by Ava Drake
Oliver didn’t pick up his hold cards to look at them, and neither did Collin. What was Oliver up to?
The surfer genius, beach dude, lover, and friend smiled crookedly across the table at him and said, “Let’s just cut to the chase, shall we?” Oliver pushed his entire prodigious stack of chips into the center of the table. “I’m all in.”
It went without saying that Collin was all in. With his life.
Oliver flipped over his cards and winced. An ace-ten of hearts. A strong hand.
Collin flipped over his. A pair of deuces, diamonds and hearts, the color of blood. The suicide hand. “How appropriate,” he murmured.
“Turn the cards,” Oliver snapped at the dealer.
The guy took a deep breath and turned the first card.
A nine. No help to either of them.
Another card turned. A king of clubs. Again, no help.
The third card was a six of diamonds.
The fourth card, the turn card, was a jack of spades.
The dealer reached for the river card, the final of the five shared cards. His hand paused over the card. Collin’s breath stopped. His life depended on a single turn of the card. His face felt hot and cold all at once, and his entire body was drenched with adrenaline and sweat.
“Just turn it,” he growled.
The dealer flipped the card over.
An ace of spades.
Oliver had matched up his ace and beat Collin’s deuces. On the last card. Collin stared down at the single spade in the middle of the card, and it swam in his vision as horror slammed into him. He’d lost. He was a dead man.
Shock descended heavily over him, a blanket muffling all sound and sensation as George surged off the podium to slap his son’s back and congratulate him in a hearty voice.
Oliver responded tiredly, “Fuck off, Father.” But the words sounded like they came from a great distance away.
Collin stood up woodenly, and Oliver did the same. “Can we get this over with and not draw it out, please?” he asked no one in particular.
Oliver reached into his tuxedo jacket and pulled out a revolver, which stunned Collin out of his shock. “You? You’re going to kill me?” he asked in disbelief. He stared into Oliver’s eyes, unable to imagine a greater betrayal had ever been perpetrated in the history of love than this.
Oliver shrugged. “You know my old man. Did you think he would have it any other way? That any of them would? This is my last test to pass before I become one of them. I have to have blood on my hands. Just like all of them.”
At least a note of bitterness crept into Oliver’s voice at those last words.
Collin stared at him and said candidly, “If I misjudged you this badly, if I loved a man who is able to look me in the eye and gun me down in cold blood, I’m actually glad I don’t have to live with that.”
“You loved—” Oliver started. He broke off sharply. The revolver trembled so badly in his fist that Collin wasn’t sure Oliver would hit him even if he tried to shoot.
Oliver raised the weapon and held it at arm’s length with his right hand. Collin stared into the tiny black bore, unable to believe this was actually happening. And in that moment, a dozen images of him and Oliver together flashed through his head. The two of them laughing in bed together. Gasping in passion. Playing cards on Oliver’s bed. Naked in the shower. Making love on the beach. Oliver. Always Oliver. At least he’d found real love before the end. It was something, at least.
A huge explosion of sound and a bright flash of light exploded without warning. Something massively heavy slammed into his chest just over his heart. Within the powerful blow, something needle-sharp stabbed him, like a jagged bone fragment tearing into his heart wall. He staggered backward, half spinning around from the force of the gunshot.
He felt wetness. Looked down. Spied a blossom of red on his pristine white shirt, just starting to peek out from under his tuxedo lapel.
He tried to draw a breath, but no air entered his lungs. He looked up at Oliver in entreaty, and his legs buckled out from under him as his lover’s face—his killer’s face—faded to black.
Chapter Fifteen
OLIVER jumped forward as Collin crumpled to the floor. He had to work fast now. He knelt and pressed his fingers against Collin’s neck, checking for a pulse.
He looked up at the cluster of men that included his father and announced grimly, “It’s done.”
The group seemed to exhale as one in satisfaction. Cock-swinging, motherfucking bastards.
