by JP Ratto
Guy noticed Pedro studied his cards a bit too long before raising Stella five thousand dollars. She has good cards and she’s playing him like a Stradivarius. He turned to Pedro. Without a word passing between them, they locked eyes. Pedro edged forward in his seat, resting more of his body on his right arm.
The corners of Guy’s mouth turned up slightly. He has a low pair. “Call and raise five thousand.”
Several players who exited other games overheard the play. They meandered to the table, keeping a respectful distance. The room grew quiet as the bet turned to Wally. The last hand was his final opportunity, and Guy sensed Wally’s uncertainty. He’s out of his league; he’s an average player with average cards looking for an excuse to stay in the pot.
“Call,” Wally said.
Mike appeared to welcome the extra time provided by Wally’s hesitation to make his decision.
“Call.”
Stella and Pedro called the raiser.
The other two tables in the room closed down, and a crowd gathered. Whispers spread when the new spectators wanted an update on the game. Brow furrowed, the dealer turned to them, “Please!” The silence returned, and you could hear the dealer burn the next card in the deck. He dealt three cards face up on the board: ace of hearts, ten of clubs, four of clubs. The dealer turned to Wally.
“Check.”
He looked at Mike.
“Check.”
The dealer nodded to Stella. Her hands folded over her cards. She locked her eyes on the pot and then on Guy.
He held her stare. Two raises followed her, and she has doubts. Probably wondering how strong our hole cards are with an ace on the board. Pedro’s play was wild and erratic. If he raises again, he may have three of a kind…or nothing. She’s worried about me. I’d been playing conservatively and then raised ten thousand.
“Ten thousand,” Stella said.
Pedro immediately called and raised. “It’s worth another ten thousand to ‘get in this.’” He winked at Stella and tossed in the chips.
“Oh, darling,” Stella said, leaning toward Pedro, “it’ll cost you much more.”
The dealer sighed. He appeared tired of their antics. “Mr. Guy? It’s twenty thousand to you.”
Did she think ten thousand would scare all of us out of the game? I have a pair of aces with two cards left to come. Call or raise?
Guy made his choice. “Call.”
The dealer turned to the two checkers and both folded. Stella called the raise.
As excitement grew, the voices of those in the back of the room rose steadily. They were shushed into silence by others around them. Two men handed money to a third; bets were on who would fold or who would take the pot.
The dealer burned the top card and turned over the fourth card on the board, the Jack of diamonds. The pot totaled one hundred thirty thousand dollars, the highest pot of the night.
Wally rubbed his goatee. Mike wiped his forehead. Stella’s gaze darted from Guy to Pedro to the pot. Pedro maintained his shit-eating grin.
Holding back the urge to swipe the beads of sweat at his temples, Guy wouldn’t move a muscle until Stella bet. I need this. I can recoup my losses and more if I take this pot.
“Ten thousand,” she said.
Pedro played with his few remaining chips, glancing at Stella and back to the pot. “Call.”
Guy had a pair of aces with one card to go and two players in late. I need the last card to be an ace, a king, or a queen to complete the straight. “Call.”
The dealer burned one and turned over the final card.
Queen of clubs! Guy fought to contain his excitement.
The murmurs from the crowd swelled again like the buzz of arriving locusts. More money changed hands.
Guy kept his eyes on Stella, who ignored Pedro’s leer and focused on him. He caught the slight tightening of her jaw. She’s doing her best not to give away her position. Guy surmised that the two of them were matched competitors, each hating to lose. Neither would give in. The only question was the size of the bet. She’ll raise her bet to twenty thousand. Pedro will call. I’ll raise another ten. She’ll call. Pedro will fold. Game over.
“Ten thousand.”
What’s going on? Why only ten?
There was no stopping the restless onlookers. People walked among the crowd paying off and taking new bets. It reminded Guy of a trading room floor. They began hushing each other.
Pedro called. At this point, he was sweetening the pot in hopes of a different type of payoff.
