Page 4 of Silent Schemes

Interesting. “Here?” I ask.

“Casino. Our casino.”

I let that sit in the air for a moment, weighing the angles.

I see the faintest muscle flick in Will’s jaw.

He’s nervous. Not for himself. For me.

I look past him, to the window where the city lights jitter through cracked glass.

“I’ll handle it,” I say.

Will glances at the traitor, then back at me.

He’s waiting for me to say more, maybe to explain why I wasted time on a pawn when the queen is in play.

But I don’t owe him that, mentor or not.

I stride past, pat him once on the shoulder—a courtesy, not a comfort—and make for the door.

Behind me, the traitor moans through his broken mouth.

I could finish him, but there’s no need.

He’ll hang there until the next shift comes in, a reminder to anyone who thinks loyalty is negotiable.

With any luck, I’ll come back and his head will have exploded.

Will follows.

He waits until we’re in the echoing corridor before he says, “Do you want me to put a tail on her?”

“No need,” I tell him. “She wants to be seen. So let’s give her what she wants.”

We walk in silence, shoes slapping wet patches on the warehouse floor.

When we reach the exit, I pause, look at my hands, one knuckle split and already beading with blood.

I lick it clean, then pull on my coat.

Tonight is going to be interesting.

The casino under the Crimson Hotel isn’t built for shits and giggles.

It’s built for control.

I push through the velvet rope and let the sound hit me.

Ice chips clacking, glasses clinking, the low growl of a crowd that doesn’t want to be seen.

The air is a chemical weapon: perfume, sweat, high-octane bourbon, and something metallic underneath.

The lights are harsh neon, cheap and unforgiving.

Everything’s washed in blue and red, like a cop car rolling up slowly.

I don’t bother looking at the cameras.