The Island Deception

by Dan Koboldt

  “I’m not sure I care.”

  They looked at each other in silence. The man wasn’t entirely blocking the staircase, but he wasn’t out of the way, either.

  “The manager’s expecting me.” Quinn probably could have called for security, but that would’ve been a sign of weakness.

  “I may have more questions for you,” the man said. But he stood aside and let Quinn pass.

  “I’ll be sure to wait by my phone.” He slid past Reiser and took the stairs at a steady pace. Halfway up, he spoiled it by glancing back. The man from Raptor Tech was nowhere in view.

  He shook his head. They must learn that at orientation. CASE Global and Raptor Tech might be rivals, but they also had something in common: they always showed up at the worst possible time.

  Chapter 2

  Competing Offers

  “No one’s harder to fool than a fellow professional. We know what to look for.”

  —Art of Illusion, February 18

  The Bellagio stage manager was a legendary mogul of the Vegas Strip named David Wyatt. Average-looking guy, probably pushing fifty, but he had the polish of an industry veteran. He smiled when Quinn entered, but it was the automatic kind of smile you learned to switch on at a moment’s notice.

  “Quite a performance, Mr. Bradley.”

  Quinn shook his hand. “Please, call me Quinn.”

  Wyatt gestured to the chair opposite his massive walnut desk. The chairs were no less luxurious: real suede, hand stitching, stuffed just enough to be cozy but not a bit more. New enough that he smelled the leather when he sat down.

  “I still can’t figure out how you did it,” Wyatt said.

  “Which part?”

  “All of it.”

  He’s just being polite. This was a guy who’d watched hundreds of performances by some of the industry greats. It was thrilling to think about who’d been in this chair.

  “I’m sure you’ve seen some of that before,” Quinn said.

  “Not the phone thing.” He held up his cell, a slim next-gen model in a platinum case. “This is supposed to have state-of-the-art encryption.”

  “Is it, now?” Quinn allowed a smile. No point telling him that CASE Global subsidiaries had made the phone, written its software, and developed that encryption. Which was only state-of-the-art outside of the prototyping labs.

  “Should I get a new one?”

  “Already? You only bought that last week.”

  “How the hell could you know that?”

  Because I got Kiara to run a background check on you. Quinn shrugged. “You shouldn’t worry. The security here is as good as anything I’ve seen.” That was a lie—nothing surpassed what the company used to protect their biggest investment—but it seemed to reassure the man.

  “Well, it was a good trick.”

  “How’d you like to see another?” Quinn produced a deck of cards and began shuffling. Two-handed, then one-handed. Riffle, cut, riffle, cut.

  “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about.”

  “Oh?”

  “Look, Quinn, I’ve got to be honest. You were barely on our radar six months ago. Then all of a sudden the casino owners are telling me to book you.”

  Quinn gave a thin smile. “I guess someone put in a good word.”

  “I agreed to have you headline tonight. But that should have been it, even with your connections.”

  “Well, I appreciate the shot.” He’d seen his name in the neon lights, and performed for his biggest crowd yet. It had been his dream, but somehow reaching it felt flat.

  “After that performance, though, I’d be interested in having you back.”

  “Really? I’d enjoy that.” He kept his tone casual, because this was probably just a formality. The entertainment equivalent of saying, I’ll call you. He fanned out the cards face down on the desk. “Pick a card.”

  Wyatt chose one from the right-hand edge, where Quinn couldn’t have glimpsed it while shuffling. That, more than anything, showed how many times he’d been around the block.

  “Our main act is going on tour in about a month,” Wyatt said.

  Quinn swept up the remaining cards, stacked them, and had Wyatt put his card on top. He offered the deck so the man could cut it. Wyatt obliged. He reclaimed the deck, shuffled a few times, and started dealing the cards face up. It was a good excuse to cover the fact that he was holding his breath.

  “What would you say to coming on board while they’re gone?”

  “For how long?” Quinn kept on dealing, watching for his marker card, the two of clubs.

