I’m pretty sure I know what the bulges under their jackets mean.
There’s one man at the table staring with particular interest: staring at me. I feel the heat of his eyes burning my back, my ass. I catch up with Jax.
“Can I help you, sir?” The cashier asks. Judging by the flush on his face, he’s sensed the temperature in the Roosevelt Room rising as well.
“I want twenty-five thousand,” Jax says, leaning with casual arrogance against the man’s desk.
“Certainly, sir,” the cashier says. His fingers start dancing across rows of poker chips until he’s got four thick stacks lined up in front of him. “Will you be paying by cash or card?”
“Neither,” Jackson growls. “I’ve got a line of credit.”
“With the casino, sir?” The cashier asks with a look of surprise on his face.
Jax shakes his head. He turns to look at the men around the poker table for the first time, and points at the man taking an indecent interest in my ass.
“No. With that guy.”
Chapter 12
Jax
I can’t see my face. I don’t have to. I know what expression it’s wearing. I look like Death – an angel of revenge – swooping in with only one thing on my mind: retribution.
I hold my poker chips out in front of me with casual disdain. I want these fat, rich fuckers to understand that I don’t care about money – it means nothing to me. They can sit around boardroom tables and gamble people’s lives away like they’re worthless – but that’s not my game. It never has been. I only care about one thing.
I glance behind me, just to get one last, long look at her. Alex is looking at me like I’ve lost my mind. I shoot her a cheeky smile. God, she looks good. I wish I could just sweep the poker table free of chips, throw her down and take her right here. I’d love to see the look on Ryan’s face. I’ve heard the rumors. I understand why Alex is here.
Why Ryan made me bring her, and not someone else.
Too bad he didn’t consider I might figure it out.
“Is this seat free?” I growl, setting the chips down on the red velvet and sitting down. Like I would listen if the answer was no…
Ryan stares at me. I’d say his brown eyes were boring into my skin, but it would be a lie. They aren’t. If anything, they just remind me of a dirty, muddy pool. Then he waves his hand as though he’s giving me permission.
Asshole.
He clicks his fingers, and a couple of overly muscle-bound bodyguards storm over. Both are wearing suits that look like they were tailored for men half their size.
“My men are going to search you,” Ryan says. I forgot how reedy his voice was. How weedy. “If you don’t mind?”
He looks at me with a half-apologetic look on his face, but I know he doesn’t mean it. He thinks he’s won. More fool him. Prey doesn’t walk into a lion’s den; but other lions do when they know the Alpha male is weak and old. It’s just that, in this case, Ryan never was an alpha male. He just thought he was.
I shrug. “I’m unarmed.”
Bodyguard pats me down roughly. He lingers on my chest – where the detonator is tucked into my breast pocket. “It’s a lighter,” I bluff. “I know; smoking will kill me. What are you gonna do?”
Ryan chuckles. “Don’t worry. The cigarettes won’t get the chance.”
“He’s clean, boss,” the bodyguard barks. He has a faint trace of an accent. I’m not exactly sure where from. He sounds Eastern European, or maybe Russian.
“Good,” Ryan smiles. “And the girl?”
I turn to see the other bodyguard patting Alex down. My jaw sets in a violent grimace as I see the ugly pig of a man lingering on her chest. She shoots me a look that says – don’t worry, I can take it.
I’m going to make it so that you don’t have to, I think.
“Clean,” the pig grunts. As he returns to his post, I clap my hand on his shoulder and lean in to him. “You touch my girl like that again,” I half-growl, half-whisper, “I’ll take your hand with me as a souvenir.”
The guard pulls back, then snarls at me – trying to act cool. I shrug him off. I can tell it’s just an act. He’s rattled.
“Forgive my men,” Ryan apologizes in a tone that practically begs for the credit. “Hiring standards, you know? They’re slipping.”
“Apparently,” I growl, pointedly arching my brow.
“You came here unarmed,” Ryan smiles and shakes his head. “That’s unlike you, Jackson. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you more than a few feet from a pistol. A ruder man than I might call it a … stupid move.”
