“Yeah, beats standing on the corner,” Janssen said with a smirk. “You know how many men have approached me.” She let out a frustrated breath and examined her nails.
Gibson laughed into her ear. “I bet you look great, in your wig and heels.”
“Fuck you, Gibson,” she snapped with a giggle. “I told you, I don’t do dick. These drug dealers are fuckin’ up my love life. My girl’s at home waitin’.”
Her partner’s and her team’s laughter roared into her ear again.
Janssen stifled a giggle. She focused her attention on the patrons headed into one of the bars, a few paces away. Her gaze roamed up and down the street as she looked for her suspect.
He better put in an appearance soon, she thought. Hopefully, he was as predictable tonight as he had been from the surveillance done over the last few weeks.
A tourist had turned up dead in the toilets of a restaurant this side of the city. Turns out, she had a dud extasy pill. She wasn’t the only one, there had been a few cases—citizens of Amsterdam and visitors who flocked to the liberal city.
The supplier, from what her and her team had placed together, was a small-time drug dealer, an immigrant from Morocco, north Africa. It was her intention to close in on him, have him stripped of his European citizenship, then sent back to his native country. He was a liability Amsterdam didn’t need. While the soft drug cannabis was legal, higher class drugs were not. Especially fake ones that could cause fatalities.
Janssen lifted her chin, narrowed her eyes, then focused on the figure making its way through the thick crowd. She could make out the confident walk of her partner, Gibson.
He was six-foot-two, athletically built, and on an average day, he’d proudly don a shirt and tie. This evening, he wore a Nike cap with his hood over the top, masking his face, with baggy dark denim, and a pair of timberland boots.
He adjusted his earpiece, then his caramel eyes met with hers through the sea of people.
If she were into men, she’d melt in a heartbeat.
Gibson was gorgeous, in a handsome but rugged way. Not the ‘clean cut’ detective you’d expect. He wore battle scars from his younger days. Born and bred in Jamaica, his parents immigrated to Amsterdam when he was fifteen. They had come over when his father was posted here for his work. Gibson nodded and winked at her. She lifted her chin again to acknowledge his greeting.
“All right, I see him. He’s coming your way,” Gibson said to the team. “Everyone on standby, please.”
Janssen took one final pull on her smoke, then moved her eyes over the crowd to find their suspect. He was tall, tanned skin, and had curly hair with a full beard. He was dressed casually in dark denim and a heavy winter coat.
“Okay, I’m going in,” she said again, then stubbed out her smoke on the ground.
“Roger that,” her partner said.
She left the lamp post, then headed over to the bar. Swinging open the door, she stepped over the threshold, paused a moment to allow her eyes to adjust to the dim light, and then looked around.
The tables were busy with drinkers.
Waitresses moved swiftly back and forth, balancing trays.
In the background, soft dance music played, and girls twirled around on their poles.
She spotted a few of her team undercover dotted around the room, blending in. They sipped their drinks, spoke to locals, all while keeping one eye on the entrance of the bar.
One by one, they all made eye contact with her. She nodded discreetly to each of them.
“All right, I’m inside, Gibson,” she said.
“Cool, I’m right behind you.”
“What do you have on him.” She headed over to the bar.
“He picked up a load on the other side of the city, drove over here, parked up, and now, it looks like he’s ready to do business for the night.”
Janssen frowned, leaned on the bar, then tapped her ear. “And his suppliers, what about them?”
“Don’t worry, sweet-pea, Uncle Gibson’s on it,” he teased in response. “There’s a team of men swooping in on them as we speak.”
Janssen raised an eyebrow and looked around the room at her team. They had all heard the conversation. Discreetly, they exchanged smiles.
The door swung open, and Janssen turned toward it.
Gibson’s large frame invaded the threshold.
She noticed him lower his hood and glance around as if he were looking for someone.
He made his way over to a table of plain-clothed officers, high-fived them, and then took a seat.
To the outside eye, it looked as though he’d just met up with friends.
“What can I get you.” She heard a voice behind her.
Janssen spun around and widened her eyes at the barmaid.
Stay focused, she reprimanded herself.
One thing she hated was the distraction of pretty girls on a job.
A smile graced her lips. Her eyes settled on the crack of her cleavage, then made their way down her body.
“I’ll take a Heineken,” she said and licked her lips.
The barmaid was none the wiser to the lust in Janssen’s eye.
She scooped up the empty beer bottles on the bar. “Coming right up.”
The barmaid turned toward the fridge and bent over, and Janssen’s gaze didn’t move from her behind. Her gaze lingered, watching her reach down for the bottle of beer.
“Eyes on the prize, Janssen. Leave that ass alone. He’s just walked in,” Gibson’s voice announced in her ear.
“Shut up. I’m focused.”
Stemming a smile, she slowly turned around and lock eyes with Gibson from across the room. He was focused on Ali, their suspect by the entrance.
Ali nodded to a few of the patrons, then took a seat in a booth over by the men’s toilets.
It wasn’t long before Janssen saw a few drinkers huddled around his table. They made small talk, from what she assumed, probably over a deal.
Ali and his men rose from the table and headed to the men’s room.
“I’m moving in,” Gibson said. “I wanna see if he’ll supply me with anything.”
“Right behind
