Paradigm 2045- Trinity's Children

by Robert W. Ross

  “She can smell what I’m feeling?” he asked jokingly, but sobered when Omandi merely nodded. The navigator grimaced. “Won’t she see and smell us a mile away, then?”

  “Not a mile, but near enough to make things difficult. That is why we are going to keep our distance and Misha will be creating a bit of a distraction.”

  Linnea Sorenson took the last few steps down an elegantly appointed stairway that led from the private bar. She felt dozens of eyes on her and affected an air of absolute indifference. She sipped at her martini as casino staff finished arranging ten chairs around the oblong poker table.

  Linnea felt someone approach and her nose flared slightly. Insight flashed through her in a cascade…male, early fifties, smoked a cigar within the last two days, had sex with a woman in the last hour. Linnea turned. She noted how the man’s pupils dilated, and several new scents joined those she already had locked away in her mind. Her face remained a mask of passivity as she thought, and now he’s hoping to have sex with me as well. Down boy.

  “Phillipe, I’m so pleased you made it to final table,” Linnea cooed in perfect French. He leaned forward and lingered, just a half-second too long, then placed a kiss on both her cheeks. As he slowly withdrew, the frenchman slid a strand of Linnea’s loosely curling blonde hair between his fingers and raised it to his nose.

  “You are a vision of loveliness, Linnea. I simply had to win my table last night. How else could I ensure that we would spend the evening together?”

  She smiled and he failed to notice how it did not touch her eyes. “Mr. Bastogne, such the charmer you are. It’s a wonder that your wife lets you out of her sight.” Linnea turned at the sound of a table knife tapping crystal, but not before catching her ill-fated suitor’s shocked expression.

  A tall man, with distinctly middle eastern features, tapped his upraised glass one more time, then glanced around the room. “Ladies and Gentlemen, players, friends, and observers, welcome to Casino de Monte Carlo’s final table. For those who have not been with us the last two evenings, tonight represents the end of our annual three day tournament. Each of our ten players enter on equal footing with ten-thousand chips. Total purse is thirty-million U.S. dollars, eighteen for first, nine for second, and three million for third. No rebuys are permitted. Progressive blinds have been set for final table to last approximately three hours.” He made an expansive gesture toward the table. “Players, please take your seats. Friends and observers, you may sit in the gallery, but please note that no talking is permitted. Any observer who violates this very simple rule will be escorted from the room by security. For your safety, we have uniformed personnel at the exits and a plain clothed officer among you as well.”

  Linnea settled herself in her preferred position two seats from the center and scanned the room. She immediately noted a short stocky man of medium build as he walked toward the back of the gallery. Well, there’s the undercover one, she thought then added, or are there two? Sorenson watched while a tall woman wearing a masculine cut suit lithely ascended the stairs to the bar. As the woman moved, her jacket outlined what Linnea recognized as a holstered weapon of some kind. She narrowed her eyes at the woman as if trying to get her to turn around by sheer force of will. Let me see your face, Linnea thought, but the woman seemed fixated by something at the far end of the elevated bar.

  Cards scraped against felt. Linnea reluctantly turned her attention to the table as the dealer fanned out the entire deck.

  Each player reached forward to select a card that would determine the order of play. Linnea didn’t bother to look at hers. She knew it didn’t matter. She was going to win. She almost always won, but who was that woman? Something about her bearing nagged at Sorenson and she closed her eyes to recall the woman’s profile. Pale, almost milk-white skin, high cheekbones, sharply angled eyebrows, and dark hair styled in a loose chignon. Linnea lowered her gaze and concentrated. A flood of voices flew through her mind and she filtered them down to one, as the mystery woman ordered a brand of Vodka that Sorenson had never heard of. The woman’s accent was distinctive and familiar. Sorenson felt the familiar tingle and shivered slightly as the woman’s native language nestled into her mind.

  Linnea flipped over her card, a Queen of hearts. Polite congratulations flowed her way as she accepted the Dealer button. She forced her attention to the table, but not before whispering to herself, “Now, why would they hire a Russian security guard for a casino in Monaco?”

