In the Shade of the Blossom Tree

by Joanna Rees

  Hamilton appeared in a spotlight at the dugout in a black cloak. Cheerleaders in skimpy red satin bikinis flanked him as he made his way down the aisle. Hamilton was huge. Much bigger than Savvy would ever have realized if she hadn’t seen him up close.

  Once at the ring, the entourage of cheerleaders fanned out, jumping up and down as Hamilton ducked under the ropes, shedding his cloak. The crowd bellowed their approval. His biceps bulged and glistened, the veins standing out on his smooth black skin like ropes.

  More fireworks exploded. Thunderous Russian classical music boomed out, as Oleg Olin marched from the dugout to a chorus of hisses and boos. His scarred face was scrunched up into an ugly scowl as he ran down the aisle and clambered up to the ring.

  His paleness made him seem smaller, especially with the faded green tattoos that covered his arms. But what Olin might have lost in stature, he made up for in aggression. Immediately, he fronted up to Hamilton, pushing his chest out, his lizard-like eyes boring into his opponent’s.

  Savvy cheered, awed by the spectacle. In the ring, the referee wriggled in between Hamilton and Olin, pushing them apart. Whatever warning he shouted at them was lost in the roar of the crowd. Johnny JK Russell left the stage and the boxers retired to their corners, to be swabbed down by their trainers.

  Seconds later, the bell rang and Olin flew out of his corner. The two men circled menacingly. Hamilton threw a couple of exploratory punches, but Olin was the first to connect.

  Savvy gasped as Hamilton’s head snapped back from the full force of the vicious uppercut. His huge body lurched against the ropes nearest to where they were sitting, less than two yards away. He struggled up again, only for Olin to land a series of rapid body blows. Marcus was roaring with the crowd, punching the air.

  Then Olin caught the American on the jaw. Savvy cried out and recoiled as blood sprayed from Hamilton’s mouth towards her.

  A fleck of it landed on her shoulder.

  She stared at the red bubble on her skin with a mixture of horror and awe.

  She turned round to see if anyone else had been hit behind her. Which was when she found herself gazing straight into the mesmeric eyes of a man in his late forties, wearing jeans and a moleskin jacket.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Up in the hub, Mike Hannan stood next to Lois Chan in front of the bank of screens and sipped the cup of coffee Lois had just handed him.

  From the various views of the packed arena, they could just make out Fernandez, but the crowd was so dense, and with everyone on their feet shouting and cheering, it was difficult to keep him permanently in shot. One guy in all those people . . . it was like trying to keep your focus on one bird in a flock.

  ‘That’s the best three angles I’ve got for those seats,’ Mario said from where he stood by the screen at his workstation.

  Lois was proud of him. He’d done exactly what Mike had asked for so far and Lois could tell that Mike was getting a good impression of Lois and how she was running the hub.

  ‘I’m just trying to patch in the TV feed to our screens. The overhead view of the ring might be better.’

  ‘Let’s use everything we’ve got,’ Lois said.

  A nearby movement caught Lois’s eye. Turning, she saw Geoff Greenblatch was discreetly beckoning her over to where he was standing a little way off to the right of Mario’s workstation.

  ‘Excuse me one moment, Mike,’ Lois said.

  Greenblatch was losing his fuzzy brown hair and was as dishevelled as usual, with salt and pepper stubble covering his jowly neck and jaw. He was a walking ad for corporate complacency.

  But there was no mistaking the panicked look on his face now. Or the fact he wanted her help.

  Alarm bells immediately started ringing in Lois’s mind. Greenblatch wasn’t a panicker. He was a seasoned old pro. So what had got him so rattled he’d had to come to her? Immediately Lois thought of Jai Shijai. He was still in the baccarat room, she knew. But she’d checked her cell phone several times already and there’d been no word from either Anthony, the dealer, or Tristan, so she’d assumed everything must be OK.

  ‘You’d better come see this,’ Greenblatch said, as soon as she was within earshot.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Jai Shijai’s gone way over the limit.’ He kept his voice lowered but Lois picked up the note of fear in it. ‘And I mean way over.’