I look around the table, taking every man’s face in in turn. Besides Ryan, there are seven more – all portly, with guts spilling out of their tuxedos against the poker table. Every single one of them – except a hard-looking South American with a white scar on his cheek – has a shit-eating grin on their face.
Amateurs.
“Oh, you can speak freely here, Jackson,” Ryan laughs. “We’re all friends here, aren’t we boys?” A ripple of laughter dances from seat to seat. Again, only the tan man with a scar on his face stays quiet. He’s the one to watch – the power behind the throne. It’s obvious. He hasn’t taken his eyes off me once.
I lean forward. “I don’t need a pistol to kill you, Ryan. Leopards don’t change their spots. I could kill you with one hand tied to that wall.”
Ryan’s face flickers with aggravation. A dark shadow passes over his cheeks.
“I brought your package,” I say, glancing back at Alex. “Goddamn beautiful, isn’t she?”
I shoot Alex a smile, and she fires one back. Hers is more restrained – tentative, even. I can tell she wants to run. She should run. This is a dangerous place. But hell, that’s what courage is all about – rooting your feet to the ground when every instinct is telling you to get the hell out. Courage: it’s something a man like Ryan will never know, but an asset Alex has in spades.
“And I paid myself a bonus,” I say, glancing down at the stack of poker chips in front of me. “I think I deserve it, don’t you? After all, you never said I was going to have to put a pack of cartel thugs into the ground.”
The scarred man’s face flickers. I file the reaction away. I think I have my man.
“I did it anyway,” I smile without humor. “Call it a buy one get one free kind of deal.”
Ryan tosses his cards against the red velvet table. There’s a naked, ugly grimace on his face. “You think you are amusing, don’t you Jackson? But you must know you’re not getting out of here alive. All you’ve done is brought your girl here to die.”
“You think I’m that stupid, Ryan?” I spit. “You think I came here to throw my life away?”
“Then enlighten me,” Ryan says, irritated. He opens his hands and waves them around the room. “I’ve humored you this far. But look around, Jax. I’ve got five men, and you have..? What exactly? So tell me – old friend. How exactly do you plan to escape this room?”
“Escape?” I ask, tenting my eyebrows with mock surprise. “Whatever makes you think I’m planning on doing something like that? I’ll walk out of here when I’m good and ready.”
I reach into my pocket and pull out the detonator. I flick open the case and lay it down on the velvet table. Suddenly, I’ve got a ring of fat men staring at me, barely daring to breathe. Their backs stiffen, and I feel a chill on my face as the temperature in the room drops. I don’t care about most of them – they are just fat, smalltime crooks. It’s the scarred man I’m interested in.
“Is that supposed to impress me?” Ryan asks, a smile playing with his lips. The men around the table – all except the South American – take their cue from him and relax; a little bit, anyway.
“Depends,” I growl. “On how much you value your life.”
Ryan rolls his eyes. “A great deal,” he says. He clicks his fingers. As if the movement was choreographed, one of his men hurries over with a briefcase in his hand. He hands it to Ryan, who slides it on to t
he poker table – spilling poker chips on either side – and clicks it open.
“It is good work,” Ryan says, stroking his chin with an affectation that I guess he thinks makes him look intelligent. “I’ll give you that much.”
He reaches into the open briefcase and slowly pulls something out.
“My men nearly missed it,” he says, showing me a chunk of gray putty attached to a bunch of wires – detonators. “Of course – once I knew you’d slipped my fingers in the desert, I had them check a second time. Good thing I did, eh?”
Alex lets out a little cry. I grimace, but make sure I hide my expression from her. She thinks it’s all over, she thinks I’ve failed.
I lean forward – acting barely in control, and stab the rightmost button. Nothing happens. No explosion, no Ryan disappearing into chunks of flesh and blood: just a cruel, hard smile of victory on the man’s thin, sly face.
The fat businessmen sitting around the table start to laugh. They think they’ve won as well. All except the scarred man: he keeps staring at me, his fingers steepled under his chin.