Oliver shrugged out of his own tuxedo jacket and tossed it over Collin’s head and chest. Then he commenced rifling through Collin’s pockets, pulling out his lover’s wallet and taking off his watch. He threw over his shoulder, “I assume you removed all identifying labels from the tuxedos you provided us?”
“Of course,” someone answered.
“I need a rug or a tarp or something to wrap him up in. I used a hollow-point round to minimize the blood, but I need to get him out of here soon so he doesn’t bleed all over the floor and leave behind evidence.”
While they waited for a tarp to be fetched, Oliver looked over at his father. “Tell me something. Was this entire tournament a ruse to draw me out and suck me into your world?”
George shrugged. “Would anything less than a chance to prove you’re the greatest poker player in the world have gotten you off that damned beach?”
“Absolutely not.”
“There’s your answer, then.”
He supposed he should be complimented that his father and his cronies had gone to so much expense and trouble to lure him here and then manipulate him into committing murder so they could control him forever. But still, it galled him to have been maneuvered into this moment, standing over the body of his lover, neatly caged, forced to serve the consortium as his lord and master.
“What about the attempts on my life? Are you saying your people had nothing to do with those?”
George answered for the group, “The murders and attempted murders were not us. Gathering the best poker players on earth necessitated dipping into some violent barrels.”
“What about Stacy Kiern? She was behind the attacks, wasn’t she?”
“Very good,” George said approvingly. To his colleagues, the older Elliot said, “I told you he’s sharp. He figured out who the attacker was without our help at all.”
Oliver rolled his eyes.
George commented, “Ms. Kiern is interesting. She showed impressive initiative. We may choose to recruit her at a later date.”
Initiative? Apparently in George’s lexicon, that was a nice way of saying the woman was a homicidal psychopath.
A big man in a cheap suit stepped out of a door on the far side of the room and walked forward with a big blue plastic tarp folded sloppily in his arms. A second man followed close behind. Oliver had only seconds left to do the last thing he needed to. He palmed two small objects and unobtrusively slipped them into Collin’s front pants pocket as he bent over his body. Collin would need them where he was going.
One of the thugs laid out the tarp beside Collin, and Oliver grabbed him under the armpits while the second thug took Collin’s feet. They heaved him onto the edge of the tarp and then rolled his limp body in it. The thugs helped him wrap ropes around the whole package to hold it together, and then the first guy hoisted Collin’s body over a beefy shoulder.
“To the marina, I assume?” Oliver asked the thugs.
“Yup,” the second one answered gruffly.
“Let’s get rolling, then. I’ve got places to go and things to do.”
The two men led him outside and crossed the beach to the marina. Thankfully, the men veered away from his father’s massive yacht and opted instead for a smaller cabin cruiser. Collin’s body got dumped on the aft deck an in unceremonious heap, and all three men moved into the wheelhouse.
The first man moved to the vessel’s controls and started the engines while the other one cast off the lines. The first man guided
the cruiser out of its berth. As they reached the sea, he pointed the prow to the west and opened up the throttles, announcing, “Best place to dump a body is in the Atlantic. Currents will carry it down the coast of Africa a ways before there’s any chance of it coming ashore. Locals won’t give a damn that some dead guy washed up and won’t report it.”
“Perfect,” Oliver replied coldly. How these thugs weren’t hearing his heart pounding its way out of his chest, he couldn’t fathom. He was so light-headed with adrenaline and icy terror he could hardly see straight. Time was the enemy now. He squinted down at his watch. It had been a scant fifteen minutes since he’d shot Collin. He needed to make sure this little jaunt took at least thirty more minutes. He’d had to hurry Collin’s body out of the casino so his father and George’s cronies wouldn’t examine it too closely. But now he needed to delay.
He commented, “Make sure we’re far enough away from land that there’s no chance of him being found. I didn’t jump through all these hoops just to get sloppy now.”
“You got it, sir.”
