The motorcycle sped down the road, leaving the cars behind. Ethan couldn't help but notice the duality of this city: on one side, luxury cars cruised by, while old men dragged street food carts.
In the distance, police sirens echoed across the city, yet the locals didn't take them seriously and carried on with their routine. They were used to it—nothing surprised them anymore. After all, it was part of daily life.
After riding through several dark streets, lined with small bars, taco stands open until dawn, and the ceaseless bustle of downtown, they arrived in front of a building that towered above the rest. Ethan stopped the motorcycle and looked up. The glow of a gigantic red-and-blue neon sign bathed the street in flickering light. The name, Hong Kong Gentlemen's Club of Tijuana, shone with an almost hypnotic air, drawing in those wandering down the avenue.
The façade was imposing, covered in neon lights. Black curtains hung at the main entrance, guarded by bulky men in tight jackets and stern expressions, who filtered customers with the slightest gesture of their hands. Outside, a group of men spoke in hushed tones while taxis and cars stopped every so often to drop off new visitors.
Ethan could already hear the muffled thump of music from the street: deep bass that made the pavement vibrate, mixed with laughter, shouts, and the constant murmur escaping each time the door opened.
A thick fragrance of cheap perfume and cigarette smoke filled the air, mingled with the smell of street food cooking just a few meters away.
Ethan parked his bike in the lot by the entrance, lit a cigarette, and headed toward the main door.
—Good evening, sir… —one of the guards nodded with a sly grin, flashing a gold tooth—. Welcome to the Hong Kong. Please drop any metal objects you have into the basket.
—Thank you —Ethan replied calmly, keeping his composure.
He pulled a heavy, shiny metal lighter from his jacket, initials engraved on the side, and dropped it into the small plastic basket the guard held with one hand.
He walked slowly through security; the metal detector remained silent.
The guard handed back the lighter with a smile.
—Enjoy yourself, sir.
After paying the ten-dollar cover at the entrance, Ethan finally stepped inside the club.
As soon as he entered, he was stunned.
It felt as though inertia itself pushed him across a threshold he could never return from. When Smurf told him it was a "branch," Ethan had imagined just another brothel: dark rooms, narrow hallways, a couple of old couches, and, if lucky, a few pretty women.
But what he found was something else entirely. The place was designed to immerse anyone in a whirlwind of lights, music, and skin. From the first step, he was wrapped in a mix of sweet perfume, expensive liquor, and cigarette smoke—an aroma so thick it seemed to cling to his clothes.
A main stage, bathed in purple and blue spotlights, dominated the center of the hall. On it, women with sculpted bodies moved to the rhythm of a deep bass that rattled glasses on the tables. They spun around chrome poles with hypnotic skill, each movement sparking applause, bills, and whistles.
All around, small circular tables formed a semicircle, occupied by men of every kind: drunken tourists, business executives, mobster-looking types, and local youths with cash burning holes in their pockets.
Every so often, a dancer stepped down from the stage to offer a private dance, leaning over a customer while the lights flickered, revealing smiles, sweat, and glances loaded with intent.
Ethan searched for a discreet corner of the club, a place where he could have a panoramic view without being easily noticed. From there, he could watch the entire movement of the place.
No sooner had he taken a seat than a young woman approached with light steps. Her black hair gleamed under the neon, and she wore a tight Playboy bunny outfit: satin ears, a white collar with a bow tie, and a tiny corset barely containing her generous breasts spilling from the fabric.
Ethan grinned brazenly, and she leaned toward him, letting her sweet, intoxicating perfume betray her.
—Honey, can I get you something to drink? —she asked in perfect English, her tone playful.
—Bourbon on the rocks, please —Ethan replied, without breaking eye contact.
The girl nodded with a flirty wink and walked away, swaying her hips. Shortly after, she returned with a tray, swiftly setting the whiskey glass in front of Ethan. The ice crackled against the glass.
Ethan took the half-full glass, lifted it casually, and drank. The bourbon burned down his throat. He grimaced briefly, then set the glass on the table with a sharp thud.
He pulled a crumpled bill from his pocket, smoothed it calmly, and laid twenty-five dollars on the table.
—It's my first time here. Is there anything… special? —Ethan asked, leaning back in his chair.
The waitress slipped the extra five into her outfit and kept the twenty.
—All the services mentioned are available. You can choose whatever you like.
The brochure listed twenty or thirty service options. They even offered Thai-style dragon tendon massages, not to mention things like toupee massages.