  “Six months, with an option to renew.”

  Quinn missed the next card. His fingers just slid away, and it stayed on top of the deck. Damn. It wasn’t the most obvious tell, but child’s play for someone like Wyatt.

  He’d worked so hard for so long, just to get a shot at the Strip. The odds on an offer from a major casino had to be about one in a hundred thousand. And the Bellagio, no less. That made it one in a million.

  To his credit, Wyatt offered a gracious little smile. One pro to another. He’d seen the tell, and knew what it meant.

  Quinn recovered and kept dealing. Bam. There it was. The two of clubs, which meant the chosen card was the king of diamonds. It suited the man, too. If that wasn’t a sign, he didn’t know what one was. He stole a glance at Wyatt’s face when his card came up, and saw nothing. Not a flicker of recognition.

  Either he’d forgotten his card or he was a stone-cold fox. Or maybe the trick had gone south. The odds of that were slim, but not zero. I can’t think about that.

  “What kind of a signing bonus are we talking about?” Fifty grand was probably the average, but this was the Bellagio. The kind of acts they secured didn’t come cheap.

  “There isn’t one.”

  “What?”

  “I don’t have the budget for it.”

  That was bullshit. Some of the high rollers he’d just been charming had probably lost fifty grand in the last hour alone. “I’m not sure how thrilled my manager will be about it.”

  “I think we both know what Rudy Fortelli will want you to say about an offer from the Bellagio.”

  It was Quinn’s turn to smile. Did your homework, too, didn’t you? That told him how serious the offer was. “When do you need an answer?”

  “By the end of the week, at the latest. But I’d really like to know tomorrow.”

  Quinn kept dealing until only a single card remained in his hand. “Tell you what. If the next card I flip over isn’t yours, then you get an answer tomorrow. But if it is, I take the week. And you keep my name on the sign until then.”

  Wyatt didn’t so much as glance at the cards on the table, but he waited for two seconds. “Done.”

  They always fell for it. Quinn didn’t flip the card in his hand. Instead, he reached out and turned the king of diamonds face down. Wyatt’s eyes widened a tiny fraction. He was one hell of a cool customer, but he gave it up. Maybe Quinn had pushed his luck too far. This was a good trick, but a manipulative one, too. No one could resist taking the bet when they’d seen their card dealt out already.

  “It looks like you have your week,” Wyatt said. “Don’t waste it.”

  Quinn practically floated down the stairs from Wyatt’s office. The meeting couldn’t have gone better. He wasn’t sure that his name would truly stay on the sign out front—it probably came down while the audience was still applauding—but that was just gravy. The offer itself was all that mattered. A contract from a major casino put him in the upper echelon of Vegas performers. And the best part was knowing that he’d earned it himself. CASE Global’s connections might have landed him this performance, but no one could bully a stage manager into a contract offer. Not even them.

  That was all me.

  He really didn’t know who to call first. Rudy, probably, though the man would be holding court at his own club by now. Drinks on the house and all that. Quinn could catch up with him later. He remembered the blonde from the VIP m
eet-and-greet. Why not a little extra celebration? Everything else could wait.

  He hit the landing with a spring in his step. Damn near started to whistle, when he skipped around the corner and came face-to-face with the Nordic guy again.

  “Jesus!” He took a step back. “You’re like a bad penny, aren’t you?”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Bradley.”

  “Listen, guy, I’m on my way to—”

  The hiss of the pneumatic pistol surprised him, but not as much as the jab of pain in his midsection. He reached down and found something odd in his cummerbund—a narrow metallic cylinder about the size of his pinkie finger. The metal was cold to his touch.

  He jerked it out. A numbness started to spread from his abdomen. “What the—”

  “Are you all right, Mr. Bradley?” Reiser stepped forward to take Quinn’s arm in a vise-like grip. “It looks like you need to sit down. My limo’s just outside.”

  Quinn tried to refuse, but now his tongue had gone numb, too. All he managed was a faint shake of the head, which the man ignored.