  Chapter 16

  Luck Be Linnea Tonight

  Linnea stared at the table’s five cards, one heart…the ace, and four spades, the ace, eight, six and four. Her eyes flitted toward her opponent for the barest of moments, then she said, “I’ll call.”

  “Ms. Sorenson calls. Mr. Cassidy, please turn over.”

  The American grinned confidently, then tapped two fingers to the brim of his stetson hat. “Sorry, ma’am, you played awful good, but sometimes the cards, well, they can be fearful mean.” He flipped his cards to reveal an ace of clubs and six of hearts. Linnea kept her face neutral even as the gallery murmured. They thought her beat.

  The dealer swept his hands along the table and deftly replaced the table’s eight and four of spades with Cassidy’s ace and six. “Full house,” intoned the dealer, “Aces full of sixes.”

  He locked eyes with Linnea and her mind drank in the dealer’s expression, scent, and micro movements including the slightest tremor in his right hand as he anticipated her folding her cards. “Don’t count me out yet, Ibrahaim,” she said, her lips quirking up in a mischievous grin. The dealer flashed a reflexive smile then regained his composure. No one noticed but Linnea, and she ignored the lapse.

  “Ms. Sorenson,” he said, the implication clear to everyone. She flipped the cards and frowned apologetically toward Cassidy who stared at the table in disbelief. This time Ibrahaim kept his composure as he said, “Five and seven of spades. A straight-flush. Four to the eight. The high hand. Ms. Sorenson wins.”

  Cassidy stood and extended his hand. “Damn fine play, ma’am. Damn fine. You busted me out, but I’m putting a side bet on your taking the whole damn thing.” He paused, glanced over her shoulder at the gallery, then frowned, “Not likely anyone will take that action.”

  Linnea shook his hand and gave him a rueful smile. She knew it wasn’t fair, but then again, when had fairness mattered to gamblers?

  “Ms. Sorenson takes the pot,” said the Dealer then turned to the Asian man seated at Linnea’s right. “We’ll take a five minute break and then return for heads up between Mr. Yamahara and Ms. Sorenson. Big blind set at one million dollars.”

  Linnea stood and swept her gaze across the room. A second later, her eyes found the person she sought standing at the far end of the elevated bar. Something is very off about that Russian, she thought. Play at the final table had been paused three times before. On each occasion, Sorenson had tried to draw near the mystery woman, but each time she uncannily avoided close contact. Nowhere to run this time, Linnea thought as she ascended the stairs. Sorenson angled to the right when a different woman suddenly blocked her path and started speaking.

  “Excellent play. May I buy you a drink or do you not want to risk it this close to the end? Wait, are you even old enough to drink?”

  Linnea froze for a second, startled that she hadn’t noticed the woman’s approach. "Uh, yes, I'm nineteen and the drinking age in Monaco is eighteen." She shook her head as if clearing away a stray thought then added, "But no, I never drink during final heads-up play."

  Linnea tried to move aside but the woman reached out and gently grasped her shoulder. “Please, allow me to show my appreciation for such fine play. My name is Charlotte. Charlotte Omandi.” Linnea allowed herself to be pulled toward the bar as her mind raced for traction. “Is everything all right?” asked Omandi and gave a soft chuckle, “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

  “I'm fine,” stammered Linnea. Charlotte had raised her hand to gain the bartender’s attention, but t
urned in surprise.

  “You are fluent in Swahili,” said Charlotte, “how surprising, especially since I believe I heard you converse earlier in both French and Japanese. Just how many languages do you speak?”

  Idiot, thought Linnea then added, why am I not picking up anything from this woman aside from her accent? “Languages? A few. I have a good ear is all. Now, if you’ll excuse me, there’s someone I really would like to meet.”

  “If you insist,” lilted Charlotte, “but honestly, I don’t think you will find Misha nearly as interesting as me.”

