by Alan Lee
Manny wanted to raise. But if he did and lost, he’d be low on money again. Patience had taken him this far…
He called the $300,000, instead of raising.
The flop came. King six two.
Manny’s heart sank. Did Oliver Wright have a King? If so, he had lost. Surely it was his imagination but he thought he heard the beating heart of Benjamin Curtis.
Manny declined to bet. He said, “I check.”
“You check.” Oliver Wright scoffed, eyes frozen. “Bloody coward. I’m all-in.”
Manny ground his teeth. Of course Oliver had a King, the bastard. Manny’s luck had run out.
Then again, it wasn’t him who needed to get lucky here. It was Oliver. Manny already had Jacks. Did the man have a King? What were the chances he did? Manny ran the math. The odds of Oliver Wright having a King was around one in six. Maybe; he’d made C’s in math.
So had Oliver just gotten lucky?
Or was he betting that Manny would fold, because that’s what Manny had been doing all day? Was the Englishman bluffing?
Manny spent years as a detective, interviewing witnesses and suspects. He’d developed an innate sense of when someone lied. Lying was hard and the body didn’t like it. People shuffled their feet. Refused to make eye contact or made too much of it. Their eyes drifted off to their right. Their pulse increased and they sweated.
Oliver leaned back in his chair and cleared his throat, staring hard at Manny. Beneath the table, he readjusted his feet.
“You’re all-in, hombre?” said Manny, watching for reactions.
“Nothing wrong with American ears, I see. Just American judgment.”
“You got a King?”
“Doesn’t matter if I do. You won’t call me, Sinatra. You don’t have the resilience.”
Manny heard the words and heard the double reverse psychology under it.
He faced his first hard choice of the day. And he did what good players do; he made a difficult decision under intense pressure. He gambled with the governor’s life. He said, “I think you’re bluffing. I call.”
Oliver pursed his lips. Didn’t move.
Neither did Sinatra. One of them was about to go broke.
Since both men were all-in, the dealer placed the final two cards. The dealer looked between them, and then held his hand out to Oliver. “You were called, sir. Showdown.”
Oliver still didn’t move. But he said, “I have rubbish.”
Manny turned over the winning hand, his Jacks. He said, “I have heart and fiery determination and the star spangled banner.”
“Very cheeky, Mr. Sinatra.”
“You lose. Swim home, Oliver. Tell her majesty that America was too resilient. Again.”
Oliver Wright thrust himself up, lightning and the Union Jack flashing in his eyes, the chair knocking backward.
Manny stood with equivalent speed, ready to return fire.
“Gentlemen!” Rocky Rickard called and he walked into view. “The stakes and tension are high, I know. But there will be no violence in this room. We are under the sovereign protection of Black Jacket and they will respond to aggression with overwhelming force and neither of you come out of that well.”
“I only stood to congratulate, sir.” Oliver’s voice was low and ragged. He regarded Manny and sneered. “I was never here for the tournament anyway. A mere secondary diversion.”
“Explains why you played poorly. Let’s discuss this further above deck, amigo. You and me.”
“Bollocks. You know what,” said Oliver and he backed away from the table. “I think I’ll stay and watch the match. Good luck, Sinatra. You’ll need it all.” With deliberate steps he made his way for the seats and selected one behind Benjamin Curtis. He shrugged out of his jacket, revealing the Sig Sauer P226. Favoring his injured hand, he laid the jacket across the seat back and sat. Crossed his arms.
The governor leaned forward until his chin rested in both hands, eyes straight ahead. Small beads of sweat forming at his hairline.
Despite watching Oliver the entire way, Manny noticed Beck get to her feet and surreptitiously move closer to Benjamin Curtis and Oliver. Small purse in her hand, a Glock inside.
The poker room felt smaller, crowded. The atmosphere expectant and looming. High noon in the old west.
Rocky said, “Congratulations to Mr. Oliver Wright. Fourth place and one million dollars. Now a break to clear the air and change dealers. We return in ten minutes to decide a winner.”
