Seven-Card Stud

by Ava Drake

  He picked up his next cards. Another ace-jack combo, both spades. Now this he could work with. Although the calculations were worlds easier with only two players in the game, a greater element of uncertainty entered into all his math. He matched up the jack on the flop, bet it strongly, and went down in flames as Oliver turned over a pair of pocket kings.

  “Nice cards,” he murmured.

  “Lucky.”

  Right. Luck. That ineffable, unpredictable lady who made gambling more than simple math. And tonight she was a stone-cold bitch who hated his ever-loving guts. As the night progressed, it seemed like every time he got a half-decent hand, Oliver’s cards were just a little bit better. It got so bad he actually started calculating the odds of it happening again and started coming up with some truly astronomical numbers.

  After yet another edge out by Oliver that ate into Collin’s dwindling stack of chips, the dude had the cojones to murmur, “You never give up, do you?”

  His competitive instincts flared. He’d show Oliver he could play cards with the big dogs, dammit—

  He checked himself sharply. The bastard was playing him! Oliver knew how competitive he was and had poked at him, trying to get an emotional rise out of him. And it had worked!

  “Nice try,” he murmured back, smiling in genuine amusement.

  A flash of frustration passed through Oliver’s sapphire gaze. Why was he frustrated? The guy had nearly three-quarters of the chips and couldn’t buy himself bad cards if he tried. If Collin didn’t do something drastic, and fast, to win a big hand, he was going to be finished. Oliver would be able to nickel-and-dime him to death without ever risking a significant portion of his chip pile.

  As if he’d willed the cards into his hands, his next hold cards were a pair of queens. There were still a lot of hands that could beat those ladies, but they were a decent start. More than a decent start. Oliver opened the betting strongly. So. He had decent cards too, did he? Well, then, this could get interesting. The first three turn cards were all over the place. Low cards. Two spades, which was mildly worrying if Oliver had two spades in his hand and a possible spade flush. He made the allowance in his calculations and still came out way ahead in the odds. The bets climbed, with raises and reraises back and forth. Oliver seemed to realize that Collin had picked this hand to make his stand.

  Silently, Collin asked Oliver to give him a break. To let this hand fall his way. The longer the two of them could draw out this competition, the more time they’d have to figure out what was actually going on with this tournament’s end game.

  He noticed Oliver glancing up at the black glass bubble of a surveillance camera, and his jaw muscles tightened. It was an unwelcome reminder that George Elliot could see their hold cards. If either one of them failed to bet their cards appropriately, the bastard would know… and no doubt kill one or both of them.

  Oliver announced, “I raise a million.”

  The huge bet would all but force Collin to fold. Staying in the hand and losing now would cripple him.

  So much for love over blood.

  Collin pushed his entire remaining stack of chips into the middle of the table. “All in.”

  He looked up and made grim eye contact with Oliver, whose eyes were are hard as chips of blue bottle glass. No sympathy there. Pain blossomed in his chest. They’d never really had a chance, had they? The deck had always been stacked against them. His job. Oliver’s father. Their own insecurities and unwillingness to commit to a real relationship. At the end of the day, they just hadn’t been strong enough to overcome all the obstacles between of them.

  He had a feeling it was going to be a long time before he recovered from Oliver Elliot. The guy had wrecked his heart. God only knew if and when he would ever take a chance on someone else. It had been hard enough to open up to this man, and Oliver was damn near perfect in every way that mattered. Where would he ever find someone else to compare?

  Collin blinked, startled momentarily by the poker table, the cards, the chips, the man seated across the table. Oh. Right. He’d bet everything on the turn of a card. His pair of queens should hold up to anything except paired kings or aces—which he didn’t think Oliver had or he’d have bet differently—or a flush. He was good if anything but a spade turned up.

  The dealer reached for the final card and flipped it over.

  A queen of spades.

  Good. And bad.

  He’d matched up his queens for three of a kind. But his gut quailed at the possibility that Oliver had hit his flush. Surely the guy hadn’t done all that hellish betting with nothing else in his hand but the possibility of hitting a flush.

