Page 27 of Secret Hope (Hope Landing: New Recruits #5)
So this is it.
Cassidy could barely force herself to return DJ Reagan's frown as he took the seat directly across from her at the winner's table for their section.
Over the course of the tournament, sixteen tables had become eight.
Then four. Only two players from this table would live to advance to the final day.
She checked the clock above the bar. This would be the last round before the evening break. At some point soon, Vega would direct her to make sure Reagan wasn't one of them.
Storm clouds pressed down on Orchid Isle like the lid of a coffin, transforming the tropical paradise into something apocalyptic.
Through the tournament room's floor-to-ceiling windows, Cassidy watched palm trees bend at impossible angles, their trunks groaning audibly even through the reinforced glass.
The wind had graduated from whispers to shrieks, and with each gust, players at nearby tables shot worried glances at the windows.
"Whoa," someone muttered. "That glass better hold."
Already, the building shuddered with each stronger gust, chandeliers swaying in slow, ominous circles overhead.
The familiar sounds of the poker room—chips clicking, cards shuffling, quiet conversations—felt different now, charged with an electric anticipation that had nothing to do with the game and everything to do with survival.
Fragments of overheard conversation drifted across the room like smoke signals of doom.
"—Petrov on a stretcher heading to medical?—"
"—accused Vega of rigging the tournament right in the bar?—"
"—they had to sedate him, he was so violent?—"
Her blood chilled. Whatever had prompted Vega's hit list, he was clearly sending a message to anyone who might challenge him.
The endgame was approaching—and so was her breaking point.
The familiar poker room sounds—chips clicking, cards riffling, murmurs of the gallery—felt eerie, sharpened by the knowledge that death had already brushed against this room more than once. Cassidy's hands, so often precise and fluid, hovered with tension as the dealer distributed the first cards.
Half an hour later, her pile of chips had grown even more obscene, and DJ Reagan, and everyone else at the table, was eying her warily.
Then came the signal.
Two fingers tapped twice on the table's padded rail. A subtle gesture to anyone else, but to her it echoed like a gunshot.
Cassidy looked down at her cards.
Pocket kings.
A strong hand—but not invincible. Not like the pocket aces she'd folded an hour ago when trying to spare Reagan.
This time, she couldn't spare him.
Reagan's gaze cut to hers, cool and knowing. "You look rattled, Angel."
"Storm's getting close," she said, steadying her voice as another shriek of wind rattled the windows. Several players flinched. "So's the end of the tournament."
"Maybe for some of us."
He gave her that lazy, entitled smile, like he already had her figured out.
Cassidy sat up straighter.
Reagan had made his reputation by bluffing billionaires at private games, not by besting pros. He relied on swagger more than skill. And now, Vega wanted him gone.
But not by accident. Not by natural odds. By her hand.
Deliberate. Definitive.
She forced herself to breathe. If Van Der Merwe flipped, Vega would fall. But only if they survived until then.
"All in," she said clearly, pushing her entire stack forward.
The gallery stirred. Photographers shifted for a better angle. Reagan raised an eyebrow.
"Bold play." He pushed back his chair slightly, contemplating. "You really think you've got me?"
She didn't answer. Couldn't. Her pulse thundered in her ears.
Reagan studied her, then his cards, then her again. "You know what? Why not. Let's dance."
He shoved his stack into the pot. "Call."
The dealer instructed them to reveal. Cassidy flipped her kings.
Reagan turned over queen-jack offsuit.
Nothing.
Gasps rippled from the rail. It wasn't even a coin flip—he was behind from the start.
King-eight-three.
Cassidy's heartbeat slammed in her chest. The dealer burned and turned a four. Then a queen.
"Trips take it," the dealer said, pushing the mountain of chips toward her.
"Mr. Reagan is eliminated."
DJ stared at the cards in disbelief, mouth slack. For once, he had nothing to say. No cocky quip. No sneering retort. Just silence as security tapped him on the shoulder and escorted him from the table.
Cassidy avoided his gaze, hand shaking as she stacked her new chips. She'd done it.
Both of Vega's targets had been publicly knocked out of the tournament by her hand.
Exactly as Vega planned.
Except…
They still had a chance to turn Van Der Merwe.
Hope surged—fierce and fast.
More like betting on an inside straight than three of a kind, but far better than nothing.
The tournament director's voice crackled over the PA system, but before he could speak, movement at the main entrance drew everyone's attention.
Xavier Vega strode into the room like he owned it—which, Cassidy realized with a chill, he did.
Van Der Merwe flanked him on one side, the security chief's weathered face unreadable.
Webb, Vega's assistant, hurried alongside them.
"Ladies and gentlemen," Vega's voice carried without amplification, smooth and commanding. "I apologize for the interruption, but your safety is our primary concern."
As he spoke, resort employees swarmed the tables, recording chip counts and carefully bagging each player's stack. The operation was so smooth it had clearly been rehearsed.
"Due to the approaching hurricane—now upgraded to Category 4—we're suspending tournament play effective immediately.
" Vega's smile never wavered, but Cassidy caught the satisfaction in his eyes as they swept over her massive chip stack.
"The storm is expected to make landfall in approximately eight hours. "
Worried murmurs rippled through the room. Outside, as if to punctuate his words, something large crashed against the building. A palm frond? Debris from the beach? The windows held, but several people stepped back from them.
"Rest assured," Vega continued, "this resort was built to withstand Category 5 conditions. You'll be safer here than anywhere else on the island. For now, you may return to your rooms. Our staff will be securing outdoor furniture and equipment over the next few hours."
Van Der Merwe stepped forward, his voice carrying military authority.
"If conditions worsen—which we expect around midnight—we'll sound an alarm and ask all guests to move to designated storm shelters on the lower levels.
Until then, please remain in the main building.
Do not go outside for any reason. Room service will continue until further notice. "
"Emergency supplies are being distributed to each room as we speak," Webb added, consulting his tablet. "Flashlights, water, battery packs for phones. If the storm intensifies faster than expected, follow staff instructions immediately."
"Once the storm passes and we've assessed any damage," Vega concluded, "we'll resume play with chip counts exactly as recorded. Your positions are secure."
The crowd began dispersing with nervous energy. Some players lingered, reluctant to leave their chips in the staff's hands. Others hurried toward the exits, phones already out to check weather updates.
Through it all, Vega's eyes kept finding Cassidy, his smile carrying a private message: Well done. You've played your part perfectly.
She felt sick.
As players streamed toward the elevators and their rooms, Cassidy slipped into the flow, keeping her head down. She needed to get to her suite, find Kenji, figure out how to save Reagan before Van Der Merwe carried out Vega's death sentence under cover of the storm.
The elevator banks were crowded—players, staff, and tourists all trying to move at once, some heading to their rooms, others to the bars to wait out the storm with liquid courage.
She chose the stairs instead, taking them two at a time despite her trembling legs.
On the landing between floors, she paused, gripping the railing as the full weight of what she'd done crashed over her.
Reagan was marked for death because she'd eliminated him from a poker game. His blood would be on her hands as surely as if she'd pulled the trigger herself.
Another shriek of wind shook the building, and somewhere above, glass shattered. The storm was coming faster than predicted.
Time was running out for all of them.
She burst through the stairwell door on her floor, racing toward her suite. She needed Kenji. Needed his tactical mind, his strength, his unwavering belief that they could beat impossible odds.
Because right now, with a hurricane bearing down and killers closing in, impossible odds were all they had left.