Manny walked for the exit. He jabbed a finger at Benjamin Curtis and beckoned him follow. The governor stood on shaky legs. So did Varvara.
Oliver Wright’s cold blue eyes followed them but he remained still. Where could his prey flee?
Manny entered the daylight and walked aft along the rail, Curtis hurrying to join him. Music throbbed and partiers screamed in the pools.
“You’re not safe yet, amigo,” Manny growled.
“I know, but damn it Sinatra, you’re playing like a champ.”
“Shut up and listen.”
“Da, shut up and listen,” said Varvara and she hiccuped.
Manny glared in all directions, searching the wide bay. Dozens of boats were on the water, under sail, or plowing through the chop with a motor, or bobbing at anchor. Could be any one… He said, “The Englishman has a boat nearby. Nothing else makes sense. You never go anywhere without me or Beck, understand? He’ll dump you into his speedboat and vanish and you’re dead. Comprende?”
“I got it, man, I got it.”
“You are dead,” said Varvara and she laughed, covering her mouth.
“Can’t you just kill him now?” Curtis asked.
“He’s good and I’m not sure what Black Jacket would do. Those men are killers. It’d take all of them but they’d get me. And that’s just the Englishman; we also need to worry about the Kings and the poker game. If I lose or am about to lose, you run.”
“Run? Where?”
“For the rail and you jump in,” said Manny.
“The water?”
“Of course, you jackass. I use that right? Jackass. You can reach the water before they shoot you. Swim for the Hart-Miller Island.”
“Why?”
“It’s closest. You get there and borrow a phone and call for police. That’ll buy us time.”
Curtis eyed the glittering surface with unease, ten feet below. “Just…jump in? What about the got’damn sharks?”
“I hope one bites you in the ass.”
“In the ass,” said Varvara.
“I’ll be here, dealing with any Kings taking shots at you while you swim. We work together, we get you to safety. Maybe. After that, you’re in deep…” Manny trailed off, watching a bright blue speedboat zip close, aiming for Only The Innocent’s stern. Two men dressed in black aboard. “Aye. This might be the Englishman’s boat now.”
“No,” said a voice behind them. “Boat is mine.”
Something hard connected with the back of Manny’s head. For an instant, Manny forgot where he was. Forgot who he was. His head rang and lights flashed.
People screamed.
Strong arms grabbed him.
Sunlight blazed painfully into his eyes. Splashing sounds, people scrambling out of the pool, cries of terror.
The universe scattered, coalesced, and fuzzed, and Manny thought his head would break. Ahead of him, Varvara being held fast.
A man with a gun…
It was Varvara’s husband.
The guy Manny had dumped into the Tesla’s trunk. The Russian gangster, Anatoly Petrov. Here, on the yacht.
Which meant the strong arms holding Manny tight belonged to his crew of killers.
“You send me to jail,” said Anatoly and he struck Manny in the mouth, a stinging backhand. “You take wife hostage. You take money.”
“I’m the superior player,” said Manny, and each syllable made his head pulse. “Getting a better return on your money. So you’re welcome.”
Another stinging slap.
“How did I get out so fast of jail? World’s best lawyers. And now you come with me, American. You and wife.”
“No,” cried Varvara.
“Yes. You have much to answer, zhena.”
“Aye, can you wait a few minutes? I’m in third place.”
“You pay for sins now, American agent. Consequence.”
Someone hit him in the head again and the world flickered.
His Glock was taken. Dimly he noted they didn’t take the gun tucked under his belt at the small of his back. Idiot Russians. He and Varvara were manhandled over the rail and into the bright blue speedboat bobbing below.
Benjamin Curtis, hiding behind a deck chair, thunderstruck and forgotten, watched as the boat turned west and carried Sinatra to shore.
29
Beck monitored Oliver Wright from the port-side exit to the poker room. The man’s ice blue gaze remained fixated on the table, his wounded and purple hand held in his lap. All cell phones had been confiscated and it struck her as surreal, everyone chatting with each other instead of staring at screens.