  A flare of anger burst inside Lois. Why the hell hadn’t Tristan called?

  The screens showed a single image between them: table one in the baccarat room. A growing city of stacked-up chips stretched out to Jai Shijai’s left and right.

  ‘How much is he up?’ Lois asked.

  ‘Nearly three mill,’ Greenblatch said.

  Lois’s eyes widened. Three million dollars? Already? The house limit was one.

  ‘We need to shut the game down,’ she said. ‘Right now.’

  ‘But we can’t. He still might lose.’

  It was pathetic. These words. The way he said them. He was as bad as all the other addicts who chanced their lives away in Vegas, always holding out for that one card that would make everything all right.

  On screen Jai Shijai was obviously enjoying waging war against the Enzo. In baccarat, the player played against the house one on one. Lois noticed that the other players on the VIP table were all watching Jai Shijai with total awe.

  Lois felt torn. Her gut told her to shut down the game. That was her job. But, on the other hand, she couldn’t be sure that Roberto would back her if she made the right call. Right and wrong. Black and white. Lois knew how to operate in those parameters, but this situation was an altogether murky shade of grey.

  Because Dr Jai was a key figure in the negotiations for Shangri-La. And Roberto Enzo wanted – needed – a piece of Shangri-La more than anything. If Lois could help that happen, then her future was assured. But if she blew it, then Roberto would never forgive her. She’d be out of yet another career before she knew it.

  Shangri-La was the hottest news in the whole gambling industry right now. It was a reclaimed ten-kilometre-long spit of land less than thirty miles from Shanghai. The Chinese government were in the process of awarding six concessions to foreign consortiums to develop it into a gambling resort set to rival both Macau and Vegas itself.

  Michael Hudson had been the first to successfully politick his way into snapping up a concession and – from the press Lois had read in Vegas – his plans to build a huge casino and conference facility there were already under way.

  Roberto’s own bid was being considered. If the Enzo Vegas impressed Jai Shijai and he put in a good word, then they had a real chance of seizing a slice of the opportunity of the twenty-first century.

  Tristan was standing in the doorway, in full view of the camera and several steps back from Jai Shijai. Lois could see that his cell phone was gripped in his hand.

  Everyone watched and held their breath as Anthony dealt another hand. Jai Shijai slugged back his drink, folding his cards slowly one by one, from side to side.

  The action sent Lois’s mind reeling back to when as a young child she’d watched her father and his friends playing baccarat, behaving just the same way. Baccarat had been his favourite game. He’d explained to Lois once that of all the games, baccarat was the one you could beat . . . the one you could will yourself to win. Even back then Lois remembered thinking that having a psychological battle with cards was ridiculous. How could moving them, bending them over in one particular way, manipulate fate?

  She beat the memory away. She didn’t want to think about her father. And what gambling had done for him. Or how his lousy addiction had torn her family apart.

  On the screens Jai Shijai’s associates around him all shouted out, ‘Deng.’ To stop the bad cards. Just as her father had once attempted to do. Attempted, but not succeeded.

  Jai Shijai joined in, calling out ‘Sei Bin’ for four patterns. His eyes gave nothing away as he slowly turned over the cards and placed them down in front of Anthony. Jai Shi
jai’s associates cheered as the last card turned. Jai Shijai had won the hand.

  Enzo Vegas was down another five hundred Gs.

  This had to stop, right here and right now, Lois thought. Jai Shijai wasn’t going to lose. And he wasn’t going to stop. And if he carried on like this, he would break the house.

  She’d have to take full responsibility herself. Either that or duck responsibility and allow Enzo Vegas to keep on haemorrhaging money.

  Lois Chan had never been that kind of girl.

  And that was why Roberto Enzo had employed her in the first place. To be his white knight. To enforce his law.

  She didn’t give herself time to reconsider. She hit Tristan’s number.

  ‘Lois?’ His voice came on the line.