Guy was frozen in his seat. Stella assessed Pedro’s pile of chips and decided if she bet too high, she would force him to fold. Guy had two choices. He could call, see her cards, and that would be the end of it. Or he could raise and force the two of them to build the pot for him. “Call and raise ten thousand.”
As Guy took control, people gasped at the surprising direction. Stella once again locked eyes with Guy. She smiled. “Call.”
The pot had reached two hundred ten thousand dollars.
“Hey,” Pedro said, “I’ve gone this far, what’s another ten thousand? I call.”
The spotlight was on Guy. He turned over his hole cards.
“A straight to the ace.”
Stella’s eyes never left Guy’s as she revealed her cards: a seven and nine…of clubs.
“A flush.”
***
Guy yanked off his tie and opened his shirt collar as he entered the main gathering room. The lights had been dimmed and many of the guests had gone home or were elsewhere in the house. Still, the stifling air caught in his throat. The evening had been a disaster.
What do I do now?
Although he was well paid for the work he did, his gambling addiction the last two years had drained his savings. That, along with a few bad investments, left Guy indebted to someone who wouldn’t wait long to be repaid before taking drastic action.
He strode across the room to a freestanding bar. Guy reached behind it for a bottle and a glass, poured a drink, and finished it in two gulps. He closed his eyes; the heat of the liquor was smooth and soothing. Guy stiffened at a touch on his shoulder.
“Easy darling; stiff all over is not what I had in mind.”
Turning to Stella, Guy grasped her face in his hands. “You played me.”
“No, I played well.”
Guy tightened his clasp and stroked her cheeks with his thumbs. “At least the night doesn’t have to be a total loss. He lowered his head and devoured her lips in a hungry kiss. He breathed heavily, his heart racing, his desire growing.
She eased away and smiled. “I can help you with your problem.”
Guy raised his eyebrow and smirked. He pulled her to him again, making sure she could feel his pleasure.
Stella glanced down. “I can help you with that too.”
Chapter 4
Dawn broke in horizontal streaks of pink and coral over the city. The couple lay entwined after a night of business and pleasure. Still using their party names even though they both now knew much more about each other, Guy was the first to wake. He removed the warm, soft arm that lay across his chest. “Stella, it’s six a.m. We both have jobs to go to.”
“Hmm, okay.” She rolled onto her back and stared at the ceiling. “I need coffee. Do you know how to work the machine? I drink it black.”
He prepared coffee while she showered, and when she came out dressed in the hotel’s terry robe, he handed her a hot mug.
She was beautiful. He would describe her as exotic: dark hair and eyes, her skin genetically golden. He had managed to rein in his physical desire for her long enough for Stella to explain how she could help him with his financial problems. She needed something from him and had the resources to pay a lot for it. It was as simple as that. He was no stranger to risk and was paid good money. But it wasn’t enough to feed his addiction. Lately, his job hadn’t provided the rush he’d experienced before. Playing high-stakes card games did. However, the cost was enormous.
Stella sat on one
end of the sofa, back against the arm, her feet curled under her. Guy filled a mug for himself and sat on the other end. “Tell me more about this job you have for me. That’s what it is. A job. You’re not only helping me; we’re helping each other. We both get something.”
Stella nodded in agreement. “We have someone in a position to acquire a product for us being developed in a D.C. research lab. He will deliver it to you, and you will deliver it to its ultimate destination. It’s simple.”
“Why not have this other person deliver it once he has possession? Why do you need me?”
“We have other plans for him. And he is not as eager to participate as you are.”
“Can you tell me what the product is? You say research lab, so I’m thinking chemical…say a bacteria or virus?”
“Well, I can’t confirm or deny that. Suffice it to say you are not going into this blind.”
“Comforting.”
“There is another component to this job besides the delivery. We’ve encountered complications and need to clear the way for the removal of the product.”
“You mean the theft.”
Stella sipped her coffee, ignoring the statement.
“Okay, so you don’t need me for the actual theft.”
“No, you will make the delivery to our contact.”
“I can handle that. How do you plan to deal with the complication?”
Guy waited as Stella set down her empty mug. Her face and eyes were void of emotion.
“Kidnapping.”
Chapter 5
Brandon Gates waited outside Wired for Sound electronics shop on H Street in Washington D.C. and gulped his large coffee. The early morning chill had enough bite that he welcomed the lava-hot beverage. The store was closed, but the manager, Dhakar Shaheen, would be along shortly. Brandon checked his phone. Dhakar was fifteen minutes late.
He’d met the young Arab four months before through one of his roommates. Brandon shared a three-bedroom apartment in D.C. with graduate students Matt Somers and Brian Green. Matt had purchased a state-of-the-art sound system from Dhakar, and when it needed an adjustment, Dhakar had come to their apartment to service it. Matt and Dhakar became instant friends, which surprised Brandon, as the two were polar opposites in every way. He was thinking how little he and Dhakar had in common when his cell vibrated. He glanced at the text from Dhakar telling him he was a block away.
Brandon moved into the warmth of sunshine breaking through the clouds, adjusted the collar of his jacket, and tossed the coffee container into a trashcan. He saw Dhakar who, compared to Brandon’s lean, muscular frame, was short and stocky. The Arab strode toward Brandon, smiling as he swiped a shock of coal-black hair off his face.
“Hey, sorry I’m late,” said Dhakar in accented English. “My uncle called with his usual list of things for me to do. He thinks that because he sponsored me to come here and gave me a job, I’m his personal slave.”
Brandon nodded. “Yeah, I know what you mean. That’s why I’d never work for my grandfather.”
“Doesn’t he own some big government security firm?” Dhakar asked.
“Yes, Gates Global Protection. He sometimes contracts with the government, but it’s a private company.”
“Ha, I like that name. Global Protection covers it all. Top secret stuff too, eh? Wasn’t he in the military?”
Brandon sucked in a shallow breath in an effort to hide his annoyance. Dhakar had already asked these questions and knew the answers. He should expect as much as Charles Gates’s military past and his successful business drew awe from most people who came to know him. Brandon changed the subject.
“I have classes later and then I have to work. Why the early meeting?” Brandon asked. “You mentioned going to your mosque.”
“Yes, but I have to see some other friends, and I thought you might like to meet them since you have a serious interest in Islam. While the mosque is a good place to learn, sometimes a bit from what you call ‘the university of life’ can be just as enlightening.” Dhakar grinned, exposing a mouth full of tobacco-stained teeth.
It was true that in the last couple of months Brandon had attended services at Dhakar’s mosque, but not for the reasons Dhakar believed. Brandon had graduated with honors with a degree in Political Science and a minor in Middle Eastern Studies and was now in his first year of law school. When he entered George Townsend University as a freshman, he harbored political aspirations, which pleased his parents and grandfather. Entrenched in Bethesda Maryland’s affluent society, Spencer and Cynthia Gates championed his desire for a political career and his plan to enter law school. His grandfather also encouraged his choices of study.
Time away from home and spent in the company of a diverse group of students, Brandon grew disenchanted with the cultural, political, and religious practices of his family. He had proclaimed himself an agnostic years before, but had become attracted to Asian and Middle Eastern religions.
“Sure, I’d like to meet your friends,” Brandon said with an air of nonchalance. Dhakar would be as upset as his parents to learn the real motive for his interest. He planned to keep it to himself as long as possible.
After a twenty-minute walk, Dhakar led Brandon to a storefront with gold curtains covering the windows and glass door. The sign on the door said ‘Readings and Discussions.’ A few books lay on a ledge at the bottom of the windows. Some titles were in English and others Brandon knew were Arabic.
Brandon pointed. “What are those books?”
“Philosophy. You strike me as philosophical…deep, as they say. You know; someone who would be dedicated to a cause.”
Brandon gave Dhakar a crooked smile. Philosophical? He’d been called brooding, a characteristic heightened by his Johnny Depp-style dark hair, worn long over his ears, and his deep-set hazel eyes and soft full lips, which rendered him a look of constant disquiet. He’d never been one for causes, but recently he’d devoted himself to learning all he could about Islam and the Middle Eastern culture.
“So are we going inside?” Brandon asked when Dhakar made no move to enter.
The twenty-seven-year-old immigrant from Lebanon stared at Brandon a few moments, making the latter uncomfortable. Despite barely finishing a year at university before his uncle sent for him, Dhakar exuded a superiority, which Brandon didn’t know whether he should admire or fear. He worried that Dhakar would find a way into his soul and would access and reveal all he held deep inside. The time isn’t right. I’m not ready.
Dhakar tapped a number into his phone, spoke a few words in his native language, and disconnected. Someone pulled aside the curtain on the door and then unlocked it. Dhakar turned to Brandon and waved at him to follow. Brandon stepped into a small front room crowded with chairs and a few wooden side tables. Another gold curtain covered a doorway to a back area of the store. Beyond it, Brandon could hear the sound of muffled voices.
“Brandon, meet Chakir.”
“Chakir,” Brandon repeated the name as he caught the Arab’s wary stare. Taller and heavier than Brandon, Chakir had the same jet-black hair as Dhakar, but tinged with specks of gray. Through the thick beard, Brandon could see deep pockmarks and a scar at his left ear. He guessed Chakir was in his late thirties.
Without taking his eyes off Brandon, Chakir spoke in Arabic to Dhakar. Brandon noticed Chakir’s agitated tone, and whatever he said caused Dhakar to stiffen. They exchanged more words, and Brandon could tell by the sharpness of their voices and the quick looks they both shot at him that they were arguing. Brandon shifted his stance and glanced around the room in an effort to distance himself from the heated exchange. Finally, Dhakar moved toward the door and yanked on the handle.
“Let’s go, Brandon. I’m sorry for my friend’s inhospitality. Apparently, now is not a good time to be here.”
They were halfway to Wired for Sound when Brandon stopped. “I’m going to do some reading before my class. I’ll catch up with you later or tomorrow.
“Sure, my friend. And again
, I’m sorry about what happened back there.” He looked at his phone and shook his head. “It’s Uncle. He needs me to open the shop right away. A customer needs assistance.”
“Not a problem,” Brandon said, and watched Dhakar put his phone to his ear and walk in the direction of the electronics store.
Taking his own phone from his pocket, he tapped in a number. “Hi,” he said, smiling. “Can you meet me? My plans have changed and I have some free time.”
Brandon waited as the person on the other end of the phone hesitated. He held his breath in anticipation.
“I…yes, of course, I will meet you. The usual place?”
“Yes,” said Brandon. “See you there.”
Brandon slipped his cell into his jacket, checked his reflection in a storefront glass, and headed toward his destination. His heart pounded with excitement at the clandestine meeting and he could think of nothing but the one he longed to see for days. Focused on his thoughts, Brandon didn’t notice the person who followed him at a distance.
Chapter 6
Robert Vilari stared at the top of his massive oak desk buried under reports, charts, and recommendations, all requiring his signature. He shook his head and grumbled, “What happened to the paperless world?” Shoving papers into a single pile, Vilari uncovered a framed photo of his wife and two children. He sighed. “What happened to my world?”
Since returning home from Lebanon, Vilari functioned in a semi-dreamlike state. He couldn’t yet believe what Abboud was forcing him to do. Unless he did as he was told, his family would be killed. Of that, he had no doubt.
Vilari hadn’t been home in a week. He didn’t even have time for his therapist, a worthless hack who thought corporations should be more in touch with their employees’ personal needs. Francesca insisted on therapy to make their marriage a priority. With the kids in college, she wouldn’t put up with many more lonely nights.
He gathered what he needed for another damn meeting. CEO Mark Halpern used these meetings to pressure everyone to work harder and faster on Windstorm, their latest project. Vilari’s department did the actual work to produce the bioweapon and its antidote. It would be difficult, but he believed he could meet the deadline imposed by Mr. Abboud.