Mr. Wright had a boat nearby, so he must have a way to signal the boat. His phone was gone, so that meant some kind of small transmitter—
Benjamin Curtis burst into the room.
“They took him!” he shouted and the whole room started in surprise. “They got him, the bastards, they’re getting away!”
His sudden mania stoked the mounting pressure inside the poker room. Like the temperature jumped ten degrees.
Rocky Rickard turned in alarm. “Who took who, Mr. Curtis?”
“The…the men in black, they—they got Sinatra! They threw him over into a blue boat and…left! Hurry!”
Beck’s spine stiffened and her blood ran cold.
Sinatra! Kidnapped? Who would take him?
“And they took the girl too, the brunette with him! Varvara!”
Rocky beckoned for the commander of Black Jacket and he demanded, “Your men didn’t see anything?”
“No,” said the big man. Manny’d told her the guy’s name was Frank the Tank, an apt title. He was already talking into his ear radio. “I got a guy running upstairs now.”
Beck hurried closer. “Mr. Curtis, who were they?”
“I don’t know, they just…oh! The guy called Varvara his wife. Does that help?”
She nodded. “It does.”
“Anatoly Petrov.” Rocky’s mouth was a straight grim line. “His attorneys sprung him from prison in under twenty-four hours, and he came for revenge. Impressive.”
Frank the Tank, listening to his radio said, “We see them. Blue boat halfway to shore."
“The sanctity of our game has been breached,” said Rocky. “I must ask Black Jacket to fulfill your contract, take my launch, and punish the intruders.”
“With pleasure.”
“And get Sinatra back,” said Benjamin Curtis, nearing panic. “Right?”
Rocky exchanged a dour glance with the Tank. “If possible. Though it might not be.”
The commander nodded. “Understood. I’m taking half my squad. Let’s roll.”
Three hulking Black Jacket guards stomped after their commander, leaving three inside the poker room. The spectators seemed too stunned to buzz.
Beck’s head swam. This had spiraled out of control. What could she do? The Russians would absolutely kill him. Slowly. She had no phone, no way to communicate with Weaver. She could put a gun to Rocky’s head and demand to use the ship’s radio, but what about…
Wait. She turned, searching the room.
Oliver Wright had slipped out. Vanished.
30
Next to a hidden boat ramp at Old Bay Marina, near Fort Howard, Anatoly Petrov and his gang took turns holding Manny under water until he choked, then bringing him up for a beating.
Manny had absorbed worse punishment. He exaggerated the choking and groaning so the idiot Russians would be pleased with themselves. But still, his afternoon had gone downhill.
Varvara watched, screaming into a gag.
Eventually Manny—sodden, exhausted, aching—was hauled into the backseat of Anatoly’s personal Jeep Wrangler Rubicon next to Varvara. Anatoly climbed next to her, pressing his pistol hard into her neck. His crew mounted the front seats and the rest boarded a secondary Jeep. Manny’s wrists were fastened with police-grade plasticuffs. They didn’t bother with Varvara’s.
“You think we are done?” Anatoly’s eyes remained dead despite the smile. “We are not done. Now we go to work. Cut you to pieces, American, and send you to FBI, let them know what happens, mess with Anatoly. Think you win against Solntevskaya Bratva.” He laughed, a wheezing unhealthy rattle.
“The Russian mafia,” said Manny and he spit blood into the carpet. “Plus the British and the American mobs are still not enough.”
“I hired Black Jacket guard to kill you. Now I’m glad he failed. You do not cause trouble, I kill you quick, American, and then chop into pieces.”
“Expect some trouble, Russia,” said Manny. What he didn’t say was he could barely hear over the ringing in his ears, barely see into the dizzy world.
“I ship your body all over world, American. Except your finger. Why?” Anatoly withdrew a cellphone from his jacket pocket—Manny’s cellphone from the casino’s lockbox. How had he gotten it? “Look what I steal from casino. It is your phone, American. Locked with fingerprint. I keep your finger, I unlock phone, I read your files, I learn America’s secrets. What now, ublyudok?” More wheezing laughter.
