Page 31

SEVENTEEN

REIGN

"Your turn to deal, Reign," Ben says, sliding the cards across the rough wooden table. "And make it interesting this time. These penny ante games are boring."

I gather the cards and start shuffling. "Says the man who's down forty dollars."

"Forty-three," Koda corrects in his gravelly voice. The old mountain man sits hunched over his cards, a beer bottle dwarfed by his massive hands. "Boy can't bluff worth a damn."

"I can bluff just fine," Ben protests, reaching for the bowl of pretzels. "You just read tells better than anyone."

"Everyone has tells," Marcus chimes in, settling back in his chair. "Watch a man's hands, not his face."

"Speak for yourself," Ben grins. "I've got the best poker face in Wyoming."

"That why you're losing?" I ask, dealing out the next hand.

I settle back in my chair, enjoying the familiar rhythm of cards hitting the table. Ben invited us up to his training camp for the night—thirty miles deeper into the mountains than my place, accessible only by a dirt road that would challenge most vehicles.

But that's exactly why he chose it for his fight preparation.

Complete isolation, no distractions, just him and his coach grinding out the work needed to become champion.

Tonight's poker game was his idea, a chance to blow off steam before the final push toward the Thompson fight.

What started as just the four of us—Ben, his coach Koda, Marcus, and me—has turned into exactly the kind of evening I needed.

No business calls, no complications, just cards and bourbon and the easy conversation that comes when men who trust each other can speak freely.

Marcus is already three beers deep and telling war stories that get more elaborate with each telling.

Ben matches him drink for drink, his pre-fight nerves finally starting to ease as the alcohol works its magic.

Even Koda, normally stone-faced and serious, has cracked a few smiles at Marcus's increasingly ridiculous tales of our deployments.

I'm about to call Ben's bluff when headlights sweep across the cabin's front windows.

All four of us freeze, the easy atmosphere evaporating instantly. Ben's place is more remote than mine, and unexpected visitors at this hour mean trouble.

"You expecting someone?" I ask, my hand automatically moving toward the Glock under my jacket.

Ben shakes his head, but there's something in his expression that makes my blood run cold. A flash of guilt, quickly suppressed.

"Actually," he says slowly, "I might have mentioned to Gio that we were having a game tonight."

The silence that follows is deafening. Marcus sets down his beer with deliberate precision. Koda's weathered face hardens into stone. I feel every muscle in my body go rigid.

"You what?"

"I ran into him at the gym yesterday. He seemed interested when I mentioned poker night." Ben's voice carries a defensive edge now. "Guy's my sponsor, and he's been good to me. Figured it wouldn't hurt to invite him."

The headlights outside cut through the darkness, followed by the sound of car doors slamming. Multiple doors. Vega didn't come alone.

"How many people did you invite?" Koda asks, his hand drifting toward the hunting knife always sheathed at his belt.

"Just Gio. But he might have brought security." Ben stands, moving toward the window to peer outside. "Yeah, he's got two guys with him."

Marcus and I exchange a look across the table. Three men, isolated location, no easy exit routes. If this goes sideways, we're at a serious tactical disadvantage.

"Ben," I say carefully, "next time you want to invite guests, maybe give us a heads-up."

The doorbell rings with a harsh electronic sound that seems to echo through the cabin's modest interior. Ben moves toward the door, but I catch his arm.

"Let me handle this."

I open the door to find Gio Vega standing on Ben's front porch, looking remarkably composed for someone who just drove thirty miles up a mountain road in the dark.

His left arm is still in a sling from the car accident, but he's dressed like he's attending a business dinner—expensive jeans, cashmere sweater, leather jacket.

Behind him stand two men in dark suits, their eyes constantly scanning the perimeter. Professional security.

"Reign," Vega says with a smile that doesn't reach his eyes. "What a pleasant surprise. Ben didn't mention you'd be here."

"Family game," I reply, not moving from the doorway. "Just the usual suspects."

"Of course." His gaze moves past me, taking in what he can see of Ben's cabin interior. "I hope you don't mind the intrusion. Ben was kind enough to invite me, and I thought it might be nice to spend an evening away from business."

The words sound reasonable, but nothing about this situation feels right. Vega doesn't do anything without a reason, and showing up here with armed security isn't a social call.