Sir. Right. He was one of the bad guys now. The newest member of the Erebus Consortium. May they all rot in hell, his father in particular.
As the chilly night breeze sprayed a fine mist of saltwater against his face, shock began to set in. God almighty, pulling that trigger had been hard. Harder than he’d imagined it would be—and he had a damned fine imagination. The look of shock and hurt in Collin’s eyes—he would never forget that as long as he lived. Hell, he suspected it would haunt him to his grave.
The longer they sailed into the night, the farther from shore they went, the more tense he grew. And the combination of terror, shock, and tension proved toxic. Acid rose in his gut and burned the back of his throat.
The more he thought about it, the more violently his gut twisted in horror at what his father had made him do. What kind of monster did that to his own child? The revulsion threatened to spill over, and he mumbled to the other men, “Seasick. Crap.”
Staggering out of the cabin with his hand over his mouth, he ran to the back of the boat and emptied his stomach over the edge of the vessel. He leaned heavily on the rail, gasping in the aftermath.
Taking the opportunity while he was there, he nudged Collin’s body with a toe and murmured low, under the roar of the engines, “You awake?”
A faint groan rose from the tarp.
“Hush,” Oliver said quickly. “If you’re conscious enough to understand me, say my name.”
“Ol-liver” came the sigh.
“Listen up. Your life depends on it. I faked your shooting. I fired a blank at you and simultaneously exploded a fake blood pack one of your Wild Cards colleagues hid in your tuxedo with a remote control. There was also a hypodermic in your jacket. When I shot you, it injected a fast-acting sedative into you to knock you out. It’s wearing off now. I’ve put a knife and an emergency locator transponder in your right front pants pocket. When the goons dump you in the water, you’ll need to cut your way out of the tarp. The ELT will activate when it’s submerged. Friends of yours will come pick you up as soon as this boat has cleared out of the area. The water’s cold, so try to keep the tarp wrapped around you and don’t flail around too much. For God’s sake, don’t make any noise when you hit the water. The cold will be a shock, but don’t scream. Got all that?”
“Uh-huh.”
“I’ll try to keep them from dumping you for another fifteen minutes or so. The sedative should be totally out of your system by then. Don’t drown on me, Collin. I love you.”
COLLIN listened in disbelief as Oliver’s steps receded across the deck from him. He wasn’t dead? Well, that certainly was good news. And furthermore, Oliver loved him? That was almost as shocking as the moment when Oliver had pulled the trigger of that damned gun.
Did they have a chance after all? If he managed to make it off this boat and out of the ocean alive, was it possible? Hope ignited in his gut, and his heart beat a little more strongly.
He still felt groggy, and it was tempting to drift back into unconsciousness. Must fight it. For Oliver. For the love between them. He hadn’t gotten to tell Oliver properly that he loved the big jerk back.
He needed to get hold of the knife in his pocket before he got thrown overboard and risked losing it. His life would depend on being able to cut himself free of the cocoon encasing him. It was probably a good thing he was still somewhat sedated, because he was mildly claustrophobic. At full mental speed, he would be freaking out at being a human burrito like this.
Moving cautiously, he wriggled his right hand up his thigh and into his pocket. His fingers closed around the hard steel of a folded pocketknife. How in the hell was he supposed to get it open with one hand—?
Ah. His fingertip encountered a small button on the side of the knife. It was a switchblade. He debated opening it now or waiting until he hit the water. But the claustrophobia made the decision for him. He popped the knife open and winced at the tearing sound of his pocket and pant leg giving way. Sharp little sucker, this knife of Oliver’s. Thank God. He tested his wrappings and felt loops of rope around his shoulders, waist, and thighs. Easing the knife up his torso, he poked the tip of the knife through the tarp and started sawing at the ropes around his waist.
It was laborious work not because the rope was hard to cut through. Quite the contrary. He didn’t want to cut all the way through the ropes just yet. He needed them to hold long enough for his killers to pick him up and throw him off the boat.
