Hard Play (Delta Force Brotherhood)

by Sheryl Nantus

  Jessie stayed quiet. She resisted the urge to tug her jacket closed to hide the white, now transparent blouse.

  Edward stood and tugged on his jacket sleeves, one at a time. His expensive Italian suit was black and perfect, without a wrinkle. The white dress shirt had been pressed recently, the dark blue tie impeccably tied. His slick, black hair lay flat against his scalp, and his blue eyes burned as he studied the woman in front of him, his lips pressed into a tight line.

  The man exuded confidence and power. But she wasn’t going to bend to him any time soon.

  “I know who you are.” He circled the cage, taking slow, measured steps. “Jessica Lyon. Used to be a cop. A good cop, a detective.” He spread the last word out slowly, pronouncing all three syllables. “But not anymore.” He eyed her. “In theory.”

  “In fact,” she corrected him, “I quit the force over a year ago.”

  “You worked as a private investigator for months before taking employment in my casino as a lowly blackjack dealer.” He spread his hands. “So what’s up with that?”

  The low whisper was almost childlike, but she heard the steel behind it.

  “You’ve got men on the inside. You know my story.”

  He shrugged. “Humor me.”

  “Okay.” She sighed. “The other detectives put me on shit cases. Play the hooker, play the sweet girl looking to be attacked. So I decided to go it alone, got my license, and opened my own office. Except there’s no money in it. Between rent and buying a meal at the All-You-Can-Eat Buffet on Belmont once a day, I wasn’t making any cash. Took a course and found out I was a pretty good dealer.” She waggled her fingers in the air. “Teacher told me I had good hands, fast and steady.”

  There was a note of truth to her words. He would have checked over their surveillance tapes and seen her at work, seen she had done her job well without any complaints from the pit bosses and even a few compliments from the shift supervisor.

  “Your father was a cop.” He continued his orbit. “He died when he confronted a man collecting protection money from a business.” He pointed at himself. “You believe it was one of my men, one of my business arrangements. Making me responsible for what happened.”

  She stayed silent.

  “Except I was never charged. The man was never found.” His lips pulled away from his teeth, perfect and white. “I’m not a bad man.” He wagged his finger at her. “I want you to know that. My mother loves me and I love her. My brothers are good men, working hard to make a good life. We respect the law, and we respect each other.”

  Jessie waited.

  The idiot liked to hear himself talk.

  “But with respect comes responsibility. I’m responsible for a lot of people and a lot of money. After trying to steal from me, there’s no way you just walk out of here. Sorry. It’s just not going to happen.” He tapped his chest. “What I can do is offer a quick death, a painless death.”

  Her breath caught in her throat at his cold stare.

  “Or we can draw this out. No one’s coming for you. Whoever you work for has abandoned you. Why stay faithful to them now? So…” With a flash he was face-to-face with her, shaking the bars with a startling strength. “What do you know? Who do you work for? What did you want to steal from me?”

  The steel bars rattled, sending her to the far side of the cage as she scurried away from his rage.

  He glared at her, waiting for an answer. Beads of sweat collected on his forehead as the détente continued for a long, silent minute.

  Jessie went through her options again, as she’d done a hundred times since her imprisonment.

  She could lie to him. Make up a name and send him on a wild-goose chase. Give him someone from the LVPD and see chaos descend on her old comrades as they fought among themselves, the mole trying to figure out who was telling the truth and who was lying.

  But it wouldn’t get her out of the cage, and it’d bring hellfire down on someone, maybe an innocent who didn’t deserve to be on the wrong side of Edward Molodavi.

  The truth shall set you free.

  Said no one ever locked in a cage by an angry mobster.

  He glared at her. “Who sent you?”

  “No one,” Jessie whispered.

  Molodavi held a hand to his ear. “Excuse me?”

  “No one.” She cleared her throat. “I came here on my own.”