  “Call,” Oliver murmured. Which was poker-speak for You show your cards first.

  Collin tossed out his queens face up.

  Oliver sighed. “Nice.” He tossed out his own cards. “But not nice enough.”

  He had them. The spades. Oliver had started this hand bluffing like a big dog on junk—a two and six of spades. And Collin had completely fallen for it. So much for knowing his lover.

  He stood, chagrined and, frankly, pissed off. He held out his hand to shake Oliver’s. “Congratulations. You completely faked me out. You’re a much better liar than I ever could be.”

  Oliver’s eyebrows slammed together as he also rose. He opened his mouth on some undoubtedly snarky retort when a voice boomed from across the cavernous darkness of the ballroom. “Not so fast, gentlemen.”

  They turned as one to face a trio of men striding toward their lone table under its stark spotlight. George Elliot was in the middle, flanked by two gray-haired men Collin didn’t recognize. Oliver stiffened across the table.

  One of the other men spoke in a gravelly voice. “Congratulations on making it this far, gentlemen. You should take pride in your accomplishment. As it stands, Mr. Elliot, you will win the tournament. However, Mr. Callahan, you have one more chance to stay in the running. Although you are out of chips, we are prepared to let you play one more hand and make one more bet.”

  Collin frowned. He glanced over at Oliver, who shrugged. He didn’t know what was going on either.

  When the man didn’t continue, Collin finally asked, “And that bet would be what?”

  George Elliot answered somberly. “You may bet your life.”

  Collin blinked. His life? What the hell did that mean?

  Oliver made a choked sound and then demanded, “Are you fucking kidding me? No way! That’s insane! I’ll concede the tournament to him if he accepts that offer.”

  Collin glared over at Oliver. “It’s not your call to make.” To George, he said more calmly, “Could you elaborate on what that bet would entail?”

  “Exactly what it sounds like. You win the hand, you win whatever chips your opponent has bet on the hand. You lose, your opponent kills you.”

  Oliver flared up angrily, “Whoa, whoa, whoa. Stop right there. I’m not killing anybody!”

  George glared at his son. “Then you fail the job interview, forfeit your winnings, will be disowned permanently, and my colleagues and I will see to it you never work an honest job again. Furthermore, we’ll irrevocably ruin you and your reputation, and we will still kill your opponent. In front of you.”

  Oliver stared in horror nearly as great as Collin’s.

  Enough of this crap. Collin spoke up. “And if I turn down the bet? Do I walk out of here ruined instead?”

  The quiet man answered with a tiny smile, “You catch on quickly, Mr. Callahan.”

  “What about my opponent? If I win, does he walk out of here alive and unharassed?”

  “Of course.”

  “I have your word on that?” Collin pressed.

  George Elliot scowled and ground out, “Yes.”

  “Let’s say for argument’s sake that I do accept this bet, and that I go on to win the tournament. What will I win? I have a right to know what I’m risking my life over.”

  “Do you accept the bet?” the man responded.

  And there it was. He w
ould complete his mission and finally find out what the hell was going on around here… if he risked his life on a hand of poker. He had a sneaking suspicion that if he accepted the bet, he would not be allowed to leave El Rocca, and if he did flee Gibraltar, these powerful psychopaths would find him and kill him, no matter how good Wild Cards, Inc.’s resources might be at hiding him.

  “I accept.”

  “No!” Oliver cried.

  “It’s not your call,” Collin bit out. “My life. My choice.”

  “Damned idiot—” Oliver started.

  George cut off his son, voice raised to talk over him. “Play will resume tomorrow evening at ten o’clock sharp. I’ll see both of you then.” The bastard strode away into the shadows from whence he’d come. Collin thought he caught a hint of a smirk on Elliot’s face as he turned away.

  The other two men remained, and the quiet one spoke once more. “The winner of this tournament will be offered a position in the Erebus Consortium. We are arguably the most powerful group of human beings on the planet. And one of you will join us. That is what you are risking your life for, Mr. Callahan.”