My breath flows in and out of my chest. It’s hot, and heavy. It feels like it weighs a million tons. “You,” I growl, pointing at a man on the opposite side of the table. “You; you; you; and,” my finger flows past each man in turn, “you. Leave. Now.”
A fat man with the telltale sign of alcohol addiction – a glowing red nose – scrunches his face up into an angered, piggish grimace. “See here,” he blusters. “You’ve lost, boy. Accept it like a man.”
I turn to him with cool, studied disgust on my face. “Do you know what this is?” I leer at him, pointing at the detonator. “Do you know why it has two buttons?”
“Enlighten me,” the fat man mutters, looking less confident. I sense the others stirring – and clock nervous looks at each other out of the corner of my eye.
“There are two buttons, you fool,” I spit, irritated that I have to talk to a man like this at all. “Now what do you think the second one does?”
I peer at Ryan. “Did you find anything else?” I ask.
He shakes his head. I haven’t seen him for years, but I still know him well enough to understand that he’s worried. He should be. The second I get a chance, I’m going to rip his head from his shoulders.
I glare at the man with the Rudolph nose. “It’s called sleight-of-hand,” I say, allowing a smile to creep onto my face. “You get your target looking at the left-hand while you pick their pocket with your right.”
The man’s belly quivers as he slams his fist down against the table. “Enough talk!” He bellows. “Lay your cards on the table, man.”
I lean back, fingering the detonator. “Very well,” I grin, taking pleasure in seeing the fear growing on the man’s red face. “Inside every one of the stools you’re sitting on is eighteen grams of Semtex. Not enough to kill you…” I say, stretching out the threat.
I watch as heads – including Ryan’s – droop with relief.
I grin. “… but definitely enough to blow your balls off.”
I’m pretty sure I hear Alex laugh. The mood in the room shifts in an instant. It doesn’t take more than a couple of seconds before my first victim starts sprinting for the door. Once he moves, the rest follow – like fearful sheep.
And then there were three.
I grab the detonator and stand up. “Anyone,” I shout, my voice booming around the room, “who doesn’t want to die today – get the hell out.”
The cashier goes first: then a waitress; and then, and I wasn’t expecting this one, one of Ryan’s bodyguards.
Alex comes in closer, and lays her hand on my shoulder. I know she’s doing it for comfort – but, hell, it feels good for me as well. My plan has worked so far, but we’re still miles from safety.
The scarred man claps his hands together – slowly.
“Very good, Mr. Jackson,” he says through thickly accented English, “very good. What do you want?”
I turn to Ryan, who’s looking at me with barely concealed hatred. “Can I see that?” I ask, pointing at the Semtex in his hands. He studies me carefully, and pulls out the detonator wires, keeping them by his side.
He tosses the plastic explosive toward me, and I pluck it out of the air. “Be my guest,” he growls. “You think you’re clever, don’t you, Jackson.”
I glance up at him. “You know,” I say, biting my lip to hold back laughter. “I think I do.”
I bring the plastic explosive up to my face and examine it. I get a sniff. Then I take a bite.
“Marzipan,” I chuckle, “Mixed with a teaspoon of motor oil. It tastes like crap,” I mutter, swallowing the filth. My stomach almost rejects it – but I hold it down. Just. “But it’s about as likely to blow someone up as a pinecone. You should fire your guards.”
Ryan shakes his head and laughs. “And the Semtex?”
“What Semtex?” I say, leaning forward and grabbing a couple of poker chips, then resting my left elbow on top of the table. I thread the chips through my fingers, making them dance.
“What was the point of the detonator, Jax?” Ryan spits, snapping his fingers. His men lurch into action. I know I don’t have much time. I reach forward, under the poker table I feel a lump – duct tape, and rip it off, not bothering with decorum.
I throw myself back, looping an arm around Alex and taking her with me.
“Sleight-of-hand,” I grin as I bring a smuggled pistol up in my hands, and point it at Ryan’s chest. “I thought you would have figured that out by now.”
Chapter 13
Alex
The bad news is that it’s a standoff. Besides Jax, four other men hold guns in their hands. The even worse news is that all four of those weapons are pointed in our direction. And that means in my direction.