  A second set of arms came into view. They were slimmer, more feminine, but locked around his other arm just as tightly. Quinn couldn’t even move his head up to look at her. He was limp as a rag doll while they half escorted, half carried him down a hall and toward the emergency exit.

  Good, let them try that. The door had a silent alarm. Security would be all over them in about thirty seconds. A little surprising that they hadn’t intervened already, in fact. There had to be cameras back here. Surely the security feed would have shown what happened.

  That’s when he remembered that Raptor Tech was a security company. The market leader, in fact. And the Bellagio never went in for anything but the best.

  Oh, I hope I’m wrong about this.

  But sure enough, the emergency exit was already propped open. They carried him outside, where a limousine sat with the engine idling. Reiser opened the door and they tossed him in.

  Quinn woke up to the slow, blinding pain of a headache. He was sitting in an enclosed space. A car. The wide seats and tinted windows made this a limousine, and the faux leather said it was rented. No palm trees or neon lights scrolled past the window, only darkness. That meant they were off the Strip, probably out in the desert.

  None of this information comforted him.

  The couple from Raptor Tech sat across from him, engrossed in quiet conversation. It sounded like German, or maybe Dutch. The woman’s voice had a low, sultry tone to it. Only her profile was visible in the dimly lit interior. High cheekbones, sharp angular nose. She caught him looking, though, and nudged Reiser.

  “Sorry about the theatrics, Mr. Bradley,” he said.

  “Wuh—” Quinn started. His tongue felt heavy and awkward in his mouth. “What the hell?”

  “I thought it might be best if we spoke in private.”

  The cobwebs were starting to clear. He remembered the dart gun. It should have ticked him off, but his instincts screamed for caution. Anyone bold enough to grab him out of the Bellagio didn’t give a shit about assault charges. He bit back a smart-ass remark, and just said, “About what?”

  “About my colleague. Thorisson.”

  “I already told you, I don’t know anything about him.”

  “Yet you were one of the last people to contact him.”

  Which was a mistake. He’d gotten cold feet when he first saw the gateway. When he first realized what the CASE Global really wanted him to do. And how dangerous it would be if he agreed.

  “Yeah, well, he wasn’t exactly up front with me,” he said.

  “How do you mean?”

  “He failed to mention that calling him would prompt an aerial drone attack on the company’s facility. What the hell was the point of that?”

  “Unfortunately, I can’t remark on what may or may not have happened on a private island half a world away.”

  “Well, I can. The thing nearly killed everyone.” He still couldn’t believe that they’d managed to shoot it down. With siege machinery, no less.

  “So you were there.”

  Shit. He’d given them that one for free. He played it off as best he could. “Only because your buddy Thorisson screwed me over.”

  “You never made contact on the island?”

  “No.” We made contact, but in another world entirely.

  “Would you tell me, if you had?”

  “Probably not.”

  “At least you’re honest about that.”

  “I’ve been honest from the start, man. I wasn’t kidding about the NDA. The company would make my life hell if I said anything.”

  “Have you considered the possibility that we could do the same if you don’t?”

  “Beyond assaulting and kidnapping me, you mean.”

  “There are worse things, Mr. Bradley. Especially when you’re in bed with a company like CASE Global.”

  “Oh, and Raptor Tech is the paragon of virtue?” Quinn snorted. “I’ll take my chances.” He shoved himself up into a sitting position. They were out in the desert, all right. Where they can make sure no one ever finds my body.

  Reiser leaned back and crossed his arms. Took a couple of calming breaths. “Look, we’re not bad people. We’re just trying to get some information.”

  “This is Vegas. You don’t get anything for free.”

  “What about doing the right thing?”

  “Ah.” That old chestnut. He couldn’t believe people still tried to use it on him. “So I guess you’re right, and they’re wrong.”

  “That’s one way of putting it.”

  “I think Kiara would put it differently.” He dropped the name intentionally this time. Raptor Tech almost certainly knew the names of their competitor’s top brass.

