Roulette Rising (The Noire Brothers #3)

CHAPTER ONE

ZARA

Chance is a fickle thing, a method of choice used only by fools and the seed of regret when not taken. I’m not sure where I stand on it.

Is it best to let the chips fall where they may or hold a gun to the dealer’s head? The former is the greater win, but the latter is a better bet. Maybe that’s not the best example.

If I put a bullet in the chamber of a six-shot revolver and spin my luck, I have five shots at living and only one to die.

But in the end, none of it matters if I get the bullet. The probability formula was useless. All opportunities perished with my no-longer-beating heart.

Of course, if there are millions of dollars at stake or the prize of a new life waiting in the wings, five-to-one odds aren’t bad. Probably worth the risk.

Perhaps I do know where I stand on it. I spin the chamber daily.

Sliding into the passenger seat and shutting the door, I warm my hands in front of the heater. It’s late September, but the crisp air feels like the tundra. I don’t even know what state I’m in, but I need to find out so I can avoid jobs here in the future unless they occur during the summer months.

“Nice getup. So … wholesome,” Tripp drawls, flicking my Sunday-best hat as he drives to the destination. “The platinum blonde works too.”

“I was told there’d be mimosas.” My playful smile sobers to stone. “Save the flattery since I’m already here to clean up your mess. In the Arctic.”

He rolls his eyes. “You’d think you’d be unfazed by mildly low temps at this point since our home is actually in the Arctic.”

“And there’s your answer as to why I travel most of the year. Try to pick a better destination next time, will ya?”

“I’ll see what I can do. Thanks for toughing it out for me.

This has been one headache after another.

” He thrusts a file at me to flip through while he speeds ahead and fills me in.

“Ladies’ brunch upstairs. Club below. Seventeen men are expected to be present.

The four you’re looking at are in a private room.

Two guards at the entrance. Primary target is this guy.

” He taps a photo of a stout man in his mid-fifties, a face full of pockmarks and a scowl ripe with vile secrets.

“He has a blue silk handkerchief in his suit jacket pocket and the phone with all the contacts. But all six men are disposable.”

Having committed their faces to memory, I do a final perusal of the building layout, shut the file, and smooth out my floral skirt. “Weapon?”

He checks his surroundings and pulls up to a curb, not too far from the restaurant. “The hostess will direct you, and a server will deliver instructions.”

“Am I showing the guards leniency?”

“No,” he grunts. “They’re heavily involved.”

Opening the passenger door, I scan the street.

It’s quaint. History shrouding the buildings.

Brick shaping the roads. Blue skies hug the mountains in the distance.

Sidewalks and endless window shopping extend an invitation.

It’s a cozy snapshot of postcard perfection and the ideal backdrop for a Hallmark movie. Or a thriller.

I inhale the fresh air, rise like a lady, and bend down for one more inquiry. “Pickup?”

“Alleyway.” He glances at his watch, green eyes similar to mine darting up to me. “Seven minutes.”

I hustle toward the white-brick building at an I’m-late-to-meet-my-girls pace and not a stride faster, jaunting up the stairs with well-bred elegance. Years of finishing school allow me to blend in anywhere. Etiquette is a lost art.

The hostess beams when I stroll inside. “They’ve been expecting you. The ladies are in the back. Right this way.”

She grabs a menu, walking through the crowded restaurant, filled with an after-church crowd, and dipping into a reserved area, currently occupied by a giddy women’s group.

The din of gossip melds with soft rock piped through the speakers.

The hostess saunters away, and a server passes by with a tray of mimosas, lowering it before me.

She hands me one with a small piece of paper wrapped around the stem.

“Restroom?” I sip the cocktail and survey the patrons.

“They’re all full.” She jerks her chin to an area behind me. “But there’s a unisex one around the corner, part of the employee changing room. Feel free to use it.”

With my mimosa in hand, I amble to the restroom, but another lady, who must have overheard the server, tries to sneak inside.

Mid-forties. Pearls but rough nails and bags under her eyes—hardworking. A huge purse—maternal. A bottle of D-mannose inside it—prone to urinary tract infections.

I slather on my best small-town charm, aware she’s going to wonder who I am and may even want to camp out in there and get to know me.

I’m confident it will never get to that.