Noticing his hesitation, the waitress quickly clarified:
—Sir, all our girls are clean. We have regular checkups, so you don't need to worry.
—Why don't we get to know each other better? Give me a couple of dances. —Ethan lifted his gaze, glancing at the waitress behind the bar, a little puzzled.
She nodded quickly, her face full of anticipation. Guys like Ethan—handsome and fit—weren't common. Meeting him was her lucky day, and from what she could see, he was also loaded with money.
—Of course. You won't regret it. My name's Kristal.
She smiled, signaled one of the waiters, and took Ethan firmly by the arm.
Guided by the waiter, they walked along the side of the hall and slipped through black curtains. The temptation was strong—the girl was his type—but he didn't lose sight of his mission, noting every step as they headed toward the second floor.
His face wore a bright expression, but his peripheral vision swept the hall. Besides the four guards at the entrance, another dozen men in black suits were scattered around the lobby.
They were all armed.
And with so many people seeking entertainment inside the club, a shootout could turn into a massacre. Too many innocents were mixed in among clients and workers; a frontal assault might take out some traffickers easily, but civilian casualties were out of the question.
Without a doubt, going through the front door wasn't a viable option.
Ethan confirmed it instantly in his mind: they needed another way in. After passing through two thick soundproof doors, the deafening music was reduced to a distant murmur.
They climbed to the second floor, where a narrow hallway led to a series of small rooms, divided by dark curtains.
In front of him, hanging from a corner of the ceiling, a security camera turned slowly, like a mechanical eye that never blinked.
Meanwhile, Job, Baz, and Craig sat in front of their computers, recording the situation upstairs.
Craig, with his sharper eyesight, spotted Ethan on the security feed.
He took a swig of beer and said enviously:
—Guys, our VIP just arrived.
The others gathered around, chuckling as they watched Ethan on the screen, holding a dark-haired woman with big breasts.
At that moment, Ethan paused. Next to the soundproof door stood two vending machines full of drinks, cigarettes, and snacks.
Ethan walked up to the machine, checked the price, and reached into his pocket for some bills. As he pulled them out, his lighter dropped with a clink. After bouncing a few times, it slid under the machine.
—Shit! —Ethan muttered.
He quickly dropped to his knees and reached under to find it. His eyes scanned the machine's legs; they were all hollow, just placed there without anchor bolts.
—Did you find it? —the waitress asked, bending down, her breasts fully exposed.
—I found it —Ethan said, grabbing the lighter with a relieved sigh. He slapped the machine to buy a pack of cigarettes.
At the end of the hallway, an old woman sat waiting in a high-backed chair. She wore a black dress cinched at the waist and lipstick painted a deep red that stood out in the dim light.
—As long as this can pay for it —Ethan said firmly, handing her several folded bills.
The old woman took them gracefully, as if it were an everyday gesture. Her gaze softened for an instant, and with a slight nod, she indicated he could proceed.
A waiter passed by at that moment, carrying an empty tray. His eyes shifted toward the metallic lighter Ethan was flipping between his fingers, and for a second he held his breath.
Ethan started to walk, but the young woman stopped him.
—This way. That hallway only leads to the back emergency stairs —the waitress said, noticing his glance—. We're not going that way. Follow me.
At the end of the adjoining hallway, Ethan spotted a heavy iron door painted dull gray, its edges marked with rust. It was unmistakable: the same entrance where they had seen El Skinny disappear earlier.
—Ah! —the waitress gasped as she was shoved.
The woman turned toward him with a slow, deliberate movement. Her red lips curved into a smile that seemed to rehearse every word before it was spoken.
—Sir, are you sure you only want a dance? —she asked with a seductive look, her voice as soft as the touch of silk.
Ethan didn't answer right away. He simply held her gaze calmly until, finally, he took a step forward and entered the room.
The light was dim, tinted a deep red that cast suggestive shadows on the walls. The distant sound of music throbbed from the main hall. She closed the curtain behind them and, without losing her smile, began her dance.
She swayed her hips to the rhythm of the music, slow and provocative, sliding in front of him as if every step were designed to shatter his self-control. Her hands traced her own curves with a studied sensuality, running up her thighs until they disappeared at her waist.
She leaned toward Ethan, barely brushing her knees against his, then spun around, letting her black hair whip the air before meeting his eyes again with that dangerous spark.