When he was done nearly sawing through the waist ropes, he shifted by slow degrees, jackknifing his body a little until he could reach the ropes around his legs. He went to work on those, carefully sawing them mostly through.
He was just pondering how to reach the ropes around his shoulders when the vibrations of heavy footsteps underneath him announced the arrival of his killers. He froze, holding the knife tightly, resting the blade along his pant leg.
Had he been “dead” long enough for rigor mortis to be setting in, or should he play limp corpse? No telling how long he’d been unconscious. It must still be night, though, or they wouldn’t be out here to dump him in the middle of the busy sea lanes near the Strait of Gibraltar. If it was still night, then he’d been “dead” only a few hours at most. No rigor mortis, then. Limp it was. As rough hands grabbed him through the tarp, he forced every muscle in his body to relax and steeled his mind for the abrupt agony of submerging in ice water. He remembered all too well the shock of jumping into the Mediterranean after Oliver several weeks ago.
He was lifted and swung up and out. There was a sickening moment of free fall, and then a tremendous impact as he slammed into the water. The cold and dark closed around him like a grave, and panic smashed into him. He kicked violently, and the ropes around his legs broke free. Another violent jerk with his arms, and the waist ropes gave way. Rather than try to cut the ropes around his shoulders, he just shoved and tore at the tarp and rope, ripping his head free of the confining materials.
He opened his eyes, and nothing but painful blackness stung at them. Screwing them shut again, he realized the weight of his clothing was pulling at him. Crap. Which way was up?
He gave an experimental pull with both arms. It felt like the pressure on his ears diminished slightly. He pulled again, more strongly this time. Did he dare surface yet? Was the vessel Oliver and the thugs had dumped him off far enough away that they would see him surface?
His lungs didn’t give him much choice in the matter, however. He must have exhaled partially when he hit that icy water, because his oxygen supply felt almost depleted. He opened his eyes and thought he spied the faintest light overhead. He stroked strongly toward it.
Almost as relieved as when Oliver told him he wasn’t dead, Collin’s face popped out of the water. He dragged in a blessed lungful of air. Just to be safe, he submerged again, pushing upward with his arms to hold himself below the surface. He counted to a hundred and surfaced again.
This time
he turned in a full circle, searching for the boat carrying Oliver and his helpers. Nothing. He was alone. Distant lights on the horizon told him where the nearest land was. Whether it was Spain, Morocco, or someplace else altogether, he had no idea. He was only seeing what looked like the tips of mountains, so he estimated he was a good three miles from shore. Not that it mattered. No way could he swim that far before he succumbed to hypothermia.
Speaking of which, he was starting to shiver. Violently. As in his teeth were chattering like castanets and his large muscles were starting to cramp up. Belatedly remembering what Oliver had said about the tarp, he grabbed the tattered plastic sheet where it floated beside him and awkwardly wrapped it around himself like a clumsy blanket.
If it helped, he couldn’t tell. He still felt like he was quickly turning into an ice cube.
To keep his mind off his suffering, he shifted the switchblade to his left hand and managed to reach into his right pocket while staying afloat. A small square of plastic rested there. Grabbing it, he pulled it out and brought it to his nose. A tiny green light blinked underneath a piece of tape that mostly obscured the light-emitting diode. Okay. Locator beacon working. Now he just had to pray someone found him before he froze to death.
He grabbed the edge of the tarp and pulled it more tightly around himself. Would he ever be warm again? If he got out of this mess alive, he was finding the hottest, sunniest beach he could and cooking himself on it until he was the color of boiled lobster. Well, maybe he would use sunblock. But he was still going to get as hot as he could stand.
Maybe he would build a sauna in his garage. Then he could cook himself every single day until he forgot what this bone-deep chill felt like. His brain was getting sluggish, and he couldn’t feel his face anymore. He was going to haunt Oliver from beyond the grave if the jerk saved him from death by shooting only to freeze him to death out here because no one came to rescue him.