“Would you mind terribly letting me go ahead of you?” When she appears apprehensive, I tack on, “This is so embarrassing, but I have a horrible UTI. I might be in there for a while. That’s why she offered—”

With her palm on her chest, she backs away. “Oh, say no more, dear.”

I lock the door, shut myself inside the only stall, and read the single word written on the small sheet of paper.

Vent.

Setting my champagne flute on the toilet-paper dispenser, I easily pull off the vent and obtain a bag with a gun, a silencer, an extra magazine, a jet-black wig, and clothes.

It takes about thirty seconds to change into the sleek black uniform, switch wigs, and discard my brunch attire.

I keep the gun—a Sig Sauer P226—at my back, leave through a different exit out of the employee changing area, and skulk down a spiral staircase to the club.

No one pays much attention to me when I enter.

It’s a business luncheon, so of course the lighting is dim and most of the men have nearly naked women in their laps.

Sinners, married to the saints upstairs.

There’s no better cover than a prim-and-proper wife and a post-Mass deep dive into biblical vantage points.

One asshole barks a drink order at me while burying his nose in some barely legal cleavage, so I tell him I’ll be back in a minute.

Smoke, sex, and ghastly cologne pollute the air.

“She Talks to Angels” blares from the sound system, so conversations are drowned by the strumming guitar and raspy crooning of The Black Crowes.

Disorder is an excellent disguise. The entrance to the private room is past the emergency exit and behind the bar, concealed from the chaos of the Sunday brothel and manned by a guard. I expected two.

Before the big oaf registers that I’m not here to see if he’d like a refreshment or a lap dance, I lodge a bullet between his eyes.

He drops, but the counterpart I was anticipating returns to his post. I sense him before I see him, spinning and landing an elbow on his temple.

He grunts in response and proceeds to get a hand on my throat, squeezing the breath out of me, but I shoot him up through his groin.

He folds, melting into the ground as I gasp for air.

Not only am I covered in blood, but I have less than three minutes, so I don’t waste a single second.

I swing open the door and take four swift shots at the men dressed in three-piece suits and heinous ambitions.

All but one of the targets flop to the floor.

He requires a second bullet, which I extend as I bolt toward him.

His cold eyes widen, latching on to mine, before he joins his comrades.

That connection is sacred and not one I take for granted.

Life is a gift, but death is the ultimate equalizer.

Regardless of class, race, religion, occupation, upbringing, moral philosophy, sins committed, or heroic acts, it will find us.

Being the one to bestow it is both a burden and an honor.

I’m not always afforded the time, but whenever I can hold their gaze during their last breath, I’m grateful for that treasure—something only we share.

In that second, I hope that wherever their soul is headed, it does better there.

I retrieve the phone from the suit with a blue handkerchief, grab an empty drink off the table, and trek back out the way I came, stepping over the bodies.

The bartender casts a perplexed expression at me, likely noting I am not one of the people he’s been working with today, so I sling the glass across the bar top.

“Jim Beam and Coke.”

He nods just as there’s a scream. Someone found the guards. Before anyone snaps into action, I dash through the emergency exit and jump into Tripp’s Subaru.

“More than a minute to spare.” He grins, racing ahead.

He’s happy. The last assassin he sent in for this guy’s phone was compromised and killed. That’s never easy. Plus, Tripp’s ass was on the line, and he’s been chasing his tail for two weeks. This meeting was impromptu, thus my need to drop everything I was doing to hop on the jet he’d sent for me.

“It was seamless.” I toss the phone into the cupholder and tear off my wig, my mahogany locks tumbling down to curtain my shoulders.

A cursory peek in the visor mirror reveals choking marks, so I dig through the console and pluck some cover-up from the contingency pouch. It contains various small solutions to common post-killing problems.

“You’re pouting,” he accuses while I use a baby wipe to clean some blood off my face and hands—that might’ve been why the bartender looked at me funny—and slap on some concealer to hide the bastard’s fingerprints on my flesh.

“You get in and out with few issues and time to spare, with no prep work. You’re the best. Isn’t that what you wanted? ”

“I’m not sure what I want.” I shrug, zipping up the pouch in favor of staring out the window.

The blur of one block fades into the next until we’re heading for that picturesque point where the mountain spears the clouds.