"Come in," I say, stepping aside with practiced hospitality. "Ben's been looking forward to having you."

Vega moves past me with the careful precision of someone managing healing injuries, but there's nothing weak about his presence. If anything, surviving the bombing seems to have sharpened his edges.

His security detail remains outside, which tells me this isn't meant to be a hostile encounter. At least, not yet. But their presence is a message—Vega wants us to know he came prepared for trouble.

"Gio!" Ben's voice carries genuine enthusiasm as we enter the main room. "Glad you could make it, man."

The cabin's interior is exactly what you'd expect from a mountain training retreat—rough wooden walls, stone fireplace, furniture built for function over form. A poker table dominates the center of the room, surrounded by mismatched chairs that have seen better days.

"Ben, thank you for the invitation." Vega's smile becomes warm and genuine, the kind of expression that probably fools most people. "Koda, good to see you again."

"Gio." The old mountain man's greeting is neutral, professional. They've worked together for months, but there's no warmth between them.

"I brought something to contribute to the evening." Vega produces a bottle of twenty-five-year-old scotch, setting it on the table with deliberate ceremony.

"That's generous," Ben says, accepting the gesture. "You didn't need to bring anything."

"Nonsense. A guest should always contribute." Vega's eyes find Marcus, who's remained seated at the poker table, beer in hand. "Marcus, good to see you again."

Marcus nods politely but doesn't stand. "Gio."

"How are you feeling?" Ben asks, gesturing toward Vega's sling. "That accident looked brutal on the news."

"Much better, thank you." Vega accepts the beer Ben offers, though I notice he only takes a small sip. Staying alert. "These things happen in my line of work. The important thing is moving forward."

The casual reference to his business sends a chill through the room. Everyone here knows what Vega really does for a living, but hearing him acknowledge it so openly feels like a threat.

"Well, you're here now," Ben says, either missing the undercurrents or choosing to ignore them. "Ready to lose some money at cards?"

"I never lose," Vega replies with a smile that's all teeth. "But I'm always ready to play."

The words hang in the air like a challenge. Not just about poker, but about everything else simmering beneath the surface of this encounter.

I move toward the poker table, hyperaware of Vega's presence behind me, of how his eyes catalog every detail of Ben's home. The security setup, the sight lines from the windows, the isolated location. Information he could use, weaknesses he might exploit.

"Five-card stud," I announce, settling into my usual chair. "Nothing wild."

Vega takes the seat directly across from me, his good hand arranging chips with practiced ease. "Perfect. I prefer games where skill matters more than luck."

Marcus deals the cards, his movements economical and precise. The familiar ritual of poker provides a framework for what's really happening here—a careful dance of power and information, where every word carries multiple meanings.

“So, Gio," Marcus says, tossing in his ante, "you nervous about the Thompson fight? Big payday riding on this one."

"Confident," Vega replies, studying his cards. "Ben's ready for this level of competition. Thompson is tough, but he's never faced anyone with Ben's combination of power and intelligence."

"Damn right," Ben agrees. "Thompson is about to learn why they pay me the big money."

The easy banter continues, but I can feel the real conversation happening beneath the surface. Vega's questions are too casual, his interest in our group dynamics too intense. He's gathering intelligence, building a profile of everyone at this table.

"Interesting place," Vega observes, his gaze sweeping Ben's modest cabin. "Very authentic mountain living."

"Keeps me focused," Ben explains. "No distractions, just training and preparation."

"And poker nights with family," Vega adds, his eyes finding mine across the table. "That's important. Having people you can trust."

"Trust is everything," I agree, raising the bet. "Especially in dangerous times."

"Exactly." Vega matches my raise without hesitation. "Recent events have reminded me how quickly situations can change. How important it is to know where people's loyalties lie."

Marcus clears his throat, tossing in his cards. "I'm out this hand. Anyone need another beer?"

The interruption breaks the tension momentarily, but it rebuilds immediately as Vega leans back in his chair, studying me with open curiosity.

"You know, Reign, I've been thinking about our conversation the other night. About protection and security arrangements." His good hand gestures vaguely toward his sling. "Recent events have made me more aware of vulnerabilities."

The offer is clearly a test, a way to draw me into his orbit, to create professional obligations that would complicate whatever he suspects.