Chapter 1082
“I can handle a poker game. Give me ten minutes.”
Skye walked down to the casino floor. It was a sea of tuxedos and evening gowns. She spotted the table easily. The pilot — a disheveled man in a flight jacket — was sweating through his collar. Marco was loud and flush with chips, his confidence filling the space around him.
She slipped into the empty seat beside Marco. “Mind if I join? I feel lucky.”
Marco looked her over slowly. “Buy-in is ten grand, sweetheart.”
She set her diamond ring on the table. “This is worth fifty.”
The game began. She played dumb for two hands, watching Marco carefully. He was good, but he was arrogant. He was marking the cards with a tiny needle ring on his pinky finger.
On the third hand, she went all in.
Marco grinned. “Call.”
He laid down a full house.
Skye smiled. “That’s a nice hand, Marco. But I think you have an extra card up your sleeve.”
She reached out and grabbed his wrist, twisting it sharply. A card tumbled from his cuff. The Ace of Spades.
The table went silent.
“Cheater!” the pilot shouted, lurching to his feet.
Security swarmed the table. Marco was hauled away. The pilot stared at Skye, wide-eyed.
“You saved my ass,” he breathed.
“I saved your money,” Skye said, sliding his chips back to him. “Now you owe me a flight. Wheels up in five.”
She leaned in, catching the sharp scent of whiskey on his breath. “And drink some black coffee on the way to the hangar. I need you sober enough to land on water in the dark.”
The pilot nodded, looking rattled. “I’m on it. I fly better on adrenaline anyway.”
Skye stepped back into the elevator. Alistair was waiting. He looked impressed.
“You have a mean poker face,” he said.
“I learned from the best,” Skye replied, taking his hand. “Let’s go get Lucian.”
Lucian Graves did not scream. Screaming was a waste of oxygen, and oxygen was currently a luxury.
He hung from his wrists in a damp steel cell inside the Trident Platform. The room swayed slightly with the ocean currents, a nauseating, rhythmic lurch. His glasses were gone, reducing the world to a blur of grey and red. His shirt — once a crisp white Oxford — was shredded and soaked through with blood.
The man in front of him — The Butcher, Lucian had taken to calling him — was wiping a pair of pliers with a dirty rag.
“You’re a stubborn accountant,” The Butcher grunted. “Most people break after the first fingernail.”
Lucian spat a mouthful of blood onto the floor. “I’m not an accountant,” he wheezed. “I’m a Chief Operating Officer. There’s a difference. We have better dental plans.”
The Butcher didn’t laugh. He stepped forward, clamped the pliers onto Lucian’s left pinky finger, and twisted.
Pain — white-hot and blinding — shot up Lucian’s arm. His vision tunneled. He didn’t scream, but a guttural sound tore from his throat.