For more than ten minutes, the performance kept him motionless, watching. Finally, he set his glass down on the table, crushed his cigarette in the crystal ashtray, and stood up, leaving the room with the same calm he had entered, while the dancer slowly covered herself again, regaining her composure and her professional smile.
Climbing onto his motorcycle, Ethan made a full circle around the club, absorbing every detail before heading back to his lodging by the beach. He already had a preliminary plan to complete the mission.
When he arrived at the small building, the light of a bonfire lit up the beach. Job's bald head gleamed in the flames, while he, Smurf, and his sons sat around the fire, talking.
Ethan quickly parked his bike and walked over.
—Hey, look who's here. Why are you back so early? —asked Baz, who had already stood up at the sound of the bike.
They all looked at him, surprised, wondering why he had returned so soon.
—I don't like wasting time. I got the information we need. —Ethan pulled a can of beer from the cooler on the sand and sat next to Job—
He pulled the remaining thousand dollars from his pocket and handed it to Smurf. Ethan took a sip of his beer and settled into the sand.
—Where's Deran?
—He's keeping watch inside. —answered Baz, leaning back in his folding chair, watching him intently.— Well, tell us how it went at the club.
They all watched him. Ethan smiled and began scratching the sand with his finger.
—The surveillance footage shows the main entrance. Everyone knows there are four guards there. —He drew the number 4 in the sand, clearly visible in the firelight.— All of them are armed.
Ethan wrote 12 in the sand, sketching the lobby as he recalled the guards' movements. —Inside the lobby there are about twelve men, always moving, keeping an eye on everything. We must assume they're armed as well, maybe 9mm Berettas.—
—As for the second floor, there's no additional security staff, only an old woman watching over the private rooms—aside from the two guarding the door that leads to the fire escape down the alley.
—How many are we dealing with exactly?
—In the videos, Skinny moves with his trusted men, six of them. —Baz replied, pursing his lips.— Maybe twenty-eight or thirty people total. The moment we go in armed, chaos will break out. A frontal attack isn't an option—we'd be surrounded in seconds.
Job took a long swig of beer, his face dark.
—Well, we didn't expect this to be easy, did we?
Craig, standing nearby, stared blankly. Suddenly, Smurf seemed to remember something and turned to Ethan.
—What were you doing at that vending machine?
—We need to try to cut down the number of people we'll be dealing with —said Ethan, lighting a cigarette. He studied his lighter, dented from the fall.— If we can get inside and neutralize the upstairs guards, then block all doors leading to the second floor, our enemies will be cut by more than half. The doors are soundproof, so even if shots are fired, we'll have plenty of time to get in and out.
—And if they realize and try to come up through the alley? —asked Craig.
—I thought about that too. The block is pretty big; it would take them more than three minutes to run around to the alley—and that's assuming they react immediately. —Ethan continued—
Smurf and Baz exchanged a look, then after a quick calculation, Smurf said:
—So our window of action is five minutes at most.
—Correct. —Ethan crossed out the previous number and rewrote it—. Five minutes. Once we're inside and the doors are blocked, it won't take long before someone realizes a client can't get upstairs.
At Ethan's words, Smurf and the others nodded.
With Skinny off-guard, their chances of victory were good.
Still, Smurf looked at Ethan and jabbed the spot in the sand where he had drawn the number "2" with his steel skewer.
—How do you plan on handling the guards without weapons?
The two guards were armed, which complicated things considerably, but everyone turned their heads toward Ethan, waiting.
In the end, they still had to take down the two men guarding the back door with their bare hands. They had played it out in their heads, but uncertainty remained.
They were professionals, not street thugs.
—Leave them to me. I can take them down easily, but you all need to be in position—the timing is crucial if we want this to work. —said Ethan, shrugging.
Smurf's expression was serious, and he asked firmly:
—Fine, just make sure you're behind that door the moment it happens. —his smile radiated confidence.
—Ethan, are you sure you can handle them?
The next day, with everything ready, Ethan returned to the club. They decided to strike just after their target entered the building. To save time, Smurf resolved to act as quickly as possible, without waiting.
Ethan, drinking calmly at the bar, heard Job's voice in his earpiece:
—Skinny just went into his office. Baz, Craig, and Deran are already in position. As soon as you go up those stairs, they'll take out the guards downstairs. The cameras will only show a continuous loop. Wait for my signal.
—Understood.
A dozen meters from the back door, parked on the street, was a black Iveco van with no visible plates and windows tinted pitch black.
Inside, a murderous tension filled the air, the sound of weapons being cocked echoing. Deran pushed back his messy blond hair, slipped on a translucent soft-plastic mask, and gripped a shotgun.
