Varrick
She took the service lift every day. When she thought through problems, her left hand dealt invisible cards against her thigh. When uncomfortable, her fingers went to her collar.
I sat in the mezzanine bar, pretending to drink expensive whiskey while reviewing my observations.
Not gathering intelligence anymore. That excuse had died when I'd broken Pamat's wrist for touching her.
This was something else. Territory marking.
Guard behavior. The kind of thing that got operatives killed because they'd stopped thinking tactically and started thinking personally.
Didn't stop me from doing it.
Her supervisor, Kreeg, had become a problem. Four days of watching him circle her like a scavenger. He'd approach during every shift, lean too close, ask questions that had nothing to do with casino operations. Today he'd spent twelve minutes at her table. Eleven minutes too long.
When Kreeg left the casino floor, I followed.
He took a route designed to lose surveillance—through the kitchen, up a maintenance shaft, across two levels via emergency stairs. Amateur work. He thought he was being clever, but his patterns were predictable. Military training, probably a decade old, habits degraded by easy work.
I caught him in a maintenance corridor between levels—no cameras, no witnesses, just exposed pipework and industrial lighting.
“Kreeg.” I didn't raise my voice. Didn't need to.
He spun, hand going for a weapon he wasn't carrying. His face cycled through surprise, calculation, and finally, careful neutrality.
“Mr. Varrick. You're in a restricted area.”
“So are you. And you're using Conclave signals in the open.” I stepped closer. “The one-three-two tap. A 'priority asset' flag. An interesting signal to use when speaking to a card dealer.”
The color drained from his face. “I don't know what you're talking about.”
I reached for the nearest pipe—thick metal, probably water supply—and squeezed. The metal groaned, compressed, hand-shaped dents appearing like the pipe was made of clay instead of steel. It was a casual display of what Vinduthi strength meant.
“The Conclave is interested in a dealer,” I said, releasing the ruined pipe. “Why?”
He swallowed, calculating his odds. They weren't good. “She's... an asset. Her pattern recognition is off the charts. They've been monitoring her for months. My job is just to observe. Report on her capabilities.”
“They see her as a tool to be acquired,” I stated. It wasn't a question.
“Yes,” Kreeg admitted, his voice barely a whisper.
“Your reports about her stop now,” I said, moving closer, forcing him to tilt his head back to maintain eye contact.
“You will maintain professional distance.
You will forget her name. If I see you within ten feet of her table again, if I hear you've so much as mentioned her in a transmission, I will make your death look like a tragic industrial accident. Am I clear?”
He nodded frantically, all pretense of dignity gone. “Clear.”
He fled, moving just shy of a run. I waited ten minutes, then took a different route back to the casino floor.
Sabine's shift was ending. I met her at the staff exit, falling into step beside her.
“Your supervisor has been reassessing his priorities,” I said casually. “He won't need such detailed reports anymore.”
She processed this for three steps, her expression unreadable. “What did you do?”
“Clarified expectations.”
“I didn't ask you to—”
“You didn't need to.”
She stopped walking, turned to face me. “You can't just eliminate every threat around me.”
“Watch me.”
Something flashed in her eyes. Not anger. Not exactly gratitude either. Recognition, maybe. Understanding that this had moved beyond strategy, beyond the game we'd been playing.
“The observation lounge?” she asked finally.
“After you.”
We walked in silence, but the space between us felt charged with possibility. Tomorrow I'd probably do something else strategically stupid for her safety. Break another wrist. Threaten another predator. Build another wall.
The thought didn't bother me as much as it should have.