Chapter 7
CHAPTER SEVEN
Thunder rolled overhead, the deep boom trembling the mortar around the old brickwork as Riven stepped out of the taxi, hair pinned up on one side, black dress hugging her body, the long slit providing just enough freedom she’d be able to fight if needed.
Her heels clicked on the wet cobblestone, as she crossed the street, the casino’s neon sigh reflecting on the slick surface.
She checked her watch, the minute hand nearing midnight. Their only available window to grab the shadow ledger before the passphrase became obsolete.
Her comms clicked, Stone’s voice coming through. “Riven, we’ve got you nearing the casino doors. Once you’re inside, switch to channel four. Patch and McGuire are already inside. McGuire’s video link is live. Backup vehicle in place. Hit us back if things go sideways. We’ll be on overwatch.”
She acknowledged with a small nod, smiling at the concierge as he held the door, watched her walk through the foyer toward the VIP section, her steps hushed against the high-end carpet.
The main floor provided a chaotic background of ringing slots, flashing lights and expensive perfume, all designed to hide the late hour — encourage gamblers to keep playing.
Another man stood by a red velvet rope, gaze constantly scanning the floor, his greasy hair slicked back. A white coiled cable snaked down the back of his left ear, a hint of cartel ink peeking out of his sleeve.
She smiled at him, flashed the membership card Remy had somehow pulled out of thin air during their rendezvous to grab clean clothes and a few high-tech tools, then continued on as the bouncer unclipped the hook — allowed her access.
She slid the card back in her purse, used the movement to switch her receiver to channel four, then climbed the steps to the second level.
She settled into a curved leather booth in the Elysian Fields lounge, ordered a club soda with a lemon twist, then peered at the public floor spread out beneath her.
Her comms earpiece broadcast a steady stream of data, the ambient noise of the casino floor picked up by Patch’s mic as he stepped out from behind a pillar, smiled, then headed for the craps table. Dressed in a simple black suit with a white button-down, he looked classy without overselling it.
McGuire appeared a moment later, suave, with a similar suit and shirt, his massive shoulders straining the seams a bit.
He looked sexy and dangerous, and she had to focus on breathing — drawing air in, then pushing it out — instead of how much she wanted to slide that jacket off him.
Feel the power in his muscles move beneath her palms.
Either she whispered his name or made some kind of guttural sound because he slowed, glanced up at her, brow arched, gaze assessing everything. He studied her for a moment, then continued toward an old mahogany door recessed against the far wall.
A pep talk to keep her head in the game — centered on him but not in the way her riotous heart wanted — then she opened her phone, clicked on his camera feed, the button cam displaying a jerky, constant stream of people rushing past. A bit too disjointed to make sense of, but she did her best, keeping the feed in her peripheral vision.
A shiver worked down her spine as she scanned the floor again.
While she’d been undercover more than she cared to admit, being on the other side — watching the feeds, calling out cues, aware she had little control over whether the situation turned critical or not — rattled her.
Knowing McGuire was taking all the risks. That Patch would intervene first.
She didn’t like being sidelined, but with her face on Herrera’s most wanted list, simply entering the casino — flashing that VIP card to the sicario with the bad hairline — constituted a near-suicide mission.
Of course, she looked a bit different with her hair done, her dress sparkling in the overhead lights, than when she’d been knee-deep in the jungle mud, hair a constant frizz around her face. But she knew if she stayed too long, one of Herrera’s guards would eventually place her via their CCTV.
All the more reason to grab the ledger and leave.
Movement.
Next to the baccarat tables. Two of Martillo’s lieutenants — burly men in expensive suites with matching comms units in their right ears, bulges showing beneath their jackets. They settled in as they scoured the floor, mouths pinched tight, heads on a swivel.
She pretended to sip her drink, hitting the mic. “Two goons, center stage. Eyes making the rounds.”
Patch gave a curt nod from his table as McGuire raked his fingers through his hair.
She tabled the drink, glanced at the feed.
The mahogany door loomed close, a single, older woman positioned outside.