Craig tied his hair into a ponytail and put on a mask as well. Including Baz, all three wore rigid bulletproof vests with spare magazines strapped on.
Nearby on the floor lay an extra vest, an AR-15, and a Glock 17, both with suppressors already attached. This gear was reserved for Ethan, while Smurf and Job stayed in the van as backup.
Now, they nervously watched the surveillance feed, waiting for the moment to strike.
—Hey, remember me?
The short-haired waitress was busy at the bar. When she saw Ethan, her eyes lit up. Since last night, she had thought she'd never see him again—after all, it wasn't common to get a handsome, well-built regular as a client. She regretted that the night before had only been a few dances and nothing more physical.
—I could never forget you. Tell me, did you miss me?
The timing was perfect. Ethan caught the waitress's attention and ordered a martini, James Bond style: "shaken, not stirred." Bond favored this preparation because, while on duty, he couldn't afford to dull his senses. Shaking the drink broke the ice into smaller shards, which melted faster than a single block, diluting the drink and lowering the alcohol content per sip.
Without a word, the waitress grabbed a few ice cubes and, with confident, seductive movements, poured whiskey into a low glass. As she mixed the drink, she couldn't help but flirt with Ethan, her curiosity and amusement piqued by this self-assured man.
They chatted easily, Ethan generous not only in drinking but also in inviting her to join him. The waitress, of course, was pleased—everything depended on her trade, and judging by the night before, Ethan was a generous customer.
He stayed at the bar for more than half an hour, making her laugh and drinking round after round. The waitress, completely captivated, didn't even notice the missing bar stirrer from her shaker.
The timing was right. Ethan finished his drink decisively and, leaning closer, whispered to the waitress if she could provide him with a special service, just for him. Hearing this, the young woman—already visibly tipsy—shivered, squeezing her legs together involuntarily at the sudden rush of excitement.
—Let's go —she said, waving goodbye to her coworkers and stumbling out from behind the bar.
Ethan quickly wrapped an arm around her slim waist, and together they walked toward the back, reeking of alcohol like nearly everyone else inside.
—Ethan's heading up the stairs. It's your turn. —Job whispered as Ethan appeared on the surveillance feed.
Once Ethan and the short-haired girl disappeared from view, his fingers flew across the keyboard. The camera flickered, then replayed a loop where the hallway looked empty.
Within seconds, the monitor appeared normal again, as if nothing had happened. Simultaneously, another split-screen feed popped up on the laptop: the real-time video, visible only to them.
Everyone watched nervously, wondering how Ethan would handle those men.
When they reached the upstairs room, the waitress bit her lip and pulled a pair of fur-lined cuffs, a whip, and a candle from the wardrobe.
Seeing those objects in her hands, Ethan felt a thrill.
—Come here.
Ethan took the whip and gave it a light flick.
—Crack!
A red mark appeared on her backside.
The waitress trembled and obediently walked to the bed. She lay back with her arms up, looking helpless, her eyes glistening as if with tears.
Ethan skillfully looped the cuffs around the bedpost, securing her firmly. With her full of anticipation, he returned to the wardrobe, dug inside, and pulled out a gag.
The service was flawless—it saved him a lot of trouble. He leaned over the headboard and said with a smile:
—Good girl, open your mouth.
The waitress obediently parted her pink lips at the sight of the handsome man before her. Ethan fitted the gag in place and tossed the whip carelessly to the floor.
Her expression shifted from delight to astonishment. The handsome man before her wasn't reacting as she'd expected. Instead, he reached into his pocket.
He pulled out more than a thousand dollars and slipped it into the waistband of her bikini.
Pinching her cheek gently, he said:
—Please be smart, and don't scream.
Ethan put on his earpiece and answered the call.
—I'm ready. What about you?
—Poor girl, she was so thrilled with you. —Job sighed in relief that everything had gone smoothly.— Everything's set. You can move whenever you're ready.
The waitress snapped back to awareness, her eyes filling with fear. She tactfully closed them, pretending nothing had happened.
Ethan could smell the alcohol clinging to her body from several feet away. He turned, opened the door, and staggered out. He retraced the path he had just memorized.
On the way, he passed a few guests and dancers, but seeing him drunk and stumbling, they paid him no mind. Ethan leaned against the wall, feigning intoxication, and waited until they passed.
He found a clear opening and quickly moved across the hall toward the emergency door.