  He smiled. “So I’m supposed to believe you were bored and came to work for me, trying to find out if we were running any illegal operations inside my casino?” He turned toward the guards, who’d stopped their card games. They lined up behind him, a long, dark wall.

  Molodavi pressed his lips into a tight line before speaking. “She was bored.”

  No one replied.

  Jessie flinched inside.

  “I understand your loyalty. I do.” He smiled, and she felt a chill through her veins. “But you have to understand where I’m coming from. You wanted a job, we gave you a job. We gave you access to hundreds, thousands of dollars and believed you’d be honest with us, faithful to the company. And this is how you repay us? Trying to steal from me and all the people who have worked so hard to make Fluxxx a success?” Edward shook his head. “I’m a patient man, but I won’t wait forever.”

  He held up one finger. “You’ve been here for a week. We’ve fed you and taken care of you, and all we’ve asked of you is a bit of information as to who you work for and what you found while snooping around my office. I don’t want to have to allow my men to persuade you.” He rolled the last two words around in his mouth. “That’s not how I like to work. My mother raised me to be considerate of women. For her, I’ll give you a bit more time to change your mind. Then I’ll have to consider other options.” His voice dropped to a low growl. “It’s your call if you walk out of here on your own two feet, or if you’re dragged.”

  He spun and headed back into the shadows.

  …

  It was past midnight when Dylan walked into the casino, moving behind a gaggle of giggling women obviously on a girls night out. The doorman, dressed in a black jumpsuit with silver stripes, held the glass doors open for them, smiling widely. Dylan broke away from the group as soon as he got inside, earning a wink from one of the women and a sly nod, an offer to join them.

  He gave her a wistful shake of his head.

  I’m here to work.

  Not to mention he couldn’t get the image of Jessie Lyon out of his mind.

  He had to find her.

  Dylan hooked his thumbs in the loops of his jeans and began to wander the aisles, taking mental notes as he strolled along the carpet.

  He’d been in casinos before, all around the world, from small, backstreet operations to big, flashy buildings where the ashtrays were made of solid gold.

  It’d helped him decide to open a nightclub when looking for a safe place for the Brotherhood to operate out of.

  Aside from not having to be open twenty-four hours a day, there was less money to handle, and that equaled less trouble. They didn’t need to worry about dealers and cashier cages, or maintaining the slots, or the inevitable criminal element nipping at their heels.

  But some things reminded him of the Devil’s Playground.

  The cameras set in the ceiling at strategic positions. The security guards standing around, uniformed and undercover, waiting for a voice in their ears to tell them who to toss out on their ass. The people eager to throw their money around as long as they thought they were having a good time.

  At least with the nightclub everyone would walk out at the end of the night having enjoyed themselves. Here the odds were in the house’s favor you’d leave with empty pockets and a bad taste in your mouth.

  He moved on, scoping out the single floor. It was a decent-size casino, about the length of a football field, with the ground floor dedicated to gaming. The other two floors, according to their research, were dedicated to business—whatever Molodavi decided fell into that category.

  Like all the casi
nos in Las Vegas, Fluxxx was built on a theme. Here it was some sort of new age neon world, bright, flashing colors streaming everywhere in lines and squares, circles and spirals against pitch black walls. The staff matched it, wearing black and white outfits, the waitresses in very short skirts and tight, white blouses at least one size too small. Both sexes wore black blazers with white stripes, reminding Dylan of a post-Dystopian British boarding school.

  Eager customers filled the seats in front of the slot machines, and the blackjack tables seemed almost constantly full. Even the high-priced Texas Hold ’em poker tables were busy, standing room only as people waited for a seat to open up and allow them to get in on the games.

  The sports bar was a hotbed of activity. Multiple giant, flat-screen televisions showed a variety of sports—greyhound racing on one screen, hockey on another.

  He wandered the floor, stopping every now and then to drop some coins in a machine so he wouldn’t look suspicious. Dylan’s fingers curled around the silver dollar he always kept on hand.