Tall, athletic with the kind of stance that spoke of years of disciplined training.
She studied McGuire as he angled toward her, her hand lingering over the pistol strapped to her thigh.
Riven inhaled when one of the lieutenants focused the vault door, gaze looking for trouble. “McGuire, tie your shoe.”
He took a step, then crouched, fingers working his lace. He didn’t fumble, just adjusted the leather ties until she sighed, gave him the green light. A roll of his shoulders, then he continued, stopped in front.
The woman, Leona, if Savvy’s intel was right, swept her gaze up and down him, tilting her head as she frowned, her voice fading in and out over the mic. “Can I help you?”
McGuire’s voice crackled, the line going dead for a second before hissing back, the last word of the passphrase coming across in broken rasps. Riven tapped her earpiece, but only static played over the airways.
She looked at Patch. “They must use a jammer near the vault area. I’m only getting snippets.”
Patch lifted a beer to his lips. “I’ve got a visual. He’s still five by five.”
Riven frowned, wishing the damn feed would stop buffering. That endless circle forever spinning. She took a breath, calculated all the ways she could reach McGuire’s position in under ten seconds, when the feed cleared a bit.
Leona inched closer, shook her head, then stepped aside, opening the thick, wooden door and waving McGuire in. He started walking, glimpses of security boxes and glass walls flashing on her cell before everything cut to black as the massive door clicked shut.
She pushed out a slow breath. “We’re through the looking glass. Five minutes max before this becomes a rescue mission.”
Patch didn’t answer just tapped his watch, joined the people at the table cheering on the main player, his gaze constantly shifting toward the door.
One minute, then two.
She rolled her shoulders, watching for any sign that they’d outstayed their welcome when one of the goons at the baccarat tables stopped scanning — retrieved his phone. He stared at it, frown curving his mouth, tension bleeding into his muscles as he tapped his buddy, held out the message.
They looked at each other, the first guy talking into his sleeve before taking a few steps, searching the crowd with the same intensity she’d witnessed in Colombia when she’d burned her cover.
Riven hit her comms. “Patch, we’ve got a problem. Lieutenants at the baccarat have been activated. Thinking Martillo just got off a message. I’m on my way down.”
Patch nodded, breathed on a pair of dice when some woman in a crop top and belt pretending to be a mini skirt held out her hand.
He followed the roll, deftly slipping sideways down the table without drawing too much attention.
He stopped a few feet in front of Martillo’s men, hand drifting toward his right side — the Sig hidden in an ankle holster.
Riven stood, made a show of dabbing some gloss on her lips, when the air shifted behind her. As if it had been pushed aside. She dipped her head, took a quick peek. An insanely large man stood at the top of the stairs, hair cropped short, piercing brown eyes staring at every face.
Bram Keane.
A bit older than in the photo Savvy had sent, but she recognized his silhouette — the shape of his jaw, the same jacked-up physique. She took a step, slipped behind a bulkhead before he looked her way, placed her because she bet her ass he’d been sent to finish what Herrera’s men had started.
She clicked her mic. “Keane’s here.”
Patch’s gaze snapped toward her, mouth pinched tight, tension spreading across his shoulders. He glanced at the mahogany door, then back to her when a tendril of smoke curled out from a service corridor behind him, a red glow staining the frosted window in the door an eerie crimson.
“Shit, Patch—”
The fire alarm shrieked, strobe lights flashing in ten second intervals, painting the casino is frantic bursts of white.
The crowd paused as if taking a collective breath, looking at each other in disbelief, drinks half-raised, chips still pinched between their fingers, before chaos erupted.
People surged toward the exits, one massive wave of messy buns and gaudy shirts.
Air hissed out the overhead sprinklers before they fully kicked in, doused the room in a chilling cold.
Riven scanned the floor, picking up on three men moving with tactical precision against the flow, all dressed in firefighting gear, minus the oxygen tanks and other equipment — pegging them as fake — heading for the big wooden door just as McGuire stepped out, leather book clutched in one hand.