  Linnea furrowed her brow in confusion. "Misha? Who's Misha?" Before Omandi could respond, Linnea raised a hand and smiled awkwardly, “No, it doesn't matter. I think I see what's going on here. Listen, Charlotte, you are a beautiful woman, but I’m just not—”

  Omandi shook her head. “Honestly, I really wish people would stop jumping to sexual conclusions. No, Linnea, I only meant that you would have no problem reading my security officer like a proverbial book. That’s why I ordered her to keep at a distance from you.” Linnea’s eyes widened in alarm as Omandi leaned forward conspiratorially and whispered, “Don’t you want to know why your super-power doesn’t work on me?”

  Linnea felt panic begin to rise and she spun around. Her mind flared with danger signals even as her nose drank in scents that indicated an aggressive presence nearby.

  “Going somewhere, Barbie?” asked Misha, then pressed the palm of her hand against the would-be communications officer’s chest. “Why don’t you just sit tight for a minute?”

  “Misha,” said Omandi, in a low tone that conveyed every ounce of her frustration. “There is no need for—”

  “Captain, the previous casino guards have been replaced and these new guys are about to do something unpleasant.”

  Charlotte felt the world slow and calm descend. “How unpleasant?”

  “Very. The only thing I’m unsure of is whether they just want to kill me or both Barbie and me. I do know they plan to take you alive, which is nice for you…or not, depending on what they have planned.”

  “I really don’t want—” began Linnea, then let out a soft squeak as Misha pushed both her and Omandi toward the bar.

  “Best you hush for a minute, and stick to English please. The Captain doesn’t speak Russian and I don’t understand whatever language you were just using to talk with her.”

  “How much time do we have?” asked Charlotte.

  Misha glanced up at the reflection off several bottles that stood behind the bar and grinned. “None, I’m afraid. Sorry about this Captain…Barbie, but I need to go to work.” Misha grabbed both Charlotte and Linnea under the arms and tossed them behind the bar, then flipped backward to land in a crouch on the main floor.

  Her peripheral vision widened and the dimly lit room brightened by several degrees even as everything seemed to slow. Four men reached into their jackets and Misha laughed. “Come on boys, let’s dance!”

  Misha filled her right hand with the comfortable weight of the HID weapon and confirmed its stun setting. A loud pop sounded and marble chips flew up scant inches from her head. Assholes, she thought, then leaned slightly left as she increased the weapon’s intensity to one notch below lethal. People began screaming and running for the two exits. That was good and bad. Good for Misha because they provided cover. Bad for them because, well, they provided cover. The smart tactical play would have been to maximize her current advantage and try to subdue her attackers during the chaos. Misha cursed herself for laying out the whole scenario to Omandi in their earlier planning session. The Captain had been adamant that they minimize collateral damage, so Misha crouched by the thick legs of the gaming table and waited.

  Her would-be assailants seemed far less concerned with innocent people getting hurt, and the screams intensified as additional rounds were fired into the room. A woman who had a similar look to Misha fell to the ground, near the left exit, blood pouring from a shoulder wound. She held up a hand in a pleading gesture as a beefy bald man approached. The woman screamed in sheer terror as her assailant raised his weapon to point at her head.

  "Well, shit," growled Misha and grasped one edge of the table with her free hand. She ripped a foot long piece of oak reinforced padding and hurled it at the man. It struck the base of his neck, pitching him forward. His weapon discharged but the round went harmlessly into a wall rather than his intended victim. A second later, the man convulsed as the blue haze from Misha’s weapon surrounded him, then he fell to the floor twitching. Misha grabbed a discarded linen napkin and pressed it into the woman’s hand. “Keep pressure on that. The bullet went clean through. You’ll be fine.”

  Misha felt the hair on the back of her neck rise. She slammed herself sideways, pulling the woman along with her. Two rounds struck the wall where her head had been moments before. She spun around, lifted her reinforced terminal, deflected two additional rounds, and then squeezed the trigger of her HID weapon. A second man convulsed, as if receiving electro-shock therapy, then collapsed.