  ‘I told you to call me if there was a problem.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘You’re to shut the game down now. I’m telling you this with Roberto’s full authority,’ she lied.

  ‘We might lose him altogether. He might go back to La Paris.’

  ‘Do it,’ Lois barked.

  She’d stuck her neck out so far now, she’d just have to wait and see if Roberto decided to chop it off.

  But she had no time to worry about it, because as she ended the call and looked up she saw that Mario was standing at the edge of the workstations, waving furiously. Mike was beside him, hunched down over a monitor.

  As Mike turned to face her and his eyes locked with hers, she realized that something was terribly, terribly wrong.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  As the boxers withdrew to their corners at the end of the next round, Savvy returned the now bloodied white handkerchief to the man behind her, who’d lent it to her to wipe her arm.

  ‘Thanks,’ she mouthed.

  He pulled a sympathetic face and smiled, as if to say that getting splattered was just a hazard of being so close to the ring. His direct gaze was somehow so reassuring that Savvy smiled back. But her hand was shaking as she passed the handkerchief back to him.

  And there in his strong brown eyes she saw it, the same thing she’d seen in so many men’s eyes over the years. A glimmer of desire that had nothing to do with being a gentleman at all.

  Savvy swallowed hard as she turned back to face the ring. She was so shocked that she’d been blooded that it took her a few seconds to realize where she’d seen the man before.

  It was Josh Fernandez. She was sure of it. Senator Fernandez.

  ‘What was that all about?’ Marcus shouted in her ear. ‘That guy bothering you?’

  But Savvy knew there was no point in telling him that the boxer’s blood had hit her. Marcus was too wrapped up in the fight. And there was even less point in attempting to explain to Marcus that the politician intent on wrecking her father’s profits and her inheritance was in the seats right behind them.

  And he was cute! Despite her shock, she felt a tingle of attraction fizz inside her, like an effervescent tablet dropped in water. She bit her lip as another thought occurred to her.

  Hud hated Fernandez. But maybe she could finally have hit on a way of ingratiating herself with her father, once and for all. And, even more importantly, help safeguard her inheritance from the IRS.

  Here she was, so close to Fernandez. Surely it was fate? Surely this really was an opportunity not to miss? Because Savvy’s guts told her that most of the real business that went on in Vegas was up close and personal. Literally.

  And what if she could get up close and personal with Fernandez? What if . . . ? No, it was a crazy idea. She was just high, she told herself. She was getting carried away. Reading too much into the moment of connection they’d just had.

  But another part of her mind was whirring. What if fate had thrown her into Fernandez’s path? What if she did introduce herself properly? And then, what if she could engineer a situation where they could talk?

  Well, then there’d be no stopping her. Up close and personal: it was what she did best.

  She didn’t dare to think of the consequences. Sure, she realized it was too late in the day to persuade him to ditch his tax legislation proposals now that he’d already gone public with them. Even someone who knew as little about politics as she did could see that.

  But maybe she could persuade him that to make a friend of the influential Hudson family meant doors might open for him where he least expected them to. And in return he might push some tax concessions their way.

  Yes, this could be an extremely satisfying situation. Particularly for Savvy if she’d been the one who’d helped grease – or should that be lubricate? – the wheels of mutual business. She’d have made a mockery of her father’s teams of accountants. How superficial would Hud think her life was then? And how much happier would he be to keep her in the lifestyle to which she’d grown accustomed?

  She’d be her daddy’s golden girl once more.

  The arena swung back into focus. It was the Russian who was taking a punishing now.

  The crowd roared for blood as Savvy twisted round in her seat, far more interested in the drama she might be able to instigate with Fernandez. And to her delight she saw that this really might be as easy as she’d hoped. Because rather than watching the drama on the canvas, Joshua Fernandez was staring right back at her, as if he could read her mind.

  But her raised eyebrow let him know that she’d caught him looking too.

  She turned back and looked straight ahead. Smiling, she licked her teeth in anticipation.

  Game on, she thought.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  ‘There!’ Mike Hannan stabbed his finger at the screen.