He took two steps before he got caught up in the panicked crowd — carried along by sheer force.
The feed from his camera flickered, the images a sea of suits and strobing lights. He’d get his weight beneath him, then get shoved off-balance again. She tried the mic, but it was useless, the constant wail echoing through her earpiece.
A table hit the floor behind her, the percussive thump vibrating up through the carpet. She chanced a glance over her shoulder.
Keane.
Gaze narrowed on where she’d been sitting, his massive arms swinging as he bore down on her position.
No time to think. She simply slipped off her shoes, inched back until he’d have to twist to spot her. His footsteps pounded closer, steps no longer hushed by the carpet, then he appeared at the corner.
A well-placed heel to his eye had him reeling back, raking his fingers across his face. A kick to the groin dumped him on his ass, gave her the opening she needed to palm the railing — vault down to the lower level.
She landed a bit harder than intended, hit her hip on the floor before scrambling to her feet. She dodged the next wave of people and headed for McGuire’s last position when she spotted those three firemen, again.
Keane’s crew.
It all clicked together, then. The fire, the chaos, the men. They’d already been planning on grabbing the ledger, maybe destroying it, and Riven’s team had simply gotten in the way.
She tapped her mic, shoving her way through the crowd, hoping McGuire and Patch might hear her above the roar of the crowd, the constant crackle of the fire.
“McGuire, bandits on your three o’clock.
Dressed in fireman gear.” She inched closer, then got tugged back for a moment by four friends swarming their way past her.
She tapped the mic again. “McGuire!”
A garbled message crackled through, followed by grunts and shouts.
Patch appeared in front of her, people parting around him as if he had some kind of forcefield.
Though, it was likely more his presence — shoulders firmed, lethal intent rolling off him in waves, he’d slipped into prime warrior mode. And it showed.
The crowd thinned just enough to catch a glimpse of McGuire as those men engaged. Lunging at him in a coordinated attack. He downed the first guy before he got within a foot of him, the second reeling backwards a moment later.
He used the ledger as a weapon on the third, slamming it twice against the asshole’s throat, then across his head. The guy bounced, stumbled back, opening up a lane when one of the other men tossed a lit fuel canister off the wall, spewed jellied alcohol and blue flames across the floor.
The fuel splashed over McGuire, a few embers smoldering on his jacket when one caught the old ledger paper, set it off like a damn Roman candle. Flames clawed at the binding, quickly spreading to the sheets underneath.
Herrera’s main lieutenants finally pushed their way through, closing in on McGuire when Patch steamrolled them against the wall — moved in for the finish.
McGuire dropped to the floor, tried to beat out the flames before shaking his head — slicing the spine and grabbing a handful of sheets.
Whatever he could salvage before the entire book turned to ash.
Burning paper billowed into the air as the binding dropped, sizzling as it landed on the fuel-soaked carpet, a series of fire doors rolling down in the background, compressing the space, corralling everyone closer together as the crowds pushed their way toward the congested exits.
Sirens wailed in the distance, more of Bram’s men swarming the floor.
McGuire managed to trip his way over, the ends of his sleeves charred, a long slit across his jacket. He shoved the few pages he’d salvaged into his pocket, scanning the room as their options quickly narrowed.
Heavy furrows lined his brow as he shook his head. “Talk about a clusterfuck.”
Riven shouldered up close to him, still scanning the room. “Pretty damn sure Keane was making a play tonight, too, we just happened to get into the middle of a grudge match between him and Herrera’s thugs. None of which matters if we can’t find a way out.”
Patch motioned toward the exit. “We just head out with… shit.”
Keane.
Prowling across the floor, lips curled into a snarl, blood dripping from where she’d cold-cocked him with her heel. Four more men fanned out behind him, vests laced with grenades and extra ammo. They split, each taking a side, effectively eliminating any hope of slipping out with the crowd.
Riven grabbed McGuire’s hand, tugged him toward her. “Service corridor. We don’t stop until we’re out.”