  Collin nodded in terse acknowledgment, his mental wheels spinning. Holy hell. Who on earth was this Erebus Consortium, and why could that guy make such an outrageous claim with a straight face? Why had this bunch never popped up on Wild Cards’ radar? His employer was plugged into every major intelligence agency on the planet, and he’d never heard even the name.

  “What the fuck are you doing, Collin?” Oliver demanded aggressively.

  A pair of goons stepped forward, restraining Oliver when he tried to come around the table, rage hot in his eyes.

  Collin looked up at him bleakly. “I’ll see you tomorrow night.” And with that he turned smartly on his heel and, escorted by another pair of goons, retreated to his hotel room to ponder the nature of self-destruction.

  At least he’d completed his mission. After he reported in to Wild Cards ops about this Erebus Consortium, his work here was done. When he lost—for surely he would—and he was executed, he wouldn’t have to live for long with the knowledge that he’d loved and lost Oliver Elliot. It wasn’t much as silver linings went. But it was all he had.

  Chapter Fourteen

  OLIVER was so furious he destroyed most of the furniture in his room with his bare hands before he calmed down enough to think rationally. Damn his father to the deepest, darkest circle of hell for doing this to him. Doing this to them—to him and Collin. Jesus. He would never forget that stricken look in Collin’s eyes when he’d realized that Oliver had stone-cold bluffed him, and worse, that sheer dumb luck had cost Collin the tournament. Hell. Cost him his life.

  Oliver bolted for the toilet. Disgusted at himself for hurting the man he loved, disgusted at his father, disgusted at his need to prove himself to his old man, he knelt over the porcelain bowl in self-loathing and let its bleach odor coax him into throwing up until he dry-heaved, his gut completely emptied.

  At length he sat back on his heels, flushed the toilet, and watched the water swirl in the bowl. His life in a nutshell. He’d flushed everything and everyone who meant anything to him—who gave a damn about him. And now he’d flushed Collin down the toilet too. And cost the guy his life while he was at it.

  It wasn’t as if he could throw the poker hand tomorrow. His father would surely be watching the hold cards. If he bet in any other way than exactly sensible for his cards, George would likely kill both him and Collin. He was well and truly trapped in a devil’s bind. He was damned either way.

  There had to be something he could do. But he, of all people, knew the folly of opposing his father. This moment being a case in point. His old man had managed to reel him back in, and oh by the way, break his heart and destroy his life—his fucking soul—in the process. When would he learn the futility of trying to escape George Elliot’s clutches? Hell, maybe Collin was the lucky one. He got a neat escape from the bastard. In death, George couldn’t touch him—

  His bitter thought train derailed sharply. If Collin were dead, George couldn’t touch him.

  Collin. Dead.

  That could be arranged, by God. He dashed for his laptop, but he didn’t have much time to work out the details, and he would definitely need help. No way were his father’s thugs letting him or Collin out of the hotel between now and tomorrow night’s showdown. And given the way Collin had been glaring at him as they left the ballroom, the guy didn’t want to talk to him right now, even if George’s thugs had orders to let the two of them see or talk to each other. Which he couldn’t imagine was the case. He knew his father’s tactics far too well. Divide and conquer was a favorite adage of ol’ George’s. The bastard.

  What he had in mind would be a dicey gambit. Particularly without Collin’s cooperation. But it had to look real. It had to be real. George, and everyone else, for that matter, had to be convinced. As much as it pained Oliver to leave Collin in the dark, it was the only way this crazy plan of his would work.

  He feverishly worked his way through all the possible outcomes and permutations looking for holes in the plan, frantically coming up with ways to plug them as he found them. And then he prayed he hadn’t missed anything. Everything depended on this working. Everything.

  COLLIN dressed in the freshly pressed tuxedo a bellboy delivered for him just after he finished the elaborate prime rib dinner that had also been delivered to his room, a condemned man’s last supper. Ominously, all the labels had been removed from the clothing. Sheesh. Talk about making him feel like a walking corpse. Oh, wait. He was one.