“Why should I believe that that is real,” Ryan sneers, cutting his lip and pointing at the pistol in Jax’s hand, “and not just another prop. Maybe you’re the boy who cried wolf one too many times, Jax.”
Jax’s face wrinkles up with barely concealed disgust. Hell, it’s not concealed at all. “I don’t much care what you believe,” Jax snarls. “When my bullet rips through your heart, it won’t make you any less dead.”
Ryan swivels on his stool and looks over his shoulder, a wide smile creeping across his face. The former CIA man reminds me of a snake. He’s got that telltale narrow face, and a smile that makes it look like a forked tongue is about to flicker out of his mouth. I wouldn’t be surprised if he had scales underneath his navy suit.
A shiver runs down my spine at the thought.
“You always could pull a trigger, Jackson,” Ryan allows. “But there’s more to war than just making a gun go bang in your hands. Grunts like you will never understand that. You’re obsolete. There’s no space for you on the battlefield: not anymore.”
“Oh,” Jax growls, in a dangerous, threatening tone that drops the temperature of the room by half a dozen degrees. “And you’re different, I suppose? Tell me, Master. What am I missing?”
“Look around,” Ryan gestures. “You’re outnumbered; outgunned. There’s no way this ends well for you. How about I make you an offer? You put that gun down and slide it over to me, and I’ll let your pretty little girlfriend walk out of here without so much as a scratch.”
“Don’t do it, Jax,” I yelp. I pull my body up straighter. I might not have a gun in my hand, but there’s no way I’m letting Ryan use me like a pawn on a chessboard. “He’s a lying little snake!”
“Don’t worry, baby,” Jax says, his tone dripping with droll humor. He turns and winks at me, though a second later when he looks back at Ryan, his face is murder. “He doesn’t fool me.”
Ryan shrugs. My eyes are drawn to his face. It’s slick with sweat and grease, and glistens from the light overhead. I can’t help but think that if I tried to touch his skin, my finger would slide right off, like touching a slip and slide.
“She’s not as stupid as she looks, then,” he snarls. “St
ill – it was worth a shot.”
I glance at Jax as I try to figure out whether Ryan Carr – former CIA operative Ryan Carr – knows what kind of beast he is unleashing with his insults. Jax isn’t the kind of man who backs down when someone mocks his woman. I watch the muscles on my lover’s cheeks tense as he grinds his teeth together. I see his finger stroke the trigger. To my surprise, I realize that I wouldn’t much care if Jackson simply decided to throw caution to the wind and pull it.
“It’s over, Jackson, can’t you see that?” Ryan says in a whiny, wheedling voice, trying to tempt Jax to lower his weapon. “My men will pump your girl full of holes either way.” He leans forward, resting his elbow on the red velvet poker table. “It’s just up to you which type, if you know what I mean.”
My stomach turns as I realize what Ryan is saying: either killing me or – even worse – raping me.
“Don’t listen to him, Alex,” Jax says. The contrast between Jackson’s voice and Ryan’s is like …: it’s like chalk and cheese; night and day; love and hate; just pick your cliché. Jax’s low, comforting tones pull me from the ledge. When he opens his mouth, I feel like someone is plucking a string on a bass guitar, or stroking me with a feather from head to toe.
“Don’t listen to –,” Ryan mimics, his voice screeching, ever higher pitched. He doesn’t get to finish. Jackson jumps in and cuts him off.
“You ever get your Trident, Carr?” He growls.
It takes me a second to figure out what Jax is talking about: the gold badge he wore with such pride on his Navy fatigues. The badge that marked him as more than just a sailor – it proclaimed his status as a Navy SEAL. But judging by the look on Ryan’s face, the insult hits home – as Jax clearly intended.
“You think you can talk your way out of this?” Ryan growls, his eyes narrowing, and his complexion taking on a reddish tint, like an image of Mars seen through a telescope. “You think –.”
“You’re not answering me, Ryan,” Jackson says, his voice coming out in a mocking, sing-song tone. I don’t know where to look. My eyes dance from one person to another, as if each one is an actor in some strange, tense play.
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