeared into the crowd, avoiding the bouncers.
An image of the target flashed behind her eyes, but she knew it was just her assumption of what the Xzandian contact would look like based on the little information she was given.
She had no idea what this person would look like, but she knew what to look out for: the person who appeared the least intoxicated.
Gothalia sighed with discouragement when she realised how many people on the upper level were sober. Disheartened, she made her way to the bar.
Later that evening, she waited outside the club.
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