  Sokolov’s enhanced situational awareness screamed at her. She leaped into the air, tucked, then kicked a woman with short-cropped silver hair in the face. The woman grunted in pain and tried to train her weapon on Misha, who struck it with the edge of her hand terminal. The pistol clattered to the tile floor and skittered away. “Was that a Walther?” asked Misha of the stunned agent. “What agency issues Walthers?” The woman didn’t answer and Sokolov smiled dangerously as she tossed her terminal into the air and caught the woman’s arm by the wrist. “Wow, that’s a nice knife,” said Misha after her attacker tried to drive the weapon into the security officer’s exposed chest. The woman heaved all her weight behind the knife but Misha barely moved. Instead, she twisted her hand, causing the agent to cry out in pain and release her grip. Sokolov deftly flipped the tactical dagger and brought it down hard against the side of the woman’s head. Her eyes rolled up and she crumpled to the floor.

  Misha retrieved her hand terminal, looked up, and cursed. She had missed someone and now was about to be shot. She knew there was no way to stop them all. Three men had weapons pointing toward her. She could almost feel the two at her left and right begin to pull their respective triggers, but ignored them because the man straight ahead was James Branson. She saw his eyes track the other two armed men then focus on the knife she held. He nodded at her and she felt a flood of both excitement and dread. This was either going to be exceptionally good or she would be too dead to care.

  Misha’s focus narrowed, and she saw the puff of flame tinged smoke billow out from Branson’s handgun, even as she noted how the other two men paused to confirm their aim. Sokolov held the knife, hardened edge outward, and watched in mute awe as James’s bullet struck the blade, then split in two. Each fragment hit a marbled wall then angled directly for the two remaining agents.

  They fired and both pistols exploded, sending shards of hot metal into each of the agents’ faces. From beginning to end, the entire conflict lasted less than five minutes.

  James sauntered over with barely a glance toward the two writhing men. He extended his hand. “I don’t think either of them are going to be winning any beauty pageants.”

  Misha slid her hand up along his wrist and grasped it. He pulled her up and they stood facing each other for several beats. She narrowed her eyes. “How the hell did you do that?”

  Branson’s face lit up with a mischievous grin and he tapped a finger beside one eye. “Angles and velocity, my deadly comrade. I see them as plainly as you see threats.” He shrugged. “Nothing to it really.”

  Misha snorted, then bumped the Irishman with a shoulder. “Nothing to it. Ha, that’s bullshit and you know it.” She sprinted up the stairs while calling back over her shoulder, “Remind me never to play pool with you, James.”

  Sokolov peered over the bar and saw Omandi calmly tapping on her hand terminal while Linnea crouched in a corner looking terrified. “Captain?” Omandi raised a finger indicating she was b
usy and Misha turned her attention to the younger woman. “Hi Barbie. Did you wet yourself?”

  “Stop torturing the girl,” growled Charlotte and stood to face her security officer. “She’s scared.”

  “She’s a vacuous blonde dolly who’s always in need of protecting. I know the type, Captain, and someday I might not be there to save her perfectly formed ass.”

  Omandi locked eyes with Misha for several beats as if taking her measure, then tapped her security officer in the chest. “She’s a nineteen year old who just got in a firefight. She’s also your colleague and the only one who can, quite literally, talk to aliens. Treat her with some respect.”

  “Is that an order, sir?” grumbled Misha.

  “Oh for God’s sake, Sokolov, yes, it’s a fucking order. Happy now?”

  “Not even close, sir, and I’m still going to call her Barbie.”

  Omandi glared at her security officer, but said, “We’ll discuss that later. I’ve signaled Damien and he’s inbound with the Galileo. We are supposed to get to the roof as soon as possible.” Misha nodded as James joined her by the bar.

  He looked at Linnea. “She going to be ok?”

  “She’ll be fine,” answered Omandi, then said, “Damien indicated we should be prepared for a magnetic grapple evacuation. I understand what each of those words mean individually, but do either of you know what he’s talking about?”