  It was a habit he’d inherited from his father. Always give what you can to those less fortunate than yourself.

  Dylan had upgraded from his father’s quarters to silver dollars, the jar in his office filled with the shiny coins. He’d give them away to the homeless and the needy, the ones down on their luck and who couldn’t afford a decent meal.

  Not everyone who walked away from the casinos came out a winner.

  Eventually he worked his way over to the far corner of the casino floor to sit at a five-dollar slot machine and study the single stairwell leading to the upper floors, and the private elevator sitting right beside it, as per the blueprints Trey had downloaded earlier.

  The elevator’s cardkey lock announced it wasn’t for public use. The stairwell was locked up tight, only able to be opened from this side if you had a regular, old metal key. A crash bar on the other side allowed quick evacuation to the casino floor.

  An exit door sat a few feet from that, the red neon sign alerting anyone who needed to leave. It led out into the parking lot, completing the evacuation scenario if needed.

  All up to code and in good shape—and if they weren’t, a few extra dollars to the inspector would make sure all the forms were signed off on and approved.

  It wasn’t hard to imagine Jessie Lyon making her way over to this corner of the floor, wearing her casino uniform and looking like one of the many employees slipping out for a smoke or a fast break. She likely wouldn’t have a cardkey, so couldn’t use the elevator.

  Did you go up there after a shift, sneak into the office and start poking around? When you got caught by security, did you look at them with a smile and play dumb, claim you came up to deliver some report to the big boss?

  A tone sounded in his ear. Dylan tapped the earpiece, opening the link.

  “It’s ready,” Trey said. “Sent the details to your phone.”

  Dylan got up from the slot machine with a wistful look at the two cherries and one lemon on the screen. He shook his head and strolled by the security guards, headed for the front door.

  “I’m on the way out. Give me a few minutes so I can talk freely.” Dylan went to where his Ford truck sat in the parking lot. He pulled out onto the main street, noting the people swarming in and out of the casino.

  “Go,” he said to Trey as he slipped into traffic, wedging himself between an extended Hummer limousine and a yellow sports car filled with college boys trying to get the attention of whoever was in the limo.

  “Okay.” Trey barked in his ear. “I’ve hacked into Eddie Molodavi’s phone GPS. All we need to do now is find where he’s stashed Lyon. Right now he’s at his home.” A low whistle came through. “Guy lives in Summerlin. I’m impressed.”

  “What, you thought he was going to be in a cheap hotel off the highway?” Dylan continued his leisurely cruise down the Strip. “I’m mobile. Let me know when he leaves the house.”

  “You don’t think he’s got her there?”

  “Not likely. Men like that, they tend to keep their worlds separate.” Dylan slowed for a yellow light, noting the stretch limo zipping through the intersection. “I’m going to pull off somewhere and catch a nap while I can. Let me know the second he starts moving.”

  …

  It was obvious Molodavi hadn’t found the flash drive she’d been forced to leave behind in his office, the tiny black tab holding records scraped from the crime family’s computer files.

  If he had, she’d already be dead.

  His fear she’d somehow gotten the information out was one factor keeping her alive. The organization wanted to know what she’d seen and who she worked for.

  But time was running out—the longer she stayed missing and no one came looking for her, the less likely Molodavi would keep her alive.

  Jessie ground her teeth together and muttered a series of curses.

  She’d been an idiot.

  You could have left a message for Frank…

  No.

  The memory of her father’s friend echoed in her mind, the uncertainty of involving him in this wild scheme of hers leaving a sour taste in her mouth.

  He’s too old, she reminded herself. Retired with a good pension.

  Not to mention he’d shunned her since her father’s passing. He’d been aloof since her promotion to detective, and she’d put it down to her moving away from being a beat cop. But at the funeral she’d alluded to taking Molodavi down, and he’d ripped a strip off her, asking if she wanted to join her father in his grave so quickly.