  Grimly, Collin tied the bow tie, brushed invisible lint off his sleeves, and idly admired the fit of the tuxedo. They’d even gotten his shoe size correct. He had wide toes but narrow heels, and the highly shined Italian leather oxfords fit his feet like they’d been made for him. Impressive on such short notice. He would have complimented the tailor and shoemaker on their fine work, but he would be dead in a few hours, and this would likely be the monkey suit he was buried in.

  With other cheery thoughts in that vein banging around in his skull, he followed Elliot Senior’s goons downstairs after one of them knocked on his door a few minutes before 10:00 p.m. What did a man say to his jailors as they led him to the gallows, anyway? He opted for polite nods and smiles as required and otherwise said nothing.

  At least he’d been able to send a quick text to Wild Cards, Inc., last night to alert them to the existence of the Erebus Consortium and that the winner got a job with them. He’d typed it with one hand by touch in the pocket of his suit coat in the elevator on the way to his room. He’d promised a full report later but never got to send that. Funny, but his Wi-Fi had magically stopped working seconds after he’d gotten out that single, short text. His laptop and cell phone had both quit sending or receiving signals by the time he’d gotten back to the room last night.

  The elevator opened, and he stepped out into the lobby. With all the other players gone from the hotel, it was eerily quiet in the large space. Library-like. Or maybe funeral-home-like was a more apt analogy.

  Oliver was already in the ballroom, shifting restlessly behind his chair. The dealer sat quietly on his stool, shuffling a deck of cards idly. The riffling sound of them was all that disturbed the deep silence.

  It was a long walk across the room to the table. Now he knew how gunslingers had felt in the Old West when they stepped out into a dusty street at high noon for a quick-draw showdown. His gut felt like water, and a little voice in the back of his brain was screaming obscenities at him for going through with this madness. But something stubborn and maybe fatalistic in his gut kept him placing one foot in front of the next.

  “Collin.”

  “Oliver.”

  They traded stiff nods with each other.

  The doors opened once more, this time admitting a dozen middle-aged men. George Elliot was among them. Collin took mental pictures of every face on the off chance that he’d get out of this death sentence and manage to report ba
ck to Wild Cards HQ. Funny how his mind refused to acknowledge that he was about to die and that knowing the faces of his killers didn’t count for a damned thing.

  “Shall we, gentlemen?” George said.

  Huh. The bastard actually seemed to be showing a modicum of respect for the stakes he and Oliver were playing for tonight. Who’d have guessed? But then the analytic side of Collin’s brain kicked in. The man was a psychopath without an empathetic bone in his body. The respect in his voice was more likely aimed at the most powerful person in the cluster of men taking seats on a raised platform beyond the poker table. Who in their right mind voluntarily watched a man meet his death? If these guys were half as powerful as they claimed to be, and they were all killers, he sincerely hoped his employers found and dismantled the Erebus Consortium sooner rather than later. Too bad he wouldn’t be around to help. He only hoped no more Wild Cards operatives had to give their lives before these bastards were taken down.

  The dealer shuffled the deck of cards one more time, fanned it facedown on the table, and asked, “Would either of you like to check the deck to make sure it’s not marked?”

  Collin snorted. He wouldn’t know how to spot a marked deck, and besides, it didn’t matter. If the suits on the dais wanted him dead, exposing a marked deck wouldn’t stop them.

  Oliver shrugged.

  Collin was offered an opportunity to cut the single deck of cards, which he did.

  “Would you like to cut the cards as well, sir?” the dealer asked Oliver.

  “Just deal,” Oliver replied.

  Collin was shocked at how ravaged Oliver sounded. It was vaguely gratifying that Oliver wasn’t totally unaffected by Collin’s upcoming murder.

  The dealer picked up the cards and hesitated for a moment, as if even he were reluctant to get this ball rolling. But then he dealt out two cards to each of them and quickly laid out five cards facedown in front of himself.