“Keep the middle finger too,” said Manny after a coughing fit. “A final ‘Up Yours’ from Uncle Sam.”
Anatoly patted the driver’s shoulder and said, “Poyekhali. Yezzhay seychas.”
The Jeep shifted into gear and left the water behind.
Manny started a map in his head, a return route to the blue boat when he escaped.
If he escaped…
31
Louis the French butcher jabbed his throwing knife into the poker table, where it stuck and quivered. “The game, you stupid Americans. Let us finish it. We are late.”
Jen Harmon, about ready to swear off poker the rest of her life, said, “Not all the players are here.”
“The bullshit wallet salesman?” He made a spitting noise. “He is not coming back. He gets himself kidnapped, his fault. The game must finish! Se dépêcher!”
Rocky Rickard conferred with another official and returned to the table. “Agreed. We have waited long enough. The game must continue to conclusion. Sinatra will be blinded out until he returns. If he returns.”
Beck, nearby, asked, “Blinded out? What’s that mean?”
“It means he will slowly lose his chips each round until they are gone. He will win third place and a hefty three million prize.”
“That’s not fair!” shouted Benjamin Curtis, who had a lot to lose if Manny finished third. “Jee-zus, the man was abducted! So that means he loses?”
“Three million is hardly losing, Mr. Curtis,” said Rocky.
“I’ll play for him, you son of a bitches,” said Curtis. “Until he gets back.”
“Bullshit, you already lost yesterday, oui?” said Louis.
Beck half-listened and half-searched the room for Oliver Wright. Where was the Englishman?
And was Sinatra still alive?
Her emotions swirled, her nerves shot. She needed someway to stall, someway to buy Sinatra and the governor time…
She announced, “I will play for Sinatra. Until he returns.”
The room quieted.
“You?” The Frenchman scoffed at her. “Who are you?”
“Monsier, this is Ms. Annie Doyle, an employee of Mr. Sinatra’s, and my special friend,” said Rocky.
Jen Harmon threw up her hands. “Whatever, I’m fine with it. Let’s just get this over with.”
“No! I do not agree,” said Louis.
“Annie, do you know how to play?”
“I know the game and I’ve played a little online. I’m a
fraid I’m not good and I might lose his money quicker than he would being blinded out.”
“Absolutely no. Absolument pas,” said Louis.
Rocky conferred with his secondary official again and came back. “Given the extraordinary circumstances, we believe a stand-in player is appropriate until Sinatra can return. And Ms. Doyle is correct, she will probably lose his money more quickly than otherwise. The other option, if all players agree, is to chop the money.”
Beck and Jen said, “Yes,” instantly.
Louis swore. “No. Let the bitch play. I don’t care, I will cut the chips out of her.”
Rocky said, “Very well. The game resumes in two minutes.”
The crowd murmured with interest and Benjamin Curtis released a long breath he’d been holding.
Beck took Rocky by the hand and pulled him close. She reached up to kiss his check.
“Rocky. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. It was the fair thing to do.”
“Will you do me a favor?” she asked.
“If it’s within my power. And possibly if it’s not, for another kiss.”
A shy smile. She said, “Keep an eye on Governor Curtis until I finish? Don’t let Oliver Wright have him.”
“Gladly. Though I fear the poor governor’s chances are dimming. His death appears imminent.”
She gave his hand a squeeze. “Don’t count me out just yet. Nor Sinatra.”
Thirty minutes into the game, Beck knew the situation was hopeless. Watching Sinatra battle the poker sharks was one thing, but fighting them herself was quite another. Her hands quivered, her brain rattled. Each time she bet, she wagered mansions.
Louis the French butcher perpetually had better cards than her. Jen Harmon didn’t lose much, but when she did it wasn’t to Beck. Their stacks of chips had been approximately even, but now Beck lost steadily.
She glanced at Rocky, hoping for good news about Sinatra, but the man shook his head.
She cleared her throat. “Are we sure we shouldn’t chop?”
“Splitting the winnings, you mean. I do not chop, American,” said Louis.