  Lois peered in. At first she couldn’t see what he was talking about, but then she saw the blurry grey figure of a man.

  ‘What the hell . . . ? Where is that?’

  ‘Get in closer,’ Mike told Mario.

  Mario clicked his fingers across the keyboard. The screen image enlarged, then transferred to the wall screens.

  Even though the view was dark and patchy, compromised by the glare of the arena lights, Lois could see clearly that there was a man scaling the series of ladders which led to the catwalk – the walkway running the perimeter of the arena ceiling above the lighting grid.

  The death threats to Fernandez flooded her mind. Why else would anyone go up to the catwalk? It couldn’t be a member of staff. Not at this time. Not during the fight. And with what looked like a backpack strapped to him.

  ‘Is anyone meant to be up there?’ Mike asked.

  ‘No. Of course not.’

  The man reached the catwalk and quickly cocked his leg over the bar and slid on to the platform. His movements were light and nimble. He removed the backpack and opened it.

  ‘Oh, Jesus,’ Mike said.

  Lois swallowed hard. The man had begun snapping together what was unmistakably a rifle.

  Mike already had his radio pressed to his mouth. ‘March? Come in. Come in, damn it. Now,’ he shouted. ‘Jesus.’ He turned to Lois. ‘My comms are down. Give me yours.’

  ‘They’re not working,’ she said, her heart pounding now as she realized – too late – that it might be no coincidence that the staff communication system had gone down tonight. That it couldn’t be. Not if Hannan’s comms had been disabled as well.

  They’d been deliberately taken out.

  ‘What the fuck . . . ? Not working?’ Mike’s expression was one of anger and disgust. ‘Get me down there. Now.’

  He was already running for the hub door.

  ‘Tell everyone,’ she shouted at Mario. ‘Tell them it’s a code red. Clear the main exits. Now!’

  Lois caught up with Mike in the corridor.

  ‘We need to come in somewhere he won’t see us,’ Mike shouted. ‘Below him. The base of that ladder he climbed up would be ideal.’

  Lois’s mind reeled. It was four floors down to ground level from here. Not the elevator, she thought. It would take too long. Worse, she realized, if Mario instigated a casino-wide shutdown right away, then she and Mike m
ight be trapped.

  Overtaking Mike, she pushed through the doors at the end of the corridor and out into the open air.

  The fire escape ran down the outside of the back of the building. It was dark out here, but this was the fastest way to get to where they needed to be.

  ‘Right to the bottom. Then in,’ she shouted to Mike as he ran past.

  Lois’s shoes clattered on the metal steps as she chased after him.

  This was her worst nightmare. Everything that could have gone wrong had gone wrong. Every single person in the arena was in terrible, terrible danger. Not just Fernandez. They didn’t even know for sure if he was the target. It could be any one of a thousand VIPs in there.

  Or all of them. The shooter might not be an assassin at all. Just someone who was here to destroy at random. Or even a fight fan who wanted to fix his hero’s chances of a win by blowing the opposition away.

  ‘It might not be him,’ she shouted at Mike. ‘It might not be the senator they want.’

  Mike yelled back, ‘He’s my priority. I have to protect him.’

  She thought again of the senator’s eyes. And in her mind’s eye, she saw the light dying inside them.

  What if the shooter had already . . .

  She couldn’t even bear to think of what might be about to happen. What could be happening down there. Right now . . . this second.

  Mike was way ahead of her. Two floors down.

  Her ears were ringing. Her lungs ached. Thank God for all those hours in the gym or she’d be on her knees by now.

  Finally they hit base.

  Swinging herself down on the handrail, she caught up with Mike in the parking lot.

  ‘This way,’ she gasped, overtaking him. She ran diagonally across to the arena’s fire doors. She swiped her card. The door buzzed green. No lockdown had been instigated, at least. She hauled the metal doors open.

  The noise was deafening as they slipped into the arena behind the stalls. She took a second to look around, orientate herself, her cop instincts kicking in straight away, looking for danger points, exits, angles, the right way to proceed.