  Reiser did a double take. His eyes widened and his mouth fell half-open. God, he’d be great to have in a poker game.

  “I think we might be able to—”

  The limo jerked forward. The impact threw them all down to the carpeted area between the seats. Quinn ended up in a tangle with Reiser. Which made for a great excuse to check his pockets. He palmed a billfold out of one, something harder and metallic out of the other. Oh, yes. The pneumatic pistol. God, let it be loaded. He tucked it into a sleeve pocket.

  Reiser shoved him off and grabbed the phone. “What happened?” He listened for a few seconds. “Get rid of her.”

  “Is it a flat tire?” the woman asked. She was prettier than Quinn expected, even with the pale scar along her jawline. It wasn’t precise enough to be surgical, either. She felt his gaze, and slid back into the shadowy corner of the limo while the driver pulled over.

  “Some lady rear-ended us. Driver’s handling it.”

  They heard a man and a woman shouting outside. His voice was deep and dismissive. But hers was shrill. Indignant.

  “Sounds like it’s going well,” Quinn said.

  Whoever she was, the lady was hot about something. The sound of her voice grew louder, and then she started knocking on the window to the limousine door. “I’m not leaving until I get my apology!”

  Quinn saw her face. Oh, my God.

  It was Veena.

  He slid over to the door of the limo. “Well, that’s my cue.”

  “Get away from the door, Bradley,” Reiser said.

  Quinn pouted. “Aw, what happened to Mr. Bradley?”

  “I’m serious.” Reiser reached into his jacket. Then he frowned. His brow furrowed. He fumbled around, then checked the other pocket.

  “I think you’re looking for this.” Quinn flourished, and made the pneumatic pistol appear in his hand. He leveled it casually at Reiser’s chest.

  “How did you—”

  Quinn pulled the trigger. The hiss of the dart was a delicious sound to hear. Reiser slumped forward. The woman never moved from where she sat. Maybe I should shoot her, too. But she wasn’t armed, and the pistol felt like it only had one shot left.

  “You know what they say, Reiser.” Quinn pulled the
lever on the door and threw it open. “A magician never reveals his tricks.”

  He stepped out, and shut the door behind him. Turned around to find the driver—a huge guy with blond hair and a buzz cut—pushing Chaudri away from the limo, back toward her car.

  “Someone asked for an apology?” Quinn called.

  Veena shoved past the driver. “Quinn! Are you all right?”

  “Hey, Veena.”

  The driver looked at her, looked at Quinn, and came for him.

  “Leave him alone,” Veena shouted.

  Bring it on, big fella. Quinn let him get within two steps. Then he raised the pistol and fired. The silver dart caught the man right in his massive chest. He glanced down at it. Then his legs gave out, and he crumpled right at Quinn’s feet.

  Veena’s mouth fell open. “My God! What did you do to him?”

  “Vulcan nerve pinch.” Quinn grinned at her. “Hey, can I catch a ride?”

  Chapter 3

  Dead Bird

  “The greatest threat to a pristine world is technological innovation.”

  —R. Holt, “Recommendations for Gateway Protocols”

  Paul Logan had seen a lot of drones in his career, but nothing on par with this one. Most UAVs were so fragile that a flock of starlings could knock them out of the sky. This one had taken gunfire from a .50 cal, shaken it off, and cut the gunner in half with its own gatling. The response time had been too quick for a human controller, too. If Bradley and his geeky friends hadn’t gone old-school to shoot it down, the damn thing might have destroyed the whole compound.

  He and Kiara had rappelled down the cliffs from above. Full climbing gear, too. Not taking any chances. Normally he’d have liked to bring a boat around with a full recon team, but the lieutenant wanted to keep things quiet. They still hadn’t traced the source of the rogue transmission that drew Raptor Tech here in the first place.

  They reached the rocky shelf where the UAV had crashed. It remained in one piece, incredibly, despite being smashed by a minivan-sized boulder. The frame must have been some new high-tensile-strength alloy. I can’t wait to get a look at this bird.