  After that, he’d broken off contact.

  Still—

  Jessie studied the guards sitting around the table, playing cards and ignoring her.

  If she could get out of this cage and retrieve the flash drive…

  Revenge would be sweet.

  All she had to do was survive.

  …

  “Boss?”

  The voice came down a long dark corridor, breaking him out of a light sleep.

  “Dylan. You there?” Trey barked into his ear.

  He snapped awake with a start. “Yeah, yeah. Talk to me.”

  “Molodavi’s on the move. I’m putting the tracker on your own display.”

  He looked at his watch and put the truck in gear. “He’s an early riser.”

  “Takes a lot of work to run a crime syndicate,” Trey deadpanned.

  “True. Let’s hope visiting the place he’s stashed her is on his to-do list today. He’ll want to check in on her sometime. And we’ll be right behind him when he does.”

  “You’re assuming she’s still alive.”

  Trust Trey to be stone-cold honest.

  “I’m going to assume that until we find her body. It’s only been a week. If I were Molodavi, I’d give her more time to break, tell all about her client.”

  “She doesn’t have one.”

  “Exactly. He’s not going to kill her until he’s certain she doesn’t.” Dylan looked at his own GPS and saw the orange triangle shifting and moving. “Get Finn in the van and get mobile. I want the two of you ready to go if we find her today.”

  “I’ll get my toy box.” Trey clicked off.

  …

  The first stop was at a small family restaurant where Molodavi ate breakfast with a pair of no-necked men who liked to ogle the waitress every time she walked by their booth.

  The second was a popular all-night diner where the driver went in, retrieved four pre-ordered take-out bags, and placed them on the passenger seat while Molodavi rode in the back, chattering on his phone.

  The third time was the charm.

  The industrial area was on the edges of the city, bordering the desert.

  Molodavi’s car drove a rambling line around the warehouses before settling in front of one, the dot stilling on Dylan’s GPS display.

  Dylan almost smiled.

  If this was what he thought it was, he’d have Jessica Lyon back home in her own bed by midnight.

  He remembered t
he vacation photograph, the mischievous smile almost daring him to try and win her over.

  Wonder what she’s into?

  The thought shot straight to his groin, and he bit hard on the inside of his cheek, forcing his thoughts back to the present.

  He passed the parked car and went farther down the street before pulling into the parking lot in front of another building.

  He angled the truck so he had a perfect view of the black sedan in his rearview mirror. Dylan kept one eye on the mirror as he reached over and opened the duffel bag on his passenger seat.

  Trey did love his toys. And Dylan loved using them.

  The driver got out of the car and opened the door for Molodavi, as he’d done before. The man was a living wall, obviously working double duty as a bodyguard.

  Edward brushed invisible lint off his jacket and gestured at the locked door. The bodyguard went over and undid the padlock, slipping it into his pocket. He returned to the car and picked up the take-out bags from the back seat.

  Someone’s getting some good food. Doubt it’s going to be Jessie.

  Edward pulled the door open and walked in, the thug at his heels.

  Dylan waited until the door had fully shut before slipping out of the truck and moving to the building, around the corner from the actual door. It took a second to attach the button-size sticker to the wall and put the earbud in.

  He strained to listen, one finger playing with the volume dial.

  A low voice reverberated in his ears. “I see you’re still being stubborn.”

  Dylan couldn’t help smiling.

  Jessie Lyon wasn’t going down easy.

  “I understand your fear. I really do.” Expensive shoes clicked on concrete. “You think I’m going to kill you. Slowly. Painfully.” He gave a low chuckle. “I won’t tell you it’s not on my list of options. But we can negotiate those details as soon as you tell me who sent you and how much you know.”

  Silence.

  “Jess. Jessica. You’re a smart girl. You’re someone I could use in my organization. Here, whisper the name in my ear and this can all end. Tell me what you saw, what you